A Poem ~ by Alberto Rio

This post originally appeared on my blog on April 15, 2022. Portions of the post were adapted from the poets.org website and Google graphics.

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As a former librarian, bookseller, and educator, I love this poem by Alberto Rio.  His poem, Don’t Go Into the Library says it all…

Don’t Go Into the Library 

The library is dangerous—
Don’t go in. If you do

You know what will happen.
It’s like a pet store or a bakery—

Every single time you’ll come out of there
Holding something in your arms.

Those novels with their big eyes.
And those no-nonsense, all muscle

Greyhounds and Dobermans,
All non-fiction and business,

Cuddly when they’re young,
But then the first page is turned.

The doughnut scent of it all, knowledge,
The aroma of coffee being made

In all those books, something for everyone,
The deli offerings of civilization itself.

The library is the book of books,
Its concrete and wood and glass covers

Keeping within them the very big,
Very long story of everything.

The library is dangerous, full
Of answers. If you go inside,

You may not come out
The same person who went in.

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MJO – 2023

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Poetry (A New Post)

The following is not a repost, but a new post I am sharing from my friend, Deb.  She writes a daily haiku poem and yesterday along with her daily writing, she included a poem she recently read.  Featured below is her post from yesterday:

Haiku:

knock knock no one’s there

we stare into the blank eyes

of guns without brains

Poem

At the Door
By Adrienne Maree Brown

don’t shoot
there is a black boy at the door
looking for his siblings

don’t shoot
there is a young black man
ringing the doorbell

don’t shoot
there is a black child at the door
and he is lost

don’t shoot
there is a brother at the door
looking for his family

don’t shoot
there is a baby at the door
trynna get home

don’t shoot
there is life at the door
moving towards life

don’t shoot
there is a neighbor at the door
there is a need at the door
there is a person at the door
there is a future at the door
there is a story at the door
you can help write it
towards coming home
towards a safe ending
towards a next breath
oh holy hell

don’t knock
don’t get lost
don’t need
don’t seek
don’t run out of gas
don’t let your phone die
don’t go for a walk
don’t go for a drive
don’t play on the playground
don’t blast your music
don’t laugh out loud
don’t let them see you
don’t have a heart attack
don’t wonder, or wander
don’t approach with innocence
don’t center with a deep breath
don’t pray as you ring the bell
don’t smile as you realize your mistake
don’t make any mistakes
don’t whistle
don’t flirt
don’t rest down your vigilance
don’t be you
don’t be seen
don’t breathe
don’t even breathe
child, there is a hunter
at the door
April 2023, America

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MJO – 2023

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A Short Essay & A Poem

Today’s post originally appeared on my blog on March 22, 2021.  Portions of this post were excerpted from the stresslesslife.com website.

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The Simple Things In Life

Over the weekend we received our new area rug for our living room.  Even though we have wall-to-wall carpeting in our apartment, it is light a color carpet that shows every little speck of dirt.  We decided that an area rug may be the solution to cleaning the rug every three months.  It looks great and hopefully will give us years of beauty and pleasure.  It is funny how the simple little things in life can make us happy.

I was reminded of a poem I read some time ago entitled: The Simple Things In Life by Julie Herbert

The simple things in life,
Are usually in front of your eyes.
All you have to do each day,
Is look up into the skies.

Look at the beauty around you,
Run and play outside.
Find what you’ve been missing,
Look what’s in front, in back and beside.

We usually don’t even realize,
What we miss out on each day.
When was the last time you made an effort,
To go to the ocean and see the bay?

Life is so very short,
We need to take advantage of our time,
Open your eyes to the simple things,
jump up and go for a climb.

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♦ MJO – 2023

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Notes About a Poet & His Poem

Today’s post was originally published on my blog on December 6, 2022.  His poems often had an inspirational and optimistic view of everyday life.  Featured below is his poem, titled Good Books, one of my favorite poems about reading and books.

