Here is an gem from Pablo Neruda, in "The Essential Neruda", a collection of English translations.

ONENESS

There's something dense, united, sitting in the background,
repeating its number, its identical signal.
How clear it is that stones have handled time,
in their fine substance there's the smell of age,
and water the sea brings, salty and sleepy.

Just one thing surrounds me, a single motion:
the weight of rocks, the light of skin,
fasten themselves to the sound of the word night:
the tones of wheat, of ivory, of tears,
things made of leather, of wood, of wool
aging, fading, blurring,
come together around me like a wall.

I toil deafly, circling above myself,
like a raven above death, grief's raven,
I'm thinking, isolated in the vastness of seasons,
dead center, surrounded by silent geography:
a piece of weather falls from the sky,
an extreme empire of confused unities
converges, encircling me.

translated by Stephen Kessler

The Fish, the Man, and the Spirit” by Leigh Hunt

To a Fish

You strange, astonished-looking, angle-faced,
Dreary-mouthed, gaping wretches of the sea,
Gulping salt-water everlastingly,
Cold-blooded, though with red your blood be graced,
And mute, though dwellers in the roaring waste;
And you, all shapes beside, that fishy be—
Some round, some flat, some long, all devilry,
Legless, unloving, infamously chaste—
O scaly, slippery, wet, swift, staring wights,
What is’t ye do? what life lead? eh, dull goggles?
How do ye vary your vile days and nights?
How pass your Sundays? Are ye still but joggles
In ceaseless wash?Still nought but gapes, and bites,
And drinks, and stares, diversified with boggles?

A Fish Answers

Amazing monster! that, for aught I know,
With the first sight of thee didst make our race
Forever stare!Oh flat and shocking face,
Grimly divided from the breast below!
Thou that on dry land horribly dost go
With a split body and most ridiculous pace,
Prong after prong, disgracer of all grace,
Long-useless-finned, haired, upright, unwet, slow!
O breather of unbreathable, sword-sharp air,
How canst exist? How bear thyself, thou dry
And dreary sloth? What particle canst share
Of the only blessed life, the watery?
I sometimes see of ye an actual pair
Go by! linked fin by fin! most odiously.

The Fish Turns Into a Man, and Then
Into a Spirit, and Again Speaks

Indulge thy smiling scorn, if smiling still,
O man! and loathe, but with a sort of love;
For difference must its use by difference prove,
And, in sweet clang, the spheres with music fill.
One of the spirits am I, that at his will
Live in whate’er has life—fish, eagle, dove—
No hate, no pride, beneath nought, nor above,
A visitor of the rounds of God’s sweet skill.
Man’s life is warm, glad, sad, ’twixt loves and graves,
Boundless in hope, honored with pangs austere,Heaven-gazing; and his angel-wings he craves:
The fish is swift, small-needing, vague yet clear,
A cold, sweet, silver life, wrapped in round waves,
Quickened with touches of transporting fear.

At a Certain Age by Czeslaw Milosz

We wanted to confess our sins but there were no takers.
White clouds refused to accept them, and the wind
Was too busy visiting sea after sea.
We did not succeed in interesting the animals.
Dogs, disappointed, expected an order,
A cat, as always immoral, was falling asleep.
A person seemingly very close
Did not care to hear of things long past.
Conversations with friends over vodka or coffee
Ought not be prolonged beyond the first sign of boredom.
It would be humiliating to pay by the hour
A man with a diploma, just for listening.
Churches. Perhaps churches. But to confess there what?
That we used to see ourselves as handsome and noble
Yet later in our place an ugly toad
Half-opens its thick eyelid
And one sees clearly: “That’s me.”

We remember them

Happy Birthday, John!

Hope you are doing what you want to do this fine day!

Happy 82nd Grandpa!

your warm smile,
your gentle laugh,
your gratitude,
to be like you is a goal indeed,
to always be there when in need,
a great role model,
a great friend,
the person we loved until the end,
your still close to our thoughts,
your looking down,
still playing a role,
not a day goes by-
without a happy thouhts of you,
unconditional love,
thats what we have for you!
by Lisa Bruce

Fullness

Every year I am dragged by time into the fullness of summer. As August approaches, I mourn a little. Where has summer gone. Why have I wasted a minute of it. Winter is so long. Then a couple days into August I can see the gold tone under the green, and the richness of summer is everywhere in the golden afternoon light, the earlier sunsets, and the cooler mornings. August is a perfectly ripened fruit. In western Washington, late summer can last until Halloween and I feel a little bit silly and greedy about mourning in July.
I have always enjoyed Shakespeare at Lynndale Park. There is a perfect little natural amphitheatre surrounded by tall trees that allow sun in dapples and soft rays. As the sun sets and the stage lights take over and the dramatic tension builds and the audience leans in to follow, I feel connected viscerally to storytelling all the way back. I saw all four this year--Othello (got to love a good villain,) As You Like It, Romeo and Juliet, and All's Well that Ends Well. The quote I am holding onto is from As You Like It. Act II, Duke Sr in the forest of Arden:

Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Yet wears a precious jewel upon his head;
And this our life exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
I would not change it.