Brightest flowers of early spring
The scent of a daffodil
Smell pure and sweet
These lovely flowers always bring
Sunshine that never will
Earthy, moist, steamy, and rare,
like tropical flowers perfuming the air.
I can smell across the street,
That delicate scent carried on the breeze,
Coming from a daffodil, seeking release.

Be dimmed by veil of cloud
Pop out of the ground in spring
Primroses so sweet and colorful
is a flower warm weather brings

Green stems that stab with loveliness,
Rich petal-cups to hold
the wine of spring to lips
Those cling like bees about their gold!

Each leaf, each bloom, each blade of grass
fill our world with color
but the Daffodils with their yellow coats
bring us springtime like no other
Oh let them live as nature meant,
I smell that scent so sublime.
The smell of a daffodil all over my face,
The sweet scent of a daffodil, will have me crazed.
There is nothing better than the scent of daffodil

The sunflower droops
To the lazy wave; the wind sleeps;
Then, moving in dazzling links and loops,
A marvel of shadow and shine,
A glory of olive and amber and wine,
Runs the color in the wheat.

When the wild winds rumbled past you in the fall fields
and you blessed them, you surrendered
to splendor, when you lifted up your ruins on the old road
remember the seasons

when the wind was new, when your hands
were good fire in the hands of travelers,

A land of plenty, where
Toward the sun, as hasting there,
The colors run
Before the wind's feet
in the wheat.

Wind, as it sings you; kneel there,
So faint and far it seems the drone
Of bee or beetle, seems to come
as you must have done, in your first
world, when the wind

A cloud flies there—
A swirl
In the hollows like the twinkling feet
Of a fairy waltzer; the colors run
To the westward sun,
Through the deeps of the ripening wheat
was wind, when your ruin
was a music—you
who were no one, once, and colder,

and were open so wholly to the brokenness
that you sang to whatever left you empty
like the cello in the cello maker’s hands.

Not many people understand,
That I did not chose my sexuality.
Many people think it’s a decision,
But it’s not an who I was born to be.
It’s a radiant act of self-blessing
Something every artist must do sometimes,
When no-one else will bless you.
And it’s funny, good-nature,
and startlingly strange.
No my gayness is not a disease,
I fall in love like any other,
And I have goals in my life,
To have a family, to be a mother.
Its ‘gayness’ isn’t obvious,
but it’s in the tone,
the voice, the stance toward the world.
No matter the pull toward brink.
No matter the florid,
deep sleep awaits.
There is a time for everything.
If you think what I feel is wrong,
I guess you can think that way,
I am proud of being gay.

Faith is opening the door for someone
and letting them inside—
time and time again, even when it hurts.

Faith is telling someone
when they are wrong,
but then supporting their decision anyway.

Have that in you if you have that faith,
you can do everything,
With faith, we have a reason to smile

It’s all the while and every while Faith
Is a source of hope and happiness
It stays with the power of prayer Keep the faith!

Faith stays the same,
whether someone wins, losses or draws.

Faith is the courage
to stay by someone’s side,
even when everyone else has run.

Faith is losing everything,
except for that which you hold most dear.

Faith is believing,
it’s faith in another human
and there is nothing more risky
and there is nothing more worthwhile.

Faith is the big thing
that aches the most.

The journey is the charm that brings us together
After this love will be eternal
It's so long since anyone held me
Duty sent us down different paths
Missing you must end
Already my heart is full to the brim
full of weary days spent apart
exposed to desire heavy with longing
I remember your warm embrace
Each night in my dreams
once loneliness reached out and sundered closeness
yearning for time to pass
when sorrow would fade and cold would thaw
No one has held me for a long time
anxiety ever present
The truth: dreaming is lonely
the further away the closer to this one time
I leave my love so quietly
Time to step out of the rain
that rains in our hearts and weighs us down

May the Christmas morning
make us happy to be thy children,
and Christmas evening bring us to our beds
with grateful thoughts,
forgiving and forgiven,
for Jesus' sake.
Close the door of hate
and open the door of love all over the world.
Let kindness come with every gift
and good desires with every greeting.
Deliver us from evil by the blessing
which Christ brings,
and teach us to be merry with clear hearts.
Help us remember the birth of Jesus,
that we may share in the song of the angels,
the gladness of the shepherds,
and worship of the wise men.

