Cinnamon

Cinnamon is a highly prized spice that has been used since ancient times for its medicinal and healing properties. It has the highest antioxidant strength of all the food sources and is several hundreds more potent than any fruit or vegetable. Cinnamon is a great source of vitamins A and B-complex and minerals such as chromium, iron, zinc, and calcium. It is particularly good for helping diarrhea, nausea, vomiting, indigestion, flatulence, and arthritis. Cinnamon is known to help prevent and shorten the duration of the flu as well to eliminate congestion and mucus from the body. It is also very beneficial for lowering cholesterol and to help regulate blood sugar. It is known to help increase circulation and contains anti-clotting compounds which makes it highly beneficial for helping to prevent strokes and coronary artery disease. It is also very good for reducing inflammation in the body making it helpful for people with autoimmune disorders such as fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue syndrome. Cinnamon also has the amazing ability to stop yeast infections, candida, and menstrual cramps. Cinnamon has anti-cancer properties and has been known to reduce the growth of leukemia and lymphoma cancer cells within the body. It is commonly used in gum and dental treatments due to its pain relieving and antiseptic properties. Cinnamon helps to boost memory and cognitive function, just smelling cinnamon spice or its essential oil can help make you more alert and focused. Cinnamon oil is also one of the most antimicrobial essential oils and is a potent disinfectant around the home and office. Cinnamon contains anti-bacterial, anti-fungal, and anti-viral properties that kill microorganisms such as staph, botulism, aflatoxin mold, E. coli, and cold and flu germs. Consider adding a couple of pinches of cinnamon every morning to morning tea, cereal, smoothie, or juice. Try making a raw apple sauce recipe with 2 apples, 3 medjool dates, and a pinch of cinnamon. Place in a food processor and blend until smooth for a fresh and nutritious apple sauce. Cinnamon powder, cinnamon sticks, and cinnamon extract supplements can be found online or at your local grocery store.

sonnet 23

As an unperfect actor on the stage
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
O, let my books be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love and look for recompense
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

sonnet 22

My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date;
But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:
How can I then be elder than thou art?
O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary
As I, not for myself, but for thee will;
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;
Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again.

sonnet 1

So is it not with me as with that Muse
Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse
Making a couplement of proud compare,
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
O' let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother's child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:
Let them say more than like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

from "Poems to Czechoslovakia"

from "Poems to Czechoslovakia"

by Marina Tsvetaeva

Black mountain

black mountain

blocks the earth's light.

Time—time—time

to give back to God his ticket.

I refuse to—be. In

the madhouse of the inhumans

I refuse to—live. To swim

on the current of human spines.

I don't need holes in my ears,

no need for seeing eyes.

I refuse to swim on the current of human spines.

To your mad world—one answer: I refuse.

                                      •

They took—suddenly—and took—openly—

took mountains—and took their entrails,

they took coal, and steel they took,

they took lead, and crystal.

And sugar they took, and took the clover,

they took the West, and they took the North,

they took the beehive, and took the haystack,

they took the South from us, and the East.

Vari—they took, and the Tatras—they took,

they took our fingers—took our friends—

But we stand up—

as long as there's spit in our mouths!

What I Learned From My Mother

What I Learned From My Mother

by Julia Kasdorf

I learned from my mother how to love

the living, to have plenty of vases on hand

in case you have to rush to the hospital

with peonies cut from the lawn, black ants

still stuck to the buds. I learned to save jars

large enough to hold fruit salad for a whole

grieving household, to cube home-canned pears

and peaches, to slice through maroon grape skins

and flick out the sexual seeds with a knife point.

I learned to attend viewings even if I didn't know

the deceased, to press the moist hands

of the living, to look in their eyes and offer

sympathy, as though I understood loss even then.

I learned that whatever we say means nothing,

what anyone will remember is that we came.

I learned to believe I had the power to ease

awful pains materially like an angel.

Like a doctor, I learned to create

from another's suffering my own usefulness, and once

you know how to do this, you can never refuse.

To every house you enter, you must offer

healing: a chocolate cake you baked yourself,

the blessing of your voice, your chaste touch.

Dirty Face

Dirty Face

by Shel Silverstein

Where did you get such a dirty face,

My darling dirty-faced child?

 

I got it from crawling along in the dirt

And biting two buttons off Jeremy's shirt.

I got it from chewing the roots of a rose

And digging for clams in the yard with my nose.

I got it from peeking into a dark cave

And painting myself like a Navajo brave.

I got it from playing with coal in the bin

And signing my name in cement with my chin.

I got if from rolling around on the rug

And giving the horrible dog a big hug.

