A Season

As many of you know, my step-dad had been having health difficulties for the last year.  Although he fought hard and long, he was lost to us on November 28, 2010.  We're having services on December 3, 2010.  Currently, the best words I have are from the King James version of the Holy Bible, those attributed to King Solomon.  I hope you bear with me for this posting, but I find great wisdom and comfort these words, and I thank all of you for your prayers and understanding over the last year.


Ecclesiastes 3:1-8


To everything there is a season, and
a time to every purpose under heaven:

A time to be born, and
a time to die;
a time to plant, and
a time to pluck up
that which is planted;

A time to kill, and
a time to heal;
a time to break down, and
a time to build up;

A time to weep, and
a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and
a time to dance;

A time to cast away stones, and
a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and
a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to get, and
a time to lose;
a time to keep, and
a time to cast away;

A time to rend, and
a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and
a time to speak;

A time to love, and
a time to hate;
a time of war; and
a time of peace.

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Quote for the Day:

“A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.” ~ Oscar Wilde

“Dreams are like stars...you may never touch them, but if you follow them they will lead you to your destiny.” ~ unknown

“Dreams are illustrations... from the book your soul is writing about you.” ~ Marsha Norman

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Little Red Shoes

Perched upon the yard

like a rusty skeleton,

a swing-set with empty seats

swaying

Fallen near the walk

once-proud possession

a bike with both tires

deflated

Abandoned in the silent room

a one-eyed owl

with love-tattered wings

deserted

Clothing the narrow bed

a pretty pink comforter

with party-dress frills

smoothed

and these little red shoes

with no one left

to greet


(Photo courtesy of nonsense_dreamer (Amelie) at DeviantArt; http://nonsense-dreamer.deviantart.com/gallery/?1441026#/dzdfn2)

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An Unfinished Life

Should life cease, will I be ready to pass
into that other place, through dark doors
landing in glorious light? Or, shall I ponder
on an unfinished life?

Comprised of words unspoken
silenced by correctness,
of dreams unimagined, nebulous, amorphous,
seeds yet unbirthed,
of love horded miserly, never expressed,
retained until there’s no one left,

still gazing across one-day vistas waiting
for a time that never occurs,
will echoes of unheard, undiscovered family
haunt me always?
No, I think I shall be contrary and decline
the passage into unknown horizons;

after all, I’m still a work under construction
struggling to release self-imposed exiles, create
a new world within the boundaries,
the confines, of my incomplete soul.

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The Hand of God

There are times
when the wind whispers
secrets to the trees, softly caressing
each leaf, dancing over the grasslands
and kissing across the skin;
a pleasant interlude, a time
for kites, cloud-watching,
laying in a hammock, lulled
by the sway of the breeze.

Then, there are times
when the wind rages, crying
through the night, a wailing lament,
the sound of ten thousand lost souls
searching for solace as yet unfound,
a banshee’s symphony of thunderous
crescendos, blue-white lightening strikes,
rampaging through the countryside
leaving only destruction in its wake.

A time, when surely we see
the hand of God at work, the power
and awe-inspiring force of nature
that bound across the landscape,
helter-skelter, skipping over this
house and leveling that barn,
uprooting trees that have stood
for a century, leaving only
tears and broken dreams behind.

And yet, the sun still rises
blessing each day with a new
beginning; some filled with hardship
and sorrow, others overflowing with joy
of a life still lived. The secret is determining
how to find the joy within
the hardship. That must also be
the hand of God delivering
us out of the darkness into the light.


(Life on the plains always includes the wind; it is a presence that lives and breathes, surrounding the inhabitants with both pleasure and fear. It becomes a tornado, a force so powerful that those at the high end of the scale, EF5, are sometimes referred to as “the hand of God”.  ~ lgb, 2010)

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Rules of Sevenling

What is a sevenling?   A very good question and one which I should have addressed before posting my attempt.  A sevenling is a poetic form composed of seven lines with certain specific rules.  I just found this description which is much better than the definition I followed in my attempt.  As you can see below, I didn't follow the rules exactly ----- oh, well, maybe I'll try again someday.


"Sevenlings by RODDY LUMSDEN

The rules of the sevenling are thus:

The first three lines should contain an element of three - three connected or contrasting statements, or a list of three details, names or possibilities. This can take up all of the three lines or be contained anywhere within them. Then, lines four to six should similarly contain an element of three, connected directly or indirectly or not at all. The seventh line should act as a narrative summary or punchline or as an unusual juxtaposition. There are no set metrical rules, but being such as short form, some rhythm, metre or rhyme is desirable. To give the form a recognisable shape, it should be set out in two stanzas of three lines, with a solitary seventh, last line. Titles are not required. A sevenling should be titled Sevenling followed by the first few words in parentheses The tone of the sevenling should be mysterious, offbeat or disturbing, giving a feeling that only part of the story is being told. The poem should have a certain ambience which invites guesswork from the reader. "

http://home.comcast.net/~jpdancingbear/apj_sevenling.html

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Too Much Information

Feminine products, erectile dysfunction, overactive bladders.
Subjects of endless commercials about things
that really shouldn’t be discussed in public.

Religion, politics, familial dirty laundry.
More topics that always seem to be the subject
of never-ending reality programming.

Don’t you wonder whatever happened to reading?



(This is my first attempt at the sevenling form.)

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