Let me unfold the mystery and feel the pulse of nature;
We must protect it, for society to thrive.
I want to hear the sound of waterfall and poetry of birds;
Creates oxygen, that we all consume,
I want to smell the flowers and puddle in the mud.

Let me go to the meadows and romance with the nature;
Beauty of nature, we all love to see,
From tiny insect to exotic tree.
I want to sleep on the green bed and watch the blue dreamy sky;
I want to cross the dessert and drink from the ocean.

Our environment, keeps us alive,
We must combat, deforestation,
It is the duty of every single nation.
So much life and diversity,
You can learn more,

Climate change, we need to control,
Think together, to find a solution.
We must remember, to respect and cherish,
If we don't, nature shall perish.

Crossing this wide sea
i glide above cruel waves
that reach up to drown my flight
in their cold deep
blue-green graves

I used to live in paradise—a long,
low ranch house,
sheltered by the tangle of cottonwood trees
that lined the creek. But as with every Eden
We believed in the magic of that world down in the creek,
where the greenbrier curled
around trees and scratched
our legs and the water oak tipped lazily
over the stream as if in a constant half-state
between dreaming and awake.
We believed so fervently,
so completely,
that the trash tossed down
from the nearby overpass
became heavenly gifts—oil cans,
garbage bags,
tires,
empty cups,
all hidden among the scrubby willow oak.
We collected them like greedy misers.
pieces of glass in a discarded Ziploc bag,
and they shone so brightly
that we believed them
to be tiny pieces of falling star.
And in our desperate belief,
we made our paradise.

At nine I took piano lessons,
my invitation to sit at the bench
rather than observing, coming after
what felt like forever.
I was giddy, finally able to become
the pianist I knew was locked inside.
My small hands. Each time
I clambered onto the bench
that was too large, swung my legs,
and tried to force my small hands
into awkward positions,
I imagined that soon
my mom would sit beside me,
tell me I was doing a wonderful job,
Time wore on.
I practiced,
faithfully,
but my fingers and mind resisted.
I found myself starting out the window
day dreaming of climbing trees,
riding my bike,
floating sticks in an irrigation ditch.
From the kitchen my mom called out my mistakes.
“That should be a flat. Try again.”
What held promise soon became a chore.
“Nope not right that time either.
Go slower.
Practice just that part.
Just those two notes.
Do you want me to show you?”
Both my frustration and failures increased.
I had failed.
I could not force musical talent on myself,
could not be the daughter
they had hoped for and believed in.
My mom would be the only piano player in the house;
I would remain an observer.
I tried taking lessons again,
this time in secret.
I hoped by playing the piano
I would prove myself worthy of being her daughter.
I planned to practice in secret
until shortly before
I would leave for college,
then play a concert for my mom.
I imagined her listening,
being moved and rushing to me in love,
telling me how proud she was.
Music pulled me deep into the sound,
offered me a place where
I could disappear and
I wouldn’t be found until I wanted to be.
I held the pedal down again,
enjoying the way the music embraced me.

The old woman warming her hands in her armpits.
She stretched her cold-kinked spine.
When she could feel the blood moving in her veins,
Sluggish though it was,
She bent to collect the scattered sticks.

she saw in a bush a few feet away
perched a bird,
its head raised as though in song.
It was white as the snow,
and as she approached
it didn’t fly away. It didn’t move.
The poor thing was frozen solid.
Carefully she pried it from the branch.
She cradled it in her hands and admired its perfection:
feathers as delicate and precise as plumes of frost on a windowpane,
eyes like icy dewdrops.
A tiny icicle of tongue protruded from its beak.
Perhaps, she thought,
if I take it home and warm it by the stove
it will sing to me.
She slipped the frozen bird into her pocket.