I got it from finding a lost silver mine

And eating sweet blackberries right off the vine.

I got it from ice cream and wrestling and tears

And from having more fun than you've had in years.

Ah, Ah

Ah, Ah

by Joy Harjo

Ah, ah cries the crow arching toward the heavy sky over the marina.

Lands on the crown of the palm tree.

Ah, ah slaps the urgent cove of ocean swimming through the slips.

We carry canoes to the edge of the salt.

Ah, ah groans the crew with the weight, the winds cutting skin.

We claim our seats. Pelicans perch in the draft for fish.

Ah, ah beats our lungs and we are racing into the waves.

Though there are worlds below us and above us, we are straight ahead.

Ah, ah tatttoos the engines of your plane against the sky—away from these waters.

Each paddle stroke follows the curve from reach to loss.

Ah, ah calls the sun from a fishing boat with a pale, yellow sail. We fly by

on our return, over the net of eternity thrown out for stars.

Ah, ah scrapes the hull of my soul. Ah, ah.

The Raspberry Room

The Raspberry Room

by Karin Gottshall

It was solid hedge, loops of bramble and thorny   

as it had to be with its berries thick as bumblebees.   

It drew blood just to get there, but I was queen   

of that place, at ten, though the berries shook like fists   

in the wind, daring anyone to come in.  I was trying   

so hard to love this world—real rooms too big and full   

of worry to comfortably inhabit—but believing I was born

to live in that cloistered green bower: the raspberry patch   

in the back acre of my grandparents' orchard.  I was cross-   

stitched and beaded by its fat, dollmaker's needles.  The effort   

of sliding under the heavy, spiked tangles that tore   

my clothes and smeared me with juice was rewarded   

with space, wholly mine, a kind of room out of   

the crush of the bushes with a canopy of raspberry   

dagger-leaves and a syrup of sun and birdsong.   

Hours would pass in the loud buzz of it, blood   

made it mine—the adventure of that red sting singing   

down my calves, the place the scratches brought me to:   

just space enough for a girl to lie down.  

For the Anniversary of My Death

For the Anniversary of My Death

by W. S. Merwin

Every year without knowing it I have passed the day   

When the last fires will wave to me

And the silence will set out

Tireless traveler

Like the beam of a lightless star

Then I will no longer

Find myself in life as in a strange garment

Surprised at the earth

And the love of one woman

And the shamelessness of men

As today writing after three days of rain

Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease

And bowing not knowing to what

The Woman at the Washington Zoo by Randall Jarrell The saris go by me from the embassies. Cloth from the moon. Cloth from another planet. They look back at the leopard like the leopard. And I.... this print of mine, that has kept its color Alive through so many cleanings; this dull null Navy I wear to work, and wear from work, and so To my bed, so to my grave, with no Complaints, no comment: neither from my chief, The Deputy Chief Assistant, nor his chief— Only I complain.... this serviceable Body that no sunlight dyes, no hand suffuses But, dome-shadowed, withering among columns, Wavy beneath fountains—small, far-off, shining In the eyes of animals, these beings trapped As I am trapped but not, themselves, the trap, Aging, but without knowledge of their age, Kept safe here, knowing not of death, for death— Oh, bars of my own body, open, open! The world goes by my cage and never sees me. And there come not to me, as come to these, The wild beasts, sparrows pecking the llamas' grain, Pigeons settling on the bears' bread, buzzards Tearing the meat the flies have clouded.... Vulture, When you come for the white rat that the foxes left, Take off the red helmet of your head, the black Wings that have shadowed me, and step to me as man: The wild brother at whose feet the white wolves fawn, To whose hand of power the great lioness Stalks, purring.... You know what I was, You see what I am: change me, change me!

The Woman at the Washington Zoo

by Randall Jarrell

The saris go by me from the embassies.

Cloth from the moon. Cloth from another planet.   

They look back at the leopard like the leopard.

And I....

               this print of mine, that has kept its color   

Alive through so many cleanings; this dull null   

Navy I wear to work, and wear from work, and so   

To my bed, so to my grave, with no

Complaints, no comment: neither from my chief,   

The Deputy Chief Assistant, nor his chief—

Only I complain.... this serviceable

Body that no sunlight dyes, no hand suffuses

But, dome-shadowed, withering among columns,   

Wavy beneath fountains—small, far-off, shining   

In the eyes of animals, these beings trapped   

As I am trapped but not, themselves, the trap,   

Aging, but without knowledge of their age,

Kept safe here, knowing not of death, for death—

Oh, bars of my own body, open, open!

The world goes by my cage and never sees me.   

