untouched by this world

we pride ourselves in saying that God doesn’t give us more than we can handle.

we cling to this strength, right up to the edge, but then we avert back to fear.

we gladly accept the gloomy cloud of desperation that says, you can’t do this.

we believe it’s a safer bet, or an easier life to accept, a path that God

                                                                                                  in our small and foolish mind,

                                                                                                                  doesn’t know as well as us.

we easily, with no questions asked, no red flags present; accept fear.

All while God is waiting on the other side of the cliff,

patient to our struggle of taking a leap.

we worry and stop trusting, that God hasn’t already thought through the obstacles we could  face and the unfamiliar characters we could meet.

we forget that the God of the universe

                                                 who puts precise details into each and every snowflake,

                                                                                                                 each time the snow falls

                                                                                                                    wouldn’t take the time

                                                                                                                   to plan out each step of

                                                                                                                                             our journey.

And still He stands, arms out, full of grace.

How much more foolish can we be?

 

Fear is a trigger-happy defense that

Satan attacks us with and to

his joy,

we easily accept, without a mere fight.

 

And when we have lost sight of God,

too consumed with the fear we assumed would keep us safe,

He crosses the cliff,

takes us in his arms,

and carries us home.

That is a love untouched by this world.

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Rain Cloud

 

It’s when heaven opens,

and the first of many drops splatter.

 

On the dry, dirty canvas of the earth

that has yearned and groaned for such a dream.

 

That is when my soul is restored,

in the gift that God’s embrace pulls together the clouds

and from their joy, tears spring forth.

 

 

No longer am I in hibernation.

 

I let the dead thoughts of winter, no longer bound to them, fall from my voice.

The scales of fatigue, fear and despair that have kept me captive,  fall.

I am newly washed in love, and hope, and joy.

I am at peace.

 

 

It’s the first rain,

it’s heaven’s welcome to

spring,

that I find my

inspiration.

In the Child’s Whisper My Savior Calls

“Dedicated to Fay Josephine and Ireland Bradi; whose tiny fingers, soft eyelashes, and quick smiles, helped these words flow from my heart.” 

In total darkness I stand.

Earnestly searching, for what has awoken me.

At the stable, I find myself wanting to enter.

While the world hides under the cloudy skies

a star twinkles and twirls

and finds itself shinning brightly,

farther into the stable.

A hush of breath escapes my lips,

as I attentively come around the corner.

For I worry that the

smallest

tiniest

sound

will awake the child.

 

The light shines around him, and I am puzzled.

Why here, why will it not go farther?

This quivering, innocent child, why does it stop upon his face.

 

The child who now,

it’s little fingers could barely grasp my hand.

The child who soon,

will take mankind in it’s embrace.

This child, while dozing softly in his mother’s arms

is the Messiah.

 

Carefully but certainly I shake my head,

knowing that I cannot present myself to him.

I have no cloak to cover my dirty shoulders;

to hide the misery I have seen, and the tragedy I cannot leave.

I have no hat, to hide my unwashed hair;

nor are my thoughts and actions so pure.

I have no animal to present,

nothing worthy of something

I know is far better than myself.

 

Yet,

I cannot move.

Maybe,

selfishly I do not want to,

from his tiny smile

that touches the far corners of my heart

that had never felt such warmth,

beckons me to stay.

 

Suddenly, I’m not alone

and others clamber around him.

I’m shuffled to the back,

and know my exit is here.

 

Come.  

Let the little children, 

 come. 

 

I stumble and look about

but the hum of the voice continues.

 

Come

All who are weary, 

come.

 

 

Looking up at the star,

now understating why I’m awake.

I walk forward with my drum,

striking it to the beat of my pounding heart.

 

Come, 

 

Come

Let anyone 

who 

hears 

this

 

Come. 

Father’s Face

 

A father’s hand perfectly fits across a child’s face.

To hide away her fears;

fears of the realities she will endure. 

fears of the unknown when you let her go. 

 

But for now, a father’s hand fits perfectly

 over a child’s face only to love her. 

 

Loving her as she twirls, in her big tulle skirt.

Loving her as she walks into the arms of her prince. 

 

But for now, a father’s hand fits perfectly 

over a child’s face only to give her peace. 

 

Peace when she cries at night, between the thunderclaps. 

Peace when she has decided to leave, to make her new home. 

 

And when the child has grown up, her father’s hand is now smaller. 

His shoulder’s that once held her high in the air are frail. 

 

It is her hand that cups his face

hiding his fears of leaving her 

giving him peace to say goodbye

 and always loving even after he closes his eyes. 

Blessed, on this big rock

The fourth of July is a very special time for me, as it is for many others. A time to really celebrate, enjoy each other’s company and be humbled by the sacrifices made in 1776 and the continued sacrifice of men and women today. I remember fondly, my family spending the fourth of July in South Dakota; and while it didn’t work out to do that this year, I am still very blessed. I don’t know if I have posted this before, but I am able to enjoy, and just be happy because their is a God above who loves me, and men and women around me who want to protect me. Happy Fourth of July and God Bless America!

 

There was this big rock that just sat there when I was young.

From a distance, it seemed like a huge boulder, you couldn’t move it, it just sat there.

This rock was on the property of my grandparents, on a lake, in South Dakota.

Things in life were finer there. I don’t mean we were rich in money but rich in the things that mattered. The company we kept and the simple things we did.