Back in her hut,
the old woman built up the fire,
then settled the frozen bird near the stove.
tucking the bird into its folds.
She nudged it closer to the stove.
The room grew warm; Yet the bird remained frozen.
She lifted it gently and held it on her lap.
She dribbled some broth into the open beak.
But the bird didn’t swallow.
The soup spilled from its mouth
and froze into a tiny gem that fell into the woman’s lap.

The old woman squeezed another drop of soup from her finger.
This time, the bird’s song held memories of first love,
of lash-lowered glances and blushing cheeks,
of clasped hands and furtive kisses.
Tears brimmed, and when she wiped them away
they froze on her cheek.
She looked at her.
The song ended and tinged one wingtip.
color and life returned to the bird.
Its feathers reddened to pink and then a brilliant scarlet.
Its eyes grew black and shiny.
and its beak stayed white and cold.
The bird sang of soft golden light
warming the world.

"I asked the leaf
whether it was scared
because it was autumn
and the other leaves were falling..."
The leaf told me
No during the whole spring
I was very alive
I worked hard and helped nourish the tree
And much of me is in the tree
A belief...
Belongs to the leaf...
That tree will never be apart...
That tree will never leave it alone...
But when hits the storm of moan...
Everything turns into the dust...
The dusk, fallen leaf and belief also...
A brighest friend seems to be a darkest foe...
Although, the shadow of tree is also black...
Still dried leaf thinks, ''Tree has no crack..! ''
It can't move and it can't cry but it hurts...
All the last words, the signature of trust...
Alive under the dirt in form of a belief....
Tree is still breathing the air of its grief....

It’s the last day of school,
and you’re tipping toes by my kidney table
story-eyed as you ask me what we are going to do today.
the expression on your face perfect
like a flame finding its shape,
You tell me your mom’s boyfriend finally moved out.
“You can’t make an apple hang like a peach.”
I ask you to draw a picture about what you’re going to do this summer.
after about five minutes, you walk up to me with your drawing.
Tell me about it…
You comma in the moment,
swivel your head,
and point to it.
“It’s a picture of you
and my mom
looking up
at the stars.”

Until this moment, saved faith and love.
because someone hurt me, recently,
Someone whose breath is the astonishment of Jesus,
someone whose touch is a loan from Moses,
someone whose voice veils the song of eclipses,
someone who is seated in the palm of knowledge
someone who has blessed horizons with dust from his feet.
Yes, behind this mass of green there is someone,
and for him I have come back to life.
I just don't understand enough
about the weakness of form and the courage of meaning.
Why do I make conversation with nothing
and stitch my words into the hems of the mediocre
like margin prayers or footnotes.
Must escape
must run away to simplicity,
must elevate the best,
must become another example of the sun.
No one understands the absence of the sun.
No one knows that this brightness
is just pretending to be dawn.
No one understands the absence of meaning
in the guises of the chameleon.

Learned in the hardest way
from wounds that we didn't pray

Things that we regret
and surely will never forget

At times, we have fall
and every time we stand tall

Every day, a battle we have fought
in a battlefield, we have thought

Things that we regret
and surely will never forget

Every day we face
different struggles in life

Raise your hands up, and shout aloud
tomorrow you wake up and stand proud

Every day we cry tears
for different reasons

Put your head up, and keep the fight
we can kneel, but keep them tight

Look up the sky to face another battle
in a field of life, we can never be baffle

Shout aloud, and cry harder
let the teardrops be your reward as a winner

We will win and we will lose
but it's a fight that we choose

No matter what happened,
take it as learning,

And tomorrow in another
round for us to have a chance of winning.