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Edgar Albert Guest (August 20, 1881 – August 5, 1959) was a British-born American poet who became known as the People’s Poet.  He became a naturalized citizen in 1902   He began his career at the Detroit Free Press as a copyboy and then as a reporter.  His first poem appeared on December 11, 1898.  For 40 years, Guest was widely read throughout North America.

Good Books

Good books are friendly things to own.
If you are busy they will wait.
They will not call you on the phone
Or wake you if the hour is late.
They stand together row by row,
Upon the low shelf or the high.
But if you’re lonesome this you know:
You have a friend or two nearby.

The fellowship of books is real.
They’re never noisy when you’re still.
They won’t disturb you at your meal.
They’ll comfort you when you are ill.
The lonesome hours they’ll always share.
When slighted they will not complain.
And though for them, you’ve ceased to care
Your constant friends they’ll still remain.

Good books your faults will never see
Or tell about them around the town.
If you would have their company
You merely have to take them down.
They’ll help you pass the time away,
They’ll counsel give if that you need.
He has true friends for night and day
Who has a few good books to read.

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♦ MJO – 2023

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A Poem by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

Today’s post is a wonderful prose poem by Oriah Mountain Dreamer titled, The Invitation.  It was originally published on The Bookman’s Page on April 29, 2021.

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The Invitation is a prose poem by Oriah Mountain Dreamer. Many years after the poem was written and had become famous, the author wrote a book based on the poem, The Invitation (1999), by Oriah Mountain Dreamer.   She is a spiritual counselor and storyteller.  Below for your review is the poem The Invitation, a moving and powerful work of literature.

The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dreams
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon…
I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life’s betrayals
or have become shriveled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your
fingers and toes
without cautioning us to
be careful
be realistic
to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.

If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand on the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after a night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the center of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.

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♦ MJO – 2023

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A Verse by – A. A. Milne

Dear Readers,
In today’s post, I want to share a wonderful verse by the author, A. A. Milne. Alan Alexander Milne was an English author popular for his books about the teddy bear, Winnie-the-Pooh, and children’s poetry. Milne was primarily a playwright before the huge success of Winnie-the-Pooh overshadowed all his previous work.  Milne’s verse today is titled: Halfway Down.

This post was originally posted on my blog on June 29, 2022

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♦ Portions of today’s post were adapted from the book Halfway Down the Stairs, google graphics, and Wikipedia.

MJO – 2023

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The Beauty of Northern Michigan ~ A Narrative Poem

Dear Readers,
A favorite vacation spot of the O’Leary family is right here in Michigan — Mackinac Island.  George Piliouras, poet and blogger has penned a wonderful poetic description of Mackinac Island. His poem is titled: Is This Heaven?  It captures how he feels looking out at the Huron waters from the Chippewa Hotel and the joy he experiences in biking around the Island. This post was originally published on my blog on November 2, 2020.

The Beauty of Northern Michigan

One of the most beautiful areas in Northern Michigan is the Straits of Mackinac which includes Mackinac Island. My family and I have spent numerous summers vacationing on the island and the surrounding areas. Each time we visit, we are always struck by the grandeur and beauty of the scenery, waters, and the Mackinaw Bridge. (The Mighty Mac bridge is turning 63 this year.)

Is This Heaven?
by George Piliouras

“The early July sun made my eyes squint. The air was crisp. The wind gently washes my face as the lull of water swirls below our balcony at our favorite place, the Chippewa Hotel. From my perfect perch on the third-floor deck, I gazed at the breathtaking Catamaran pulling into Arnold’s dock at the pier in Mackinac. The blast of the horn sent the seagulls flyin

The sun burns through the fog in all it’s glory, and sparkles like diamonds on the water, my coffee is perfect. The hard-working team at the Pink Pony, unfold the rows of umbrellas in preparation. I look out at the vastness of water as the hustle of people and boats builds momentum. My work pace begins to fade away from my memory.