There were wood pillars that faced many thunderstorms and ropes that were ripped and fallen. The grass was brittle but it grew like corn. And there was this big rock.

 

It served its purpose well, as the mountain climbing experience for our Barbies and GI Joe’s.

The stove in which we cooked our soup.

A mixture of lake water, a few leaves, weeds…for flavor

Some good size pebbles so we could actually stir something and

of course a sprinkle of gravel.

 

To the left of the rock, depending on where you sat, stood this yellow lanterned man.

His lantern shined dimly from dusk till we noticed it off.

And though the cowbells and leaves continue to cling to him, he was still ours.

 

 

I pause, remembering the past,  I could continue with stories: hearing the fish splash, and disrupting the perfectly still lake.  You would chuckle at our determined attempts to pick every single rock from the gravel road. We would stuff them in our pocket, carry them in our shirts; walking carefully but quickly to the dock. And after all that work, throwing them in with all our might!

I could talk for hours of the many blissful 4th of Julys. Black Cat. Fruit Pizza. Face Paint.   The time I  tired to light the shell, and it almost fired in my ear, or the memorable later laughable time my cousin fell into the lake. I could sing you a few songs from the campfires we had. The time we used cumin instead of cinnamon for the biscuits. My list will go on, and on and continue down the well walked gravel road.

Because being here with all the memories,  good and bad allows me to thank the Lord for how blessed I am. And as long as this big rock sits, year after year, I will hold on tho the memories.  So thank you,  Jesus, I am grateful and I am blessed.

Home

You can bet on Murphy’s Law

the minute I write on this spare,

I’m going to need it, but here it goes.

 

I am from the bottom of a hatch.

I come from a four-door P.T. Cruiser

that bless her heart can’t get over 60

without huffing and puffing.

Sometimes, it’s Bach, other times it’sTim McGraw,

Most of the time it’s Positive & Encouraging K-Love.

I don’t mind the town’s cobbled roads

and streets like Roberts, and Bradford

because it all works well for me.

Justified Love on Behalf of A Sinner

May God Be With You,

that He wouldn’t hide in the shadows, hidden from his touch, like we do.

That He wouldn’t be like the thousand decisions we as humans have made on our own, believing we manage just fine.

Selfish souls who believe they are immutable as if they have been dealt a perfect hand and only when we run out do we point fingers.

Past time here on the land He perfected, was not created or designed to be a flaw.

How can we justify, and accept love when we threw it all away?  Each time wrapped in flesh, tied with a red ribbon.

For the thousand choices we decided, were

good.

Burn to ash for ash we are.

But He lifts our chin and says you’re mine.

The solitude He has kept and waited patiently to dust us off and clean us up and look on us with love.

Each thousand thought erased from His design, His image.

May God Be With You.

Powerful Words

Beauty 

is in

Error

in fault

Hope

in God

Pride

for what’s

However

don’t think

Bravery

takes extreme

Audacity 

how dare

Judge 

me not

Truth 

is hidden.

Without words

 

 

 

 

Silence

            remains.

Letters next to each other forming unbinding relationships.

Words are lasting, they do no break. They are always going to be

here.

untitled

It has been FAR too long since I have written a poem, just because I could. I have written several poems for my classes, that were required and needed to be a specific length, form, and rhythm. However, this poem is just a poem that I wanted to write.  However, I am stuck on the title of the poem. I was once told that the title of a poem is the invitation to a poem for the readers. If you have any suggestions, I would really appreciate it. For now, we will just call it, untitled.

 

Untitled

Still, the clock hands

won’t move. Sound yearns

through the silent walls.

The hands stand still.

 

Timid, the light sways

in the room. The absence

of dark waits patiently.

The light fades.

 

Still, long forgotten are the notes

that played songs and stories

lingering on the laughter.

The piano collects dust.

 

Bare, the oak mantle stands

proud. But there is no

audience to entertain.

The room is bare.

 

Still, there were memories here

that haven’t been erased.

Perhaps just swept into a corner

waiting for the spring breeze.

To shake the memories, awake.

 

Lemons

She entered the shop at a half- past two, the shop closed at three.

She was quiet and cautious; trailing her fingers over the fabric.

I asked her if she needed help, and she declined, averting her gaze.

She was a striking creature; angular features, tiny emerald eyes barely seen because of her

long luscious bangs.

Her porcelain skin, contrasted with her ebony hair.

She was tall.  I imagined if we were dancing, she in heels, we would be eye level.

She looked in my direction and in that moment I saw her.

Longing and desperation for something to be okay.

The bell clanked on the door frame, and she was gone.

The only thing that remained was the fragrance of lemons.

 

She came again at a half-past two, and the shop closed at three.

She paused in the doorway as if I kept her from entering.

Alas, I stood at the desk waiting for her, I smiled.

She looked around, and once again I asked her if she needed assistance.

No, a velvety voice responded with a sad smile.

Why, she smiled, I still wonder to this day.

 

Her red nail polish caught my eye.

“Are you sad?” she asked.

 

Her internal thought process and her question, had me in mind;  an invitation perhaps,

but then she was gone.

 

To this day, when I see  lemons, I can’t help the sad, smile on my face.

 

 

Photo credit: Pintrest
Editing by Beth Kenow 
Lemons by Victoria Kenow