For years, I have lived with such anger,
I see no future in sunrise;
I see no hope for green
I store at the endless horizon
With my sorrows gnaw at my soul
The pain of addiction gnawing at my veins
and my slow decline
Lifeless, store in to the dark horizon
Awaiting death, the inevitable
Bound by the chains of prejudice
in solitude, castle of regret build.
Was once touched by the ray of hope
Lighting those rusted lamps of joy
Lifting me from dungeons of doom
Only to the lift at the epoch
Grief, I hold thee close
For thou, my only companion
I see no future in sunrise
I see no hope for green
I store at the endless horizon
slowly eating me from inside
Until death appears as a happy welcome...!
But to blame anyone for my rage is unjust.
No one is responsible for my fury,
Though I may think so, my eyesight is simply blurry
Anger is seeking a new slave;
As for me, I’d rather be brave,
Before anger puts me deep down in a grave.

I hope you find the kind of happiness
that exists on your own terms.
I hope you truly take the time to fig-ure out
what moves you,
what encourages your soul,
what you deeply crave from life,
and I hope you have the courage
to chase that. I hope you have the courage to believe
that you are deserving of everything you de-sire,
that you are capable and worthy of curating
the kind of life for yourself
that sparks something within you.
You have a fire inside of you—
I hope you never let convenience,
or comfort,  or the easiness of stand-ing still put it out.
I hope you show the world what you can
do with all of that passion inside of you.
I hope you find someone who quickly
becomes your favourite thing—someone
who makes the fall less fearful,
someone you can't help but choose every single day.
I hope you find someone who shows you just
how deeply you can feel,
just how deeply you can love.
I hope you find something real,
because nothing is more beautiful
than loving someone who loves you back.
Nothing is more beautiful than loving someone
who builds you a home in their heart.

I hear heavy footsteps approaching me,
Crunching the leaves beneath.
I sit up straight and try to force a smile.
"You have been crying again.
Haven't you?"
I hear a smooth voice.
It's none other than my best friend, of course.
He lost his parents the same night I did.
Since then,
He has been my guardian angel.
I smile and look into his eerily serene
Gray eyes that look deep blue in the dark.
And,
He smiles back.

I look out my window and
see little patches of blue sky –
Warm summer sun, shine kindly here
Warm southern wind, blow softly here
All soft and still and fair

The garden thrives, but the tender shoots
Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere,
But most where trees are sending
Their breezy boughs on high,
The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue
Summer set lip to earth’s ***** bare,
And left the flushed print in a poppy there.

Then a flash of sun on a waiting hill,
The wind carries dust along,
Birds and bees fly through some
leafs of the happy blossoming trees,
Let's enjoy the summer sun, together as long as we can.

I see it, a yellow leaf
Among so many.
In the front yard;
One by one the dead leaves fall,
yielding gently to the call
of the autumn wind.
Half reluctantly they go,
Falter, waver to and fro,
glancing oft behind.
How the wind catches them,
greedily snatches them,
Whirling and swirling them
dizzily 'round
coyly it plays with them,
Sportively sways with them
Down to the ground.
The leaves by hundreds came—
The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples,
and leaves of every name.
The Sunshine spread a carpet,
and everything was grand,
Weather led the dancing,
Wind the band.
The Chestnuts came in yellow,
The Oaks in crimson dressed;
The lovely Misses Maple
In scarlet looked their best;
All balanced to their partners,
And gaily fluttered by;
The sight was like a rainbow
New fallen from the sky.

On the white summit of eternity
A single Soul of bare infinities,
Guarded he keeps by a fire-screen of peace
His mystic loneliness of **** ecstasy.
But, touched by an immense delight to be,
He looks across unending depths and sees
Musing amid the inconscient silences
The Mighty Mother′s dumb felicity.
Half now awake she rises to his glance;
Then, moved to circling by her heart-beats′ will,
The rhythmic words describe that passion-dance.
Life springs in her and Mind is born; her face
She lifts to Him who is Herself, until
The Spirit leaps into the Spirit′s embrace.

