Showing posts from March, 2021

To the Nightingale

By Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea Pensieve editors' note: The thaw of winter into spring is often a time for us to recognize and show appreciation for the beauty of nature. This poem, published in 1713 by one of the few female poets of the eighteenth century, explores that fascination while also commenting on the inadequacy of artists to capture natural beauty, which, ironically, they so often try to emulate. Exert thy voice, sweet harbinger of spring!      This moment is thy time to sing,      This moment I attend to praise, And set my numbers to they lays.      Free as thine shall be my song;      As they music, short, or long. Poets, wild as thee, were born,      Pleasing best when unconfined,      When to please is least designed, Soothing but their cares to rest;      Cares do still their thoughts molest,      And still th' unhappy poet's breast, Like thine, when best he sings, is placed against a thorn. She begins, Let all be still

Tunnel Vision

 By Elias Orrego “What the eye focuses on, the eye sees.” The speaker had too boring of a face and too annoying of a voice for his enthusiasm to be contagious. But, there had been some good promises, thus far. Mark looked down at his notes, wondering if this blabber-mouth could really deliver on them. Mark could certainly use some of this stuff: Maximal efficiency and relaxation. Confidence that what you’re doing is right, and you are doing it at the right time. It’s not about time management but time and resource allocation. Organization!!! Mark was actually kind of excited about that last one. He stopped thinking about the Beach Boys’ song in his head, and he stopped comparing the speaker to Austin Powers and listened in. “Close your eyes,” said the speaker. “Think of the color red.” Mark pulled over the car and looked over at Becky, her head hung down. Through her distressed hair, he noticed her face had changed color.  “You look flushed…Are you feeling OK?” He turned off the Beach


By Elizabeth Smith      “So our next appointment is in a half-hour?” Sister Oliveira asked as she checked her wrist-watch.       “Yes. With Carlos,” I replied in my choppy, novice Portuguese. We stepped out of our apartment, and I twisted our key three times in the very secure deadbolt. “It is not far. We speak with people along the way.”       I led my newly assigned, Brazilian colleague to a round-a-bout, and we turned the corner to a wide street. The brilliant summer-afternoon sun reflected off of the white and gray cobblestones. That street was almost always busy, a prime place for meeting people.       You see, we missionaries were looking for folks who were interested in investigating more about God or our church and who were willing to change: people we affectionately referred to as “golden investigators,” who would get baptized for all the right reasons and continue progressing in their spirituality, perhaps even sharing what they’ve learned with friends or family.       Thin