And there come not to me, as come to these,

The wild beasts, sparrows pecking the llamas' grain,   

Pigeons settling on the bears' bread, buzzards   

Tearing the meat the flies have clouded....

                                                                Vulture,   

When you come for the white rat that the foxes left,

Take off the red helmet of your head, the black

Wings that have shadowed me, and step to me as man:

The wild brother at whose feet the white wolves fawn,

To whose hand of power the great lioness

Stalks, purring....

                              You know what I was,

You see what I am: change me, change me!

Blowfly Grass

Blowfly Grass

by Les Murray

The houses those suburbs could afford

were roofed with old savings books, and some   

seeped gravy at stitches in their walls;

some were clipped as close as fury,

some grimed and corner-bashed by love   

and the real estate, as it got more vacant,

grew blady grass and blowfly grass, so called   

for the exquisite lanterns of its seed,   

and the land sagged subtly to a low point,

it all inclined way out there to a pit   

with burnt-looking cheap marble edges   

and things and figures flew up from it

like the stones in the crusher Piers had   

for making dusts of them for glazes:

flint, pyroclase, slickensides, quartz, schist,

snapping, refusing, and spitting high

till the steel teeth got gritty corners on them   

and could grip them craw-chokingly to grind.

It's their chance, a man with beerglass-cut arms   

told me. Those hoppers got to keep filled. A girl,   

edging in, bounced out cropped and wrong-coloured

like a chemist's photo, crying. Who could blame her   

among in-depth grabs and Bali flights and phones?   

She was true, and got what truth gets.

Leda

Leda

by H. D.

Where the slow river   

meets the tide,

a red swan lifts red wings

and darker beak,

and underneath the purple down

of his soft breast

uncurls his coral feet.

Through the deep purple

of the dying heat

of sun and mist,

the level ray of sun-beam

has caressed

the lily with dark breast,

and flecked with richer gold

its golden crest.

Where the slow lifting   

of the tide,   

floats into the river   

and slowly drifts   

among the reeds,   

and lifts the yellow flags,   

he floats   

where tide and river meet.   

Ah kingly kiss—

no more regret   

nor old deep memories   

to mar the bliss;   

where the low sedge is thick,   

the gold day-lily   

outspreads and rests   

beneath soft fluttering   

of red swan wings

and the warm quivering

of the red swan's breast.

from d e l e t e, Part 2

from d e l e t e, Part 2

by Richard O. Moore

Set up curbside, jewelry tray entanglement with things looking up, but nothing sells unless there is someone looking down, and who might that be? For the moment it's not raining and off-coast in pods the gray whales parade south. Photographs sprout with the season. The gray whale's spout is heart shaped, enough said. Just listen for the icon's intake of breath and see what you can see. Yes, but that was yesterday and which way are prices going to go? There is a pack forming and they will need a leader. It's then you kick the snot out of them, not before, and make it believable this one last time; but don't depend on it, auditors, even though it's turned out like this so many times before. There may be an image whose mind has changed. Sorry, no rain checks in this scheme of things, the windows are broken and boards keep out the light, it's the cheapest thing to do and then forget it, as has been done before, before, etc. Could you pick out of a lineup who is the culprit here? The mirror is one-way and there's no way to be sure which side you're on, but so what? Go on making faces anyway, but be sure, now and then, to check your hand before your face, if just to say Wheaties, the best is yet to be. Our inventions, gods and needles, for instance, are built to say this to us ever and forever. It's obvious why we can't give them up, they're ours, for ourself self's sake! We live in the afterlife of what, unalterable, has already taken place. The minute you start acting like Robinson Crusoe it's plain to see you've lost your hold on the world. There are many such, so many, washed up on our island shores! They end up sleeping over grates and in doorways at night, far distant from tree ripe fruit and warm sand. The dumps of our artifacts bewilder them. They probe, not knowing what to expect from excess. They act out an experiment, a hairline calculation for survival: is the expenditure of energy to dig up carrots from the frozen ground more than their return in calories? Did you notice the price tag when the wine was poured, the cool chardonnay, the special cabernet, white and red absurdities of words? The motion lights are set to react outside the house but, tell me, did you see the clutter in the study, one would think! Those catalogs, the cave, shadows.

Sorrow

Sorrow

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sorrow like a ceaseless rain

      Beats upon my heart.

People twist and scream in pain, —

Dawn will find them still again;

This has neither wax nor wane,

      Neither stop nor start.

People dress and go to town;

      I sit in my chair.

All my thoughts are slow and brown:

Standing up or sitting down

Little matters, or what gown

      Or what shoes I wear.

May

May

by Jonathan Galassi

The backyard apple tree gets sad so soon,   

takes on a used-up, feather-duster look   

within a week.