She is away and I cannot do what I want.
Her wholeness I know to be a fiction of my making,
Still I cannot dismiss the longing for her
The streets are thick with nostalgia

Other faces pale when I get close
She is away and I cannot breathe her in
Among them I expected her opposite,
And found only forgeries.


When I think of her sparkling face
and of her body that rocked this way and that,
I have attempted to fill
with bodies that numbed upon touching,

When I think of her laughter,
Her jubilance that filled me,
It’s a wonder I’m not gone mad.
The space her leaving has created

Cannot wholly calm or cancel,
It is perhaps for more than her.
As if her going did not matter
she is away and I cannot breathe her in.

At night above the parks the stars are swarming
I move through senseless routine and insensitive chatter
It is a craving for sensation new flesh
I am ill simply through wanting her.

Wind whistling, Snow glistening,
We try not to, But we're all listening.
Loud screams, Bad dreams,
It's very far, But close it seems.

Sad day, Lost our way,
All we can do Is simply pray.
Innocence gone, Life no longer long.
We may not know, but we're all doing wrong.

Joy lost, The Holocaust.
We look to see Hearts covered in frost.
Wars fought, Sins taught,
Making mistakes, Hoping not to be caught.

Not taking blame, pushing for fame.
As advanced as we are, we’re still all untamed.
Too much pride, needing a guide.
We will deny it, but behind lies we hide.

Hurting others, betraying brother.
Many forgetting to appreciate mothers.
Lies are fed, Filling heart and head.
Through all of these years, Innocent blood has been shed.

Children abandoned, Lonely and stranded.
We're all wasting the life that we have been handed.
Taking from the poor, we’re loving no more.
Fight to be free, End up starting a war.

People starting fights, No longer enjoying the sights,
While mere mortals are taking Our God given rights.
Soldiers killed, Void can't be filled,
Pay close attention, For pure souls have been tilled.

Need to find peace, Work together like geese,
But greatest of all, The hate needs to cease.

Divine Lord bless me with your love,
Divine Lord bless me so that I may lie at your feet,
Thou divine feet emits the glow of eternal joy
Divine Lord be my guide.
Divine Lord forgive my ignorance,
Divine Lord extend your blessings
so that I may bathe in your glorious light.
Divine Lord let me melt into the beauty,
Divine Lord thou are father and mother to me,
Like a naughty child please forgive my sins and my failings.
Lead me to your wisdom,
Let me bathe in your purity,
Offer my devotion to you in this
lifetime and others to come.
O Lord let me lie at your feet with devotion,
Bless me as your devotee evermore.
oh my Lord thou can heal my aching heart,
oh Lord let me lie at your feet for eternity.

After all this time,
my love for you burns constant and true,
my guiding light, my morning star.
I close my eyes and feel
again every memory we've made.
Everything in that room reminds me of you.
I'm a prisoner of love, in this unguarded cell,
And I wonder, for how much longer
will I feel this pain in my chest.
With Joy as my bars and happiness
I pass the time a whittling hearts
and sharpening this rap.
See those chalk lines on the wall of my heart?
They record the memories of my days
since the start, his smiles are more prized
than the art. For how much longer
will I see your cold eyes whenever
I close mine. The walls don't even speak to me
no more the silence, the only sound is my own breath
I was supposed to be your punishment.
But in the end, I became your prisoner.
Tell me there has been someone else like me, for you.
That your experience of love has not been defined by
the way I spoke your name into the hollow of your neck
As you whispered to me, love is the only thing that time cannot touch.

Dad your guiding hand
Will be on my shoulder
Duty, decency, reliability,
Honor, dignity, respect:
These are all qualities
That my father not
Only held in high esteem,
But practiced
Every day
During his
Time on
His earth.

