Make life seem right.
The varied parts should fit
And compliment each other to
Make life seem right.
The varied parts should fit
And compliment each other to
It’s almost June.
And that means summer’s here.
Can’t stand the bugs and heat, so let’s
I’ve had a thought:
If I delete three months,
It could throw off the universe.
I will admit
I should not mess with time.
So I guess I’ll just grit my teeth
If I had known in days gone by
The things I know today.
I’d have thought and felt and acted
Sometimes, in quite different ways.
If yesterday’s tomorrows
Hadn’t come ahead of time,
If they’d waited ’till I’d learned some more
And had made it to my prime,
I would have done a better job
Of living properly.
If wisdom from today had been
More than a mystery.
And now, I’d like to put a hold
On life’s full speed ahead,
Just ’til tomorrow brings me
Wisdom from what’s up ahead.
Why, I could guarantee success —
I could live the perfect way —
Could I just get my tomorrows
To become my yesterdays!
Normal things take longer.
Technology does not work right.
To think the cause
Is lock-down atrophy.
I find I yearn for simpler times
I tell myself.
And sometimes I obey.
But sometimes I, instead, just take
Just a brief commentary:
When I created this site, my intention was to offer only poetry and pictures that would bring happiness and comfort to people who visited here. Accordingly, I haven’t used the site to deal strongly with anything controversial. However, the seriousness of what we’ve been experiencing for the past several months — and the clear message being sent that murdering children is an essential activity while all the time incarcerating adult families and business owners in their own homes has changed things a little.
My own conscience will not allow me to continue to post here and act as though dangerous and hideous things are not happening under the guise of “keeping people safe.” So this post is a deviation from the norm. However, I encourage any visitors who are upset by the seriousness of this post to simply click on one of the other 207 posts on this site which are focused on things more positive.
Some call it isolation.
Some call it sheltering.
A “safe-at-home” condition
That’s lasted all of spring.
Small businesses are locked down
Churches have empty pews.
But laws allow the sale of drugs
And “grass,” and, of course, booze.
What Liberals term “essential”
Is given liberty.
Abortion clinics have free reign:
Murder in first degree.
The public’s in a panic
Because of media lies.
State gov’ners claim lives matter
While they make sure babies die.
Beguiles me so.
It’s hue, its scent, its song.
Its movements that caress my soul.
The truth of Jesus Christ’s complete redemption can be told in any form. In this post I’ve set God’s truth into Cinquain — one of my favorite poetic forms.
To lots of folks
It is a scary word.
But there’s a name that can kill it:
By any name.
Must bow to Jesus’ name.
His sacrifice redeemed us from
Get in His Word:
He says it’s medicine
For every ailment we can face.
(Scripture References: Acts 3:16, Philippians 2:9-10, Galatians 3:13-14, Proverbs 4:20-22, and Psalm 107:17-20)
The tomb in which Christ’s body lay,
And the stone that sealed the door,
Were both created by the God
Who by His own name swore
That after three days and three nights,
Christ would rise from the dead.
God gave His Word, which has the power
Against which none can stand.
And when He said, “The price is paid,”
And shouted His command,
Christ rose with life for one and all,
And vanquished sin and death.
Purest of water, fresh from clouds
That brushed the mountain peaks,
Raining down and gushing round
As avenues it seeks
In which to flow unhindered
Down to plains that wait below
For fresh, pristine refreshment
Only mountain streams bestow.
They are a treat
In almost any dish.
But I don’t know how to hunt them
It’s been raining here for two whole days, so I thought it was only fitting that I write about rain. Since I’m in a poetic mood, I decided I’d give myself a little workout and do one haiku, one cinquain, and one simple iambic pentameter verse about that subject.
Everything is gray.
Rain hanging like a curtain.
No sun peeping in.
I just have to complain:
All is gray and wet and dreary!
IAMBIC PENTAMETER VERSE
Another boring day of endless rain.
We don’t need this much water every day.
Sunshine is now a fading memory.
The birds won’t even come out now to play.
I know some tribes have dances that they do
To bring the rain when grounds are parched and bare.
I wonder if there is another dance
To end the rain and turn the weather fair.
In a moment of whimsy, I painted this little cartoon-ish watercolor and wrote a few words to express my feelings at the time. Sorry the page shows a few wrinkles, but it’s in one of my art journals, and those pages tend to wrinkle a little with the watercolor. Hope this little post adds a touch of lightness to your day.
Huge cup of tea,
A piece of cake,
A cookie — two or three —
Some chocolate bonbons in a box
That’s labeled just for me —
I think — perhaps — I’ll make it
Through this day adequately.
I am a writer.
Yes, I am; I know I am.
So why is it that
I’m so often in this jam?
I start new novels;
Then, alas, the muse runs dry.
Three novels just sit,
And I have no idea why.
I am a writer.
I’ve said it o’er and o’er again.
“I am a writer!”
Pounding, pounding through my brain.
Since writing novels
Doesn’t seem to work just now,
I’ll write a poem.
They’re much prettier anyhow.
photo courtesy of “WildOne” @ pixabay.com
I celebrate twelve days of Christmas.
Beginning on our Christmas day.
Keeping with cent’ries of tradition,
I give out a gift on each day.
The focus for twelve days of Christmas
Is keeping Christ’s birth fresh and new:
Continuing the happy rejoicing —
Not packing things up — as some do.
For Christmas is not just December,
And not just for two or three days —
Begun and then done oh so quickly,
Leaving many then feeling malaise.
