Lament by ecstaticist
I crack open my fat book of poetry right before bed.  It is meditative, calming and some nights, it is  the soothing balm to the end of my day.  Good poetry is like the scent of fire on a crackling cool fall day, baking pumpkins and apples in a warm kitchen and like the taste of a good, extra sharp piece of cheese.  Yep, you got it, cheese.  Poetry can be an explosion of the senses - all of them - in the most compact and efficient form.  I know some of our friends out there in the blogosphere have been having an extra tough time with it all lately.  Trust me, I feel your troubling woes deep in the pit of my stomach.  I don't know what it is - September this year has some bad juju or something.  I hope that you are able to find the balm to your souls and that soon you'll be right as rain again.  This poem is for you.

First Lesson by Philip Booth

Lie back daughter, let your head
be tipped back in the cup of my hand.
Gently, and I will hold you. Spread
your arms wide, lie out on the stream
and look high at the gulls. A dead-
man's float is face down. You will dive
and swim soon enough where this tidewater
ebbs to the sea. Daughter, believe
me, when you tire on the long thrash
to your island, lie up, and survive.
As you float now, where I held you
and let go, remember when fear
cramps your heart what I told you:
lie gently and wide to the light-year
stars, lie back, and the sea will hold you.