Her kiss is the brush of silk against your lips.
The faintest taste,
The slightest touch.
It caresses your neck and shoulders,
Flushes your cheeks and raises a flutter of wings beneath your skin.
You float with your eyes closed,
Your breath forgotten at your throat,
and cling to the sensation knowing it can’t last.
And it doesn’t.
It slips away,
fading to an impossible hunger,
a whisper that gnaws at you until there is nothing left to give.
And then it forces you to open your eyes.
You withdraw your hand and nestle it
beneath your body before it’s infected with the truth.

In spring it sprouts its tender, green shoots
With a gardener’s soft, whispering touch
In summer it flourishes:

Strong, brown branches clothed in a silk green garment
It takes a few years of careful tending to mature
I remember playing hide-and-seek; climbing

up thin branches, or crouching in the undergrowth.
I think I was too young
            to understand back then: I thought of time

as a steadily growing tree
that I hadn’t yet started climbing.
           Once, you saw my head peeking out from the apple tree.

I'd like a tree to mark the spot
Where I am laid to rest
           For that would be the epitaph, That I would like the best.

You said that soon, I’d always be looking down
at you like that; that time
            passed too quickly. I think I grew younger

You told me once that growing
up was like walking up a downwards escalator.
       My heart is glad, my heart is high with sudden ecstacy!

Grow thou and flourish well,
Ever the story tell of this glad day;
            I have given back, before I die, Some thanks for my lovely apple tree

My son, stopped during our walk through
a eucalyptus forest to his school and said:
“mummy, the trees are talking to us.”
I stopped too and listened along with him to the trees’ rustle.
“It’s the wind mummy,”
he exclaimed,
then blew a puff of air onto the back of his hand.
“The trees talk through the wind.”
Another time she said to me
“When I die, mummy,
I want Mother Earth to turn me into a flower.
And you will be a petal in my flower.
So will my sister.”
He added that grandmother will be another flower
growing next to her, “a friend.”
The wind’s soft static in the pine trees above
and the air fragrant with pine, he added more softly:
“But we don’t decide what we are after we die.
Mother earth decides.”

The broken windows and appliances,
the mice,
the wild,
overgrown lawn—
I recall to paint you
a picture of a kingdom fallen,
but there was no kingdom.
There was just an ordinary house in the suburbs,
one with red bricks
and vines and a hydrant out front.

I can create almost as real but more lovely.
I can rebuild our home.
I can make my father a hero.

He is own hero,
in every sense of the word
With all of the good things.

When I say that
I made a fiction out of my father,
I mean to say that
his living and his dying
were so much less than anything
my imagination could offer.

I could be practicing
my own ceremonial
practice of grief.
That seemed too
indulgent a thought.
But whatever part of me
believed in the strength of
my artistic intention—

I believed love is immortal, irrational,
and sometimes, tired.

I liked the idea of an impossible god.
In all of love has there ever been such a lover as you?
Out of desire for you,

Sometimes heaven is when I’m away from you, god.
Sometimes heaven is only the two of us. I know you
understand.

Transferring the investment unkind, from mountain to cry.
The plan believes itself to be special,
having been assured of its specialness since birth.
The feeling that takes soundings
and scrapes, aims,
and knock-down blows us.
Reduced to an equality.

The loose tangles of habit and taste.
Thinking of ourselves as more than distance corrects the attachment.

In the time it took me to retrieve my cards,
the connection imperative became a stylised refusal.

I tear my way through getting to know you
The unnatural ease of disentanglement.
Unhappily having, to spend time.

A young woman with golden hair
sat down across from him.
She wore paint-streaked
old overalls and her hair was pinned up
in a messy cascade of gold.
Her eyes were piercing blue,
her smile filled her face,
and she grinned at him with an easy,
friendly way.
Her beauty shines from the inside out,
It flows like a journey down a long route.
she shines beautifully
like the sun rising over the horizon,
Her eyes sparkle like a bright star in the sky.
She has the stamina,
beauty, and courage that one would admire,
Even the love and happiness one inspires.
I desperately wanted to have her love,
but she didn’t know I was there.
I realized that my chances
were much like a snowball has in hell,
Then suddenly all of my daydreams ceased –
I was awakened by the bell.

