today

i have challenged myself to find the beauty in a day like today.

the hills are invisible, encased in a hoary batting,
nearer trees silhouetted in it's gloomy gauze.
branches blurred and skeletal, shiver in the icy rain.
muddy white snow lingers and pools,
flooding between rows.


the creek swells and surges in solitude;
no crane no owl no frog or thrush
to join it's monochromatic dirge.

but what if i were blind?

o how i'd long to see this day i hear and dread
and hide from.

inside by the fire, dog at my feet, lamps burning
cozy warm
i find gratitude for both the ins and outs of this,
 fine day.

brrrrrr.

top priority

the sky is blue and the sun is out
the garden is calling i see
but the dust and the dirt in the sunshine they flirt
with the obsessive compulsive in me
i take to the puter to ignore my clean suiters
and look at the art others paint
the longing within, much to my deep chagrin
is brought low by the duty i taint
with importance and need  can i ever be freed
from this bondage of vacuum and mop?
when will i write my own chore list at hand
with painting right there on the top!

in loving memory of a maple tree

(writing assignment-memories, tree, love)

 

 

 my aunt carol's laugh

was like a muted tenor saxophone,

low notes and high notes

 musically interwoven with

familiar nasal midwestern blares,

hers being the loudest as

the rest of the orchestra,

family,

joined in.

cigarette between red lacquered fingers with glittery rings

and long dyed red hair, up in a dated do,

she'd sip her gin and tonic on ice

with clinks of relief,

as she muttered another one liner or a jab

at her grinning husband-

through a cloud of smoke-

and with another blare of her sax-

 the rest of the orchestra joined in.

stomping clapping and knee slapping

kept the beat and the roll of her wit and ire.

us kids hiding in corners,

silently mimicking,

silently joining,

silently recording,

this harvest gold and avocado green scene of life

dreaming of the day we,

would play our own compositions.

 

meanwhile,

the maple trees stood standing in the cool clean air outside,

along the sidewalk,

ever so slowly pushing up the slabs of ground granite

just for me to roller skate up and over.

skate key on a string round my neck,

cool and steel in my mouth,

the orchestra played on in the hot smoky house

as I now sat on the front steps

tightening the skates upon my red ball jets.

I loved the sound of the steel wheels on the concrete,

drowning out the muffled blares from within.

I knew every crack and ant hill and root and marble pot

along that shady sidewalk

as I coasted back and forth on my forever block.

I thought aunt carol would be forever.

I thought the maple trees would be forever.

I thought the sidewalk would be forever.

but they're all gone now

only existing fondly in these memories of love.

being 5:45

Like a lot of us, I'm heading toward the '6:00' mark
and wondering how long
into the night I will exist
here on this old world.

Having the benefit of living this long
and facing this hour of my life,
I've been compelled to raise
many self-examining questions.
The most important one being;
'Is my lamp lit and do I have enough oil
to get through the night,
while I wait for the groom to arrive?'

I've had an anxiety in my stomach for a few weeks now,
as I turn back the pages of this little book of mine.
But here's the comfort.
I'm not the author, nor am I the finisher.
It is not my pen or my creation.

There are choices I've made in every chapter, that have brought me sorrow and pain,
but each one of those, because of the author's hand,
has brought me closer to Him,
and to the knowledge of my utter dependence upon His hand.

While some would say that we are the masters of our fate,
I would argue (and draw comfort from) the fact that
I believe
in a magnificent creator, with a plan from start to finish.
He uses our sin and weaknesses to enable us to see
how loving and merciful and holy He truly is.

When we try to be perfect on our own strength, we worship and depend upon our own image.

I am not capable to attain even my own standard, much less the standard which has been set
 before the beginning of time.

I am a sinner.
meaning, I can never attain the mark.
No matter what I do for others, or try to accomplish in my life, it always comes back to me.
My pride, my envy, my jealousies, my insecurities and fears.
BUT when I go to God and say
"I am unable", He replies immediately,
"I am able".

What love! What amazing love!
 and if we do anything without love, His love,
it is like clanging cymbals or sounding brass.
I am nothing.


His love is my life, my light, my strength, my righteousness.
Without it, I am nothing.
But in the beginning, even 'nothing' obeyed God and became something.

The day is winding down, but my hope is that my lamp will be ever filled with the oil of salvation,
His love.
Father in heaven, make it so.

lullaby

o nighty night

my baby bright

may Jesus bless 

your dreams tonight

with His love that fills

the hills with gold

the sky with blue

and the snow with cold

that fills a song

with music sweet

and heaven with

His humble sheep

that fills the trees

with wind and bird

that  fills the heart

with His Holy Word

 

o nighty night

my baby bright

may Jesus bless

your dreams tonight

to be

to be
a bird
at home
so high
in snow
to drift
on wing
to fly
and view
the world
so cold
gone white
to sing
in sway
with stars
a flight
the air
so still
yet full
of move
the bird
to be
must live
to love

l i s t e n

refrigerator whispers
as I draw tiny lines on smooth stones
rose thorns scratch at the window
chimes cry, bangling one against the other
wind lows through minute cracks in the pane
I turn off the light above me with a click
and hear the light bulb cool with high pitched chinks
finches converse outside at the feeder
and I swear I can hear the sun warm the grass on the hills