The ivy's spring reconnaissance campaign   

sends red feelers out and up and down   

to find the sun.

Ivy from last summer clogs the pool,   

brewing a loamy, wormy, tea-leaf mulch   

soft to the touch

and rank with interface of rut and rot.

The month after the month they say is cruel   

is and is not.

Consciousness

Consciousness

by Joanie Mackowski

How it is fickle, leaving one alone to wander

the halls of the skull with the fluorescents

softly flickering. It rests on the head

like a bird nest, woven of twigs and tinsel

and awkward as soon as one stops to look.

That pile of fallen leaves drifting from

the brain to the fingertip burned on the stove,

to the grooves in that man's voice

as he coos to his dog, blowing into the leaves

of books with moonlit opossums

and Chevrolets easing down the roads

of one's bones. And now it plucks a single

tulip from the pixelated blizzard: yet

itself is a swarm, a pulse with no

indigenous form, the brain's lunar halo.

Our compacted galaxy, its constellations

trembling like flies caught in a spider web,

until we die, and then the flies

buzz away—while another accidental

coherence counts to three to pass the time

or notes the berries on the bittersweet vine

strewn in the spruces, red pebbles dropped

in the brain's gray pool. How it folds itself

like a map to fit in a pocket, how it unfolds

a fraying map from the pocket of the day.

The Bad Old Days

The Bad Old Days

by Kenneth Rexroth

The summer of nineteen eighteen   

I read The Jungle and The

Research Magnificent. That fall   

My father died and my aunt   

Took me to Chicago to live.   

The first thing I did was to take   

A streetcar to the stockyards.   

In the winter afternoon,   

Gritty and fetid, I walked

Through the filthy snow, through the   

Squalid streets, looking shyly   

Into the people's faces,

Those who were home in the daytime.   

Debauched and exhausted faces,   

Starved and looted brains, faces   

Like the faces in the senile   

And insane wards of charity   

Hospitals. Predatory

Faces of little children.

Then as the soiled twilight darkened,   

Under the green gas lamps, and the   

Sputtering purple arc lamps,   

The faces of the men coming

Home from work, some still alive with   

The last pulse of hope or courage,   

Some sly and bitter, some smart and   

Silly, most of them already   

Broken and empty, no life,   

Only blinding tiredness, worse   

Than any tired animal.   

The sour smells of a thousand   

Suppers of fried potatoes and   

Fried cabbage bled into the street.   

I was giddy and sick, and out   

Of my misery I felt rising   

A terrible anger and out

Of the anger, an absolute vow.   

Today the evil is clean

And prosperous, but it is   

Everywhere, you don't have to   

Take a streetcar to find it,

And it is the same evil.

And the misery, and the

Anger, and the vow are the same.

For Micha's Mother, Who Signs

For Micha's Mother, Who Signs

by Robert A. Fink

It is not poetry you fear, but poets,

their indelible brand

of words. How will your daughter

escape the mark men hanged

young women for in Salem?

I am nothing more than a teacher,

like you. See, I have removed

my shoes and socks. I am rolling

my trousers above my ankles.

No cloven hooves. Long feet and toes

like you and your beautiful daughter.

It is language that has won

her over, earth-bound words

walking orderly across the page

like children holding to

the rope attached to your wrist,

teacher and students

traversing the noisy street

at the crosswalk, with the light

of your fingers composing

the line your children read,

each syllable's afterimage trailing

your quick passage of hands

conducting the boys and girls

safely from one curb to the other.

The Visitor

The Visitor

by Carolyn Forché

In Spanish he whispers there is no time left.

It is the sound of scythes arcing in wheat,

the ache of some field song in Salvador.

The wind along the prison, cautious

as Francisco's hands on the inside, touching

the walls as he walks, it is his wife's breath

slipping into his cell each night while he

imagines his hand to be hers. It is a small country.

There is nothing one man will not do to another.

                                                              1979

For Micha's Mother, Who Signs

by Robert A. Fink

It is not poetry you fear, but poets,

their indelible brand

of words. How will your daughter

escape the mark men hanged

young women for in Salem?

I am nothing more than a teacher,

like you. See, I have removed

my shoes and socks. I am rolling

my trousers above my ankles.

No cloven hooves. Long feet and toes

like you and your beautiful daughter.

It is language that has won

her over, earth-bound words

walking orderly across the page

like children holding to

the rope attached to your wrist,

teacher and students

traversing the noisy street

at the crosswalk, with the light

of your fingers composing

the line your children read,

each syllable's afterimage trailing

your quick passage of hands

conducting the boys and girls

safely from one curb to the other.

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