The friendly clip-clop of horses filtered through the rumbling of bikes whizzing by. Children giggle and run up to smell the fresh fudge with eyes as wide as saucers, eating ice cream before it melts. The parade of people stroll by, renting bikes, many brought their own.

My wife and I are ready to start our trip today with our bikes up the long hill past the Grand Hotel, as we pass the stables, make a left and disappear into the serenity of the West bluffs.

We take a breath in with our eyes and look at the boats coursing through the water towards the Mackinac bridge. I feel at home, as I reflect on the little town where I grew up.

Is this heaven? No, It’s Mackinac Island. I’m home. Again.”

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♦ MJO – 2023

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A Brief Poem ~ For Monday

Dear Readers,
Unfortunately, I’m not feeling well again, I just can’t seem to shake this bronchitis and the feeling of listlessness.  (I am doing a video visit with my pulmonologist later this morning).  To That end, I went all the way back into the Bookman Archives (February 2010) to repost one of my favorite posts to share with you the poem, Stopping by Woods on a Snow Evening, by Robert Frost.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there’s some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

 ♦ Thoughts on this Poem:

There is nothing quite like being in the woods on a snowy evening, especially a moonlit evening.  The beauty is breathtaking and the solitude is unforgettable.

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♦ Portions of this post were excerpted from the poems of Robert Frost.

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A Christmas Day Poem

Merry Christmas Friends

I came across this poem last Christmas, a religious version of  ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas. I have researched its origin but was unable to find who authored this beautiful poem. I hope you will agree, that all the commercialization from Santa to the Rockettes and everything in between, although wonderous and meaningful, pales in comparison to God’s greatest gift to man…

‘Twas the night before Christmas,
God glanced over the earth.
He looked to and fro, all over it’s girth.
They missed it again, He said with a sigh,
a real heavy heart and a tear in His eye.
I gave them my Son, so they could be free.
My greatest gift to them, from me.
They traded me in for a man in red.
A little tree and a horse drawn sled.
How do I save them and make them see,
my love is complete and my grace is free.
How do I help them, when all they know,
is a talking snowman and a box with a bow.
Maybe next year they will stop and see,
the greatest gift of Christmas is the child sent from me.

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♦ Portions of this post were adapted from Internet posts and google graphics.

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Remembering My Mother

Grandma Rosie

Today marks the fifth anniversary of my mother’s death, Rosemary Daley-O’Leary-Malaska (Grandma Rosie), she passed away, quietly at the age of 94, on Christmas Eve, 2017.

We miss her bright smile, her enthusiasm, and her light-hearted chats about the ongoing events in her life.  In her later years, she was affectionately referred to as the “Shrimp” of Primrose, her assisted living center.   Although small in stature, only 4 feet,10 inches, she was big-hearted, and big on kindness, and generosity.

She was a loving wife, who was preceded in death by her first husband, James O’Leary, and second husband, Raymond Malaska. She was one of five sisters; a loving mother of three; a grandmother of 9, and a great-grandmother of 12.  She had numerous church friends, a large circle of social friends, and a kind word to say about everyone.  She was a devout Catholic and practiced her faith by living the age-old adage, to treat others the way you want to be treated.  She was without a doubt, simply and always — our mom.

My wife, Sharon recently found this little remembrance poem that best expresses our feelings about Grandma Rosie; it is titled,

The Broken Chain, by Ron Tanmer

We little knew that day,
God was going to call your name.
In life we loved you dearly,
In death, we do the same.

It broke our hearts to lose you.
You did not go alone.
For part of us went with you,
The day God called you home.

You left us beautiful memories,
Your love is still our guide.
And although we cannot see you,
You are always at our side.

Our family chain is broken,
And nothing seems the same,
But as God calls us one by one,
The chain will link again.

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♦ Portions of this post were excerpted from condolencemessages.com

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