Come, join me for twelve days of Christmas:
Sing carols and give gifts of love.
For twelve lovely days making merry,
Reveling with angels above.
photo courtesy of Prawny @ pixabay.com
Country lanes at Christmas —
For the traveler, such a chore.
Snow encrusted, rutted lanes
That make manuv’ring poor.
It’s hard to see the shoulders
And the middle line is blurred.
For traffic in the other lane
No ample room’s assured.
And drawing towards the end of day,
When light is running low,
Traversing snowy country roads
Mandates my going slow.
But I’ll continue trav’ling down
Those snowy country lanes,
To friends and fam’ly, waiting me.
It’s worth whatever strain.
Besides, those Christmas country roads
Through woods and fields snow-clad
Resound with quiet so unique
It makes my heart quite glad.
They seem to wear a special peace
That blankets their domain.
And settles over me when I’m
On snowy, country lanes.
photo courtesy of Reijo Telaranta @ pixabay.com
Obscure and humble at your birth,
You came to show us our own worth.
Heav’n’s brightest star and angel choir
Proclaimed the birth of our desire.
Once come forth from sweet Mary’s womb,
You journeyed forward to cross and tomb.
But three days gone, You rose again
And conquered evil, death, and sin.
Now Heaven’s Daystar You’ve become
And reign eternal from Your throne.
We cherish Your nativity
But do not bow on bended knee,
For You’re no longer in that stall,
But ruling, reigning, Lord of all!
Thanksgiving in the U. S. is exactly three weeks from today, so I think it’s only appropriate that I revisit some of my Thanksgiving poems from over the years — and maybe even write a new one.
This week I’ll begin the series with two: one quite serious and one just for fun. Hope you enjoy them, and if you’re one of my own countrymen, I hope they add to your expectations for a happy Thanksgiving celebration.
AH, THANKSGIVING, HOW I LOVE YOU!
Ah, Thanksgiving, how I love you!
Golden crowning jewel of Fall,
Beacon of warmth and cam’raderie,
Sending glad invitation to all:
“Gather to worship; gather to visit;
Gather to focus on all that’s worthwhile;
Feast from tables resplendent with harvest;
Feast on the love in a touch and a smile.”
All the year’s labors weigh heavy upon us.
All the world’s problems seem bigger by far.
But out from that wearisome struggle you call us,
And laying it down, we run to where you are.
And whether in cottages, mansions, or churches,
Community buildings, or tables in parks,
We gather with gratitude full – overflowing;
To the Giver of blessings lift voices and hearts.
Then we return to life’s pattern awaiting.
Filled up with joy, we set off on our way,
Warmer and richer and kinder in spirit
For pausing to celebrate Thanksgiving Day.
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
WHAT’S FOR DINNER?
I spot him there, behind the barn,
A full-plumed, regal bird.
He looks up, straight into my eyes.
I speak no single word.
It’s happened thus, in passing years —
At least for two or three:
Each mid-November I’ve set my mind;
He’s been there to greet me.
Now, lifting his head in challenge strong,
He gobbles loud and long.
I lower my gun and heave a sigh:
To kill him would be wrong!
So, wrestling with my double mind,
I trek home to my wife
To explain why, once again this year,
Ham will greet the carving knife.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Wait before me.
I stand before closed doors
But do not let that hinder me:
The doors obeyed.
And now I stand in awe.
I see what possibilities
I must decide:
Will I cross the threshold?
Will I accept new challenges?
A Cardinal sits with me at end of day.
It’s been a sad, unhappy time,
And I have lost my way.
He seems content to stay a while and rest,
And my front porch is cool with shade,
Sun moving to the west.
On other days I’ve seen him flit and fly
And labor quite industriously
For food that caught his eye.
Those days he’d pick at wings and clean and preen,
Then dart away and back again,
Quite nervous did he seem.
He changed his stance and cocked head constantly,
Not holding still a moment long;
He agitated me.
But, suddenly, this eve he’s come to sit.
As if he knew my sorrowful plight —
That I was in this pit.
And now and then he sings aloud his song.
But when he stops a while,
For more I long.
I’m sure his day is done; he should head home,
But here he sits beside my chair,
Just so I’m not alone.
His beauty, I have finally come to see,
Is unsurpassed: his ruby hue,
Wings black-edged perfectly.
In truth he is a masterpiece of life:
Each part of him a sculptor’s dream,
Down to his beady eye.
A good half hour he’s stayed and felt at home.
And looks right at me now and then,
To say, “You’re not alone.”
I sigh and realize I am content.
I close my eyes; begin to smile.
This is what Jesus meant.
He urged us to behold the birds of air
And take a lesson from each one
About His love and care.
“Yes, Jesus, I’m at peace in You at last.
This little bird you sent to me
Has fulfilled his task.
So take care of him, Lord and keep him strong,
And send him out to other souls
Who need to hear his song.”
Then opening my eyes, I seek my friend.
But he has flown while I have prayed,
His mission at an end.
“Look at the birds of the air! They don’t worry about what to eat — they don’t need to sow or reap or store up food — for your heavenly Father feeds them. And you are far more valuable to him than they are.” (Matt. 6:26 TLB).
I know a forest filled with rainbow colored trees.
And every time it rains, they lift their leafy heads.
For God’s great promise spoken to Noah years ago,
With bow that promised we’d have no more floods to dread,
Reflects its multicolored prism on these trees,
And God’s great faithfulness from tree to tree is spread.