We both know our connection,

But that’s not enough to say.

And when you start to leave,

I’ll always run away.

Don’t ask me to follow,

But not tell me to stay.

My time should not be wasted,

But still, you delay.

So painfully aware of being apart
from that which gives me my breath
helps to maintain the rhythmic beating
of my swollen heart--

So horribly bereft at having said goodbye
to one who has always kept me here
who has cradled me, held me tight
through every moment of every sigh--

So hauntingly sure I will not survive
that life will have no meaning
with you not here to hold, to guard,
to keep me alive--

And so forlornly looking as you saunter away
your laugh, your jokes, your smiles and gentle heart
all that gave me reason to wake up
and live another god-forsaken day--

But so determined this time to carry on
to make it through without you here
to somehow hold myself together without you
and to just make it until the break of dawn...

The Canvas
(c)08-25-2012

A canvas sets on the edge of greatness and beauty, blank, waiting for the touch of the master’s hand. She takes charge of what is to be. Gentle strokes, broad strokes, strokes that caress the canvas… leaving the marks of imagination, transforming nothing into beauty. The image emerges revealing the thoughts and desires and power of the canvas. It is breath-taking to the beholder. She understands the difference between OK and great. Nothing will do but great. It must emulate the original. It must be the original! So it is with our canvas of life.

We start life as a blank canvas. Brush strokes are made by those around us as we begin to grow. Made by mom, dad, friend and strangers alike. All try to add their image to our canvas. An image of who they think we are. As we grow into the artist we strive to be, we accept or reject the strokes of others and create a portrait we strive to become.

Some strokes by others can leave an off color, covering who we really strive to be. A brush stroke that is not us can be covered by our touch, our color, our imagination of who we are, adding integrity to the texture and hue. Revealing an inner beauty as the artist of our life takes control, guiding our hand, adding the touches that transform the canvas from OK to great.

The Artist chooses the colors, the brushes from which she wants to define her life. The decisions are hers to make as she selects the shades of color, or even black and white, that will define her life. She paints a portrait of peace and joy, of self-less love for family and friends.. All else is unimportant. The things of past are covered. Today and tomorrow are forming a painting that will be great.

Letting the Master’s Hand guide our hand, we find freedom flowing freely onto and into our canvas. In doing His will in our life, we are set free. A freedom indescribable at times as we are lost to the distractions of the past. Caught up in the hope and love of today.

The Master guides our hand, willingly or even unwillingly at times in our artistic endeavor. As we learn to relax and give Him control of our hands, He reveals the beauty that is within us. It is great.

I have heard being an artist and painting described as being easy but living life as being difficult and unsure. Life can be described as a series of brush strokes, choices. Some can destroy the beauty intended for our canvas. Some strokes can create breath-taking beauty which radiates outward, inspiring the ones observing our portrait.

This was inspired by a young friend of mine, she left a few brush strokes on my life. They will not be painted over. They will be treasured, remembered for a long time to come.

When I look into a mirror, I want to see Jesus, the Creator of my portrait.

Her tongue like a whip.
Her words lashed
Across my back
Leaving weeping welts of pain.
A balm administered
To ease the hurt
But the memory
Lingers.
Spilt wine
Can't be put back into the bottle.

Euphoric Sunday morning,
      fluff blissful, feathery pillows -
         still resonating the
               scent of night
        beyond supernova's
             transcendent certainty,
   whence gods were called
       upon by name,
            reverberating
               over
                   and over
                        again