Reflections deep within my soul
perfect flame here for eternity
Light that emits from deep within
Fusion of light that makes me whole,
Every day, I look in the mirror and
I see more and more of my mother's face
staring back at me.
Every day I measure the weight of my past
against the present and feel the drag
of what could have been.
I try to think of a word that is closest to love
and the only thing that comes to mind
is your name. I try to imagine what I would
say if our paths ever crossed
again but I keep drawing a blank.

In a room,
I am reading,
glancing out of the window,
or I am looking at what I am writing.
Then I stop.
Discouraged, distracted, I am exhausted,
lie down, sit up, touch my toes,
swing my arms, make a phone call,
ignore a call, hear a voice, see a message,
answer it, don’t, there is plenty of time,
too much time.
Only time.

In a room,
I am restive, restless, and bore myself.
I look at my books,
shelves overwhelmed,
actually I watch them,
I am their guardian.
Books live for me to read,
books are alive when they are read,
but mostly I fail them,
and they rebuke me.
I look for distractions.
I look at my cat,
my cat is not worried,
and I am I.

The forest muffled the sounds
within and beyond
it as if the trees
themselves swallowed noise—all
but the tune of the unseen piper.
He followed the sound of the keening pipe.
The boy ran faster,
fast enough that it felt like he flew,
anxious to get to the world the song spoke of.
Its unfamiliar melody,
absurdly cheerful,
jarred him from the carnage.
It filtered through the pores of his skin
and infused him with the strength and warmth
he needed to run through the icy clutches of winter.
He even began to catch glimpses
of the piper through the trees.
Though he scampered and danced
as he played his pipe,
he appeared sometimes before,
sometimes behind,
and sometimes beside the boy.
He wore a black hooded cloak
that hid his face.
Beneath it his clothes were pied,
a patchwork of vibrant color
impossible to miss
whenever the wind whipped back the cloak.
His pipe and fingers were white,
of bone.
And just like the boy,
he left no footprints in the snow.

A place where I can touch rainbow,
Dark clouds have blocked the road,
Speed is however quite slow,
but one day I will feel that glow....

Eating a grapes,
Just the slightest bit ****,
That I plucked from my garden this afternoon.

I plucked it from the jaws of the so-far
Unidentified critter who dines in the garden.

It is more likely a squirrel,
and one with truly dreadful
garden manners at that.

I don’t mind sharing a few of my berries,
but this one takes little nibbles from so many,
never finishing one.

It’s a little like having Goldilocks
hopping around from plant to plant,
looking for the one that is just right.

The garden is flourishing,
with the tomato, cucumber, pepper and tomatillo
plants promising to produce soon
the carrots are begging to be thinned.

So while we all wait for our flowers to bloom,
for our plants to produce,
and for our neighborly critters
to stop eating all the berries.

It started innocently enough, or so I thought.
Doing the things, and addiction of preying.
Trying to be the honest that God has ever seen.
Proudly pious all the time and in every way.
Strutting my spiritual stuff every day.

Searching for ways to show my addiction;
Doing everything I could to earn God’s promotion.
Working hard to reach the next spiritual level–
By reading, prayer, praise, and Holy revel.
Thinking I could get more, God, of Your attention,
By being the addict that You could ever mention.

Living the honest life on my terms.
Got my fire insurance; I’m not gonna burn.
Addiction of “God, I want to be ‘souled’ out to you”!
Broken, spilled out, desiring to stick like glue;
Serving without ceasing,To be the honest that
You have ever seen and always on the ball.

Then, in a moment of passionate, fervent prayer;
When I felt I hadn’t done enough, and it seemed You didn’t care;
All my efforts to please You looked worthless and of no avail.
And my worst fears were realized; I had failed.
I cried out mournfully, “Oh God, I give up; do what you must
To make me the best ever; for it is in You that I put my trust”!