I've just noticed, 
as I looked up from writing poetry,
A magpie purchased on the high back 
of one of my outdoor setees, 
Staring smack at me 
as I sculpt words.
Fixed, it holds itself still, measured.
Scheming its next swoop;
Taking in my features, 
I was a moving target.

It is lighter outside now,
Rather than the tar-dark
Of the night.
Cars are streaming past;
Their swoosh is like white-noise,
In the early morn.

Things are relatively static
Right now,
Until then busy-ness of the day
Commanders,
Then colour-blinds
All the senses.

Is writing poetry like my fidget toy?
A warm bath or a workout,
Still-ing, stalling and styling
My next proposition.

The birds tell a story,
Of what we humans do.
Their chirps and their tweets,
Are confirmation of who and what we knew.

Though we may not see
It, their eyes scan the skies.
And other varieties capture
our uncommunicated idiosyncracies.

The birds in the sky,
Test the temperature of our times.
They hold our secrets,
And much more importantly, our lies.

And so shall I.

As the days slip 
Into chill-filled air,
The watermelon dayz
They seem long gone.
Even with the degrees
Still in the moderate thirties,
I long for those hot, stuffy days
Where we twirled our towels
On our heads and smiled, seed-filled,
And none could distinguish where
Sweet and drippy watermelon grins
Started, and the sweat and slippery long ended.

Lest we forget
Those who served us so,
Now, with heavenly angels,
Alive now, they teach us what we sow,
Shall remain forevermore or wasteless fodder.

We shall not forget them so,
Sacrifice, selflessness, valour undertow,
Remembrance of our heroes,
Provokes us to live now, lives of valour; value.

Hush, it's raining.
Heaven's cleaning the earth
with its gentle brush,
anew.

Critics collude in cliques
to keep themselves safe from reality.

"Truth is subjective!"
they say, diluting its potency and dilating its delusions.
But grounded, truth becomes a platform on which to
kick critics to the curb,
Taste the dirt of their terse tunes.

This is my house, where
I can freely dance
Where I can be —
Without a second glance.
Where I can freely pray,
And thank You for hearing,
Seeing and providing —
Your cooling rain
deepens Your promises,
in my soul
not in vain —

I love Sunday for its quietness,
I love Sundays, for there is no rush.
I love Sundays for writing poetry.
I love Sundays for the hush.
I love Sundays for the calm before the storm.
I love Sundays because my mind reboots to the norm.
I love Sundays because I can take my soul for a walk,
And let it roam across heavenly realms.
I love Sundays to be without an agenda that I have to chalk.
I love Sundays, to remember.
I love Sundays, and that's where I will be,
Loving You more without animosity.

Denial will not bring freedom,
Acceptance will.
Not for anyone else,
But You.
Walking in the light,
Will bring freedom!

How do we miss our call?
What's distracting us today from hearing and trusting at all?

To silence the chatter in one's head, one needs to watch it, listen to it, discern it, and master the response.

We all want to be seen and heard, but too many of us don't. As we chase that desire for attention, we forget and miss the need to see someone else.

Busyness has become the currency of this day. "Are you as busy as I?', screams our social media posts. We yearn to be valued and significant to someone else. So much so that we will devalue ourselves and gain our desired attention.

Does that sound familiar?

Of course, others don't have that same craving. But they have other cravings. I think it was St Augustine who said we have a heart-shaped hole/wound within; aching to be filled. And in our haste and uncomfortableness to sit with that ache, we stuff it, numb it, ignore it with stuff that distracts the call to seek our maker. 

But what we need is to accept God's love. Not the duties. Not the need to 'be good' but the call to be loved.