I wonder of the light…
Which peels back dark of night
Of lurking shadow’s rights.
What brings forth new day?
What words will I need say?
What steps will slip away?
I assume secrets of night,
Intrigues me with worldly rights.
Yet, my soul yearns for the Light!
“Thy Word is a lamp
unto my feet,
A light unto my path.”
I sit still…
Amidst hollow landscapes
the air breaths spring tunes,
as ancients from length of days.
I sit still…
Watching sun blushing early morn;
day passes beneath the moon settles,
as aged earth lingers and groans.
“Then the moon shall be confounded,
And the sun ashamed, when the Lord of host
Shall reign in Mount Zion, and in Jerusalem,
And before His ancients glorious.”
Before slice of dawn…
after throaty bullfrogs croak
and birds begin their shrill;
there is a parcel of time
in which no sounds emerge
out in the inky darkness of night.
Over shadowy country landscapes,
under the veil of bright spring morn
there settles an empty, hollow stillness.
And some doze, as other stir:
‘bove bright blue buntings breed
below badger burrows down deep.
Arise with break of new dawn…
Lower your daily plans, read the Word!
There one will find stillness of heart.
I rise before the dawning of the morning,
And cry for help; I hope in Your word.
My eyes are awake through the night watches,
That I may meditate on Your word.
Wind howls like a wild wolf lost in a sea of terror…. howling, howling, howling
Tears at tree top. Toppled them to cold ground littered with dead debris.
Shakes the bough, bends the trunk, tumbles all across moist earth.
Is such a night when restless sleep haunts watches of twilight till dawn.
The soul unable to rest. The mind troubled. The heart sin blackened.
He who spins the wind and topples the trees; it is God one needs seek to find rest.
To stop the howling, howling, howling…
Draw near to God and He’ll draw near to you
How dreary thorns in flesh?
Russet hues in wintry light;
against dismal resting earth.
It’s here first snow appears;
scatters crystals among trees,
interrupts rioting leaves of fall.
Where comes storehouses of snow?
God binds them in unreachable homes;
unleashing flakes at His sovereign will.
A child sees first snow differently,
when mossy earth is laden white;
over, over, and over again anew.
Yet time will come, snow shall melt,
life’s bleakness fade; in last of days
and earth made new again, as snow.
“… no more death or mourning
or crying or pain, for the former
thing have passed away.”
My eleven year old granddaughter shared a slice of wisdom with me the other day. I told her it was going to snow. She said, “Its first snow!” with a tone of excitement. “It already snowed this year,” I simply replied. “But it hasn’t snowed for awhile,” said she. Looking at the bare landscape I saw tawny trees, exposed earth, and stately green pine’s lack of decorations. It was then I understood the importance of snow to her. Let’s be reminded, as we struggle through the season of celebration, whatever came to one’s door unwelcome will one day pass away. Like melting snow, will disappear and all will be made new by a sovereign God.
On mucky, cloudy days
there’s poetry in my pond.
From solstice to equinox;
it crosses winter’s ray.
Admired the woodchuck,
on his groundhog’s day.
Yet, the busy muskrat
chases Eternal clouds away.
Grassy tower stands…
it stirs, shifts, and sways.
Till… last of days.
“As water disappears from the sea,
And a river becomes parched and dries up,
So man lies down and does not rise.
Till the heavens are no more,
They will not awake
Nor be roused from their sleep.”
Job 14: 11-12
We know so much about the groundhog, but it’s the muskrat that stays awake all winter at water’s edge munching on grasses. He’s a busy little thing piling up a tower of reeds and marsh debris to make his cozy abode. I’d say there’s poetry in that… just as you will find over at dVerse, as poets use their imagination with a form of the word “poem”.
Against a crust of snow
a vibrant mask appears
amidst white, a welcomed plight.
Trailing, twisting, turning…
Bitter sweet good-byes
beckoning eyes to garner;
baited, bribe’s delight.
Stony slopes and timber thicket…
Climbing woody heights,
clamber in clusters,
canker or cursed blight.
Value the Veracious Vine…
Drink not bittersweet liquor,
dulls the shrouded mind,
dims the veiled eye’s sight.
“I am the Vine; you are the branches.
Whoever abides in me and I in him,
he it is that bears much fruit, for
apart from me you can do nothing.”
At dVerse we are entertaining poisonous plants. Hopefully, we’ll all survive.
Splendor in the setting sun,
where neither nights nor days
reside against the sunset blaze.
Unfair, unearned, unjust…
Complimentary sacrificial source;
as shadows skulk off course.
No virtue in man without God;
His grace, His shield, His glory…
Be sheltered in the great I Am.
“For the Lord God is a sun and shield;
The Lord will give grace and glory;
No good thing will He withhold from
those who walk uprightly.” Psalm 84:11
My father was a quiet man, as men born then often were, the world so different then. Orphaned at 10, scarcely educated, lived through WWI and the Great US Depression, and fought at Pearl Harbor. These things all left scars.
When the boys came home from war he tried to live a normal life. Married at 40 and father at 42, life moved on. Still horrid memories followed. He stored canned goods in the cellar, woke frequently with bad nightmares, and drank when no one was looking.
I hold one treasured childhood memory of the two of us. At about age four, I sat on his knee as he sang. He wasn’t a singing man. Don’t think I ever heard him sing again. I recall the curves of his face as he smiled a big toothy grin. As I bounced to his sour tune, my heart was made sweet. Looking in his dark brown eyes I heard him say, “But the Yellow Rose of Texas is the only girl for me.” For those tender moments the scars of sorrow had melted away.
Yellow is the rose…
forward to the Promised Land;
where songs will blossom.
“The Yellow Rose of Texas” was made popular by Mitch Miller in 1955. The US song dates back to the states Civil War times. It’s lyrics have changed, as history passes. It topped the music charts from February to October back in 1955. There’s another rose dear to me. “For it we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so God will bring with Him those who sleep in Jesus.” I Thessalonians 4:14
As an infant, I recall the old maple tree’s leaf shadows frolicking across the bedroom walls. This is my earliest memory. The umbra of the crib sheltered me while the flicker of light played tag with the afternoon shade. I must have pondered this display, as a child does in the newness of the world, for the memories have traveled a lifetime’s journey.
Now, I play shadow games with my grandchildren. We stroll darken forest paths or build sand castles in the shade of another maple tree, as the sweltering sun hangs in the summer sky. The same sun, but new shadows fill my days. The crib no longer my sanctuary; I am hidden under the care of something, SOMEONE, greater.
Above… heaven’s gate;
souls seek refuge in shadows.
The Almighty waits…
“He who dwells in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.” Psalm 91:1
Who doesn’t remember playing with shadows? Over at dVerse poets are taking shadows to the next step. Stop in.