~ 

i stand before this kneeling bench,
no sanctuary of our making;
its walls here open thrown,
on stained glass windows found
strewn upon the sand,
its tide-washed, polished glass,
my feet find holy ground;
my sandals left at driftwood door.
incense burns upon the wind,
its salty spray is mingled,
with my own upon
these joy-stained cheeks.
the worshippers that went before
have built a temple out of wood,
hewn, untouched by human hand,
a steeple to the sky is lifted,
and within its shelter,
remnants of a ring of fire,
smoke once lifted to the
heavens by believers true;
this church i see through salted eyes,
this scape awash in teeming life,
here i drink this living wine;
its ebb, its rush, its living in
each moment without need,
to connect each dot, or even speak.

i long to live at razor's edge,
where sands and tides collide;
the rocky shoals where dungeness,
find sustenance and shelter;
the coves where seabirds feed their young,
above the sandstone cliffs;
the bar beneath a setting sun,
in flames awash in waves;
find comfort ‘neath
the storm-shaped pine,
feel longing in the stinging air.
these cheeks that weep,
though want of tears,
not in sorrow mind you,
but in joy of freedom,
the lure of siren alter call;
of a close horizon on a misty morn,
the haunting breath of orca,
just beyond my sight;
the bark of ocean’s lion,
the roar of distant waves;
with these my prayers i send,
as i offer this my praise;
this church of no man’s making,
here i come for cleansing,
to breathe the life that i am given!

~

*post script.

by nature we are spiritual creatures;
spiritual... not religious.  reading your
sea-scaped prose inspires me; planning
changes in my own life even more so!!
it is said that we return to what we know
best... the ocean calls...

(Polaris)

~

a dark night sky,
horizon to horizon,
see countless stars,
some call it billions,
i count by myriads...
cast an upward gaze,
in any direction,
so stunningly beautiful;
and though so many nameless,
and so many faceless,
are they not noteworthy all,
still each and every one?

yet, but a few,
like Sirius, like Schedar,
like Regulus and Rigel,
in number a few dozen more;
in all are counted fifty-seven,
star sisters, sun brothers
thought bright enough,
placed precisely, just,
to be among those sought  
between clouds by ocean sailors;
with squinted gaze perused
by desert navigators;
in constellations scanned,
relentlessly pursued,
by travelers the globe across.

you, my love are such a star
your rising luminescence
far too brilliant to ignore;
in present station,
your presenting position,
not merely making bright;
for tis you, my love,
who makes the night
alive, arise with life;
for without your zenith,
my bearing is lost...
take away my north,
no others align!

in this darkening sky.
i could n’er visualize
your brilliance gone dim,
nor being without
your guiding light,
beckoning my hand;
for it is by you
that i set my compass,
and in you that
i lay my course.

Polaris...
high and afar,
my true north;
and for’er you are,
my sight-guiding,
night-lighting,
heart-binding,
northern star!

~

post script.

terrestrially speaking... yes, i do know that those beneath the equatorial center will use a navigational star guide list different entire, but they and theirs are not within sight of these eyes. no offense intended; i can but write of mine.

celestially speaking... navigators of old knew the fifty-seven stars, plus one (Polaris) by which to plot their course. one wonders if the art has been entirely lost with today’s extensive dependence on satellite navigation and global positioning systems.  the time may come when we will wish for a return to the sky for direction.

ethereally speaking... tis but a metaphor to paint a horizon-stretching tapestry of the binding and guiding power of one light to another, one heart to another’s.  yet the truth is, no metaphor will suffice, and no language has words enough to describe the mysteries, the intricacies, and the ecstasies of true love!

maritally speaking... it is thirty-seven years ago this week that we made vows; swore our faithfulness one to another.  she has been the core that held me, even when for a season our gravitational pull grew weak, yet she held firm.  neither has ever betrayed the other, yet i owe her my life, because i am the impetuous and she the more gracious.

~

my view is blocked,
or so i thought,
yet mine unmitigated
unfiltered by another’s unseen hand.
i, the product of my joy, my pain;
the view is mine and in this frame
i often walk alone,
beside an ocean beach swept clean,
devoid of clutter,
anything distracting.
my view is mine;
no substitute for what i’ve learned,
my sight unblocked,
tis everything this life has earned!
so should i see life differently,
and should i not with you agree, then
do not think your view so different,
and do not think yours all to see.
leave me lie beside my pane,
and leave these eyes to find their gaze;
for i am not so unlike you,
my experience alone has changed
the way i see the joys of rain,
the way i hear the thunder’s glory;
of this i’m sure,
on this i’m certain,
you would share my point of view,
were you to live my story...
were you to feel my joy, my pain,
and should you gaze as long as i
for truth behind my curtain!

~

*post script.

her simple words...  "did you block me" start a progression of thought. my simple answer, "apparently, but without intention." but the bigger answer lies in this life question, is it possible to block another's view? my simple answer... no.  funny thow such honest words that she chose, start a chain, a train of progessing thought.  i am glrateful she asked, for she may have broken the writer's block that along with time deficiency has kept me.from these favored halls.  thank you, Sarah!

~

her encircled traces,
waltzing in the trees;
pirouettes,
then twirls,
playfully
among their leaves,
finds me still
beneath my covers,
and through an open pane
she deftly streams,
to shadow dance across
my bedroom walls,
gently bends,
her kisses
sure to please,
soft and warm
upon my cheek;
awaken me from
slumbered dreams,
and beckons with
an upturned
smiling beam
as if to say,
“arise and dance,
come run with me,
you sleepy boy,
don’t dream
the day away!
leave the bed
as i have done.
play before me,
sail beneath,
as swift we race,
then dance our way
from cloud to cloud:
’til we come
unto the place
where shadows
long return;
where evening falls
in colored dusk,
when i too
shall lie again,
you to find
and sleep beside,
my sun-kissed,
childhood friend."

~

*post script.

we sleep with windows open. i awoke this first of may to leafy rustling in the breezy morning air, and the sun shadow-dancing with the leaves ’cross my bedsheets and bedroom walls, bringing back memories of happy summer days spent at the lake in childhood, awakening to and dancing all day with the sun.
happy May Day, friends!

for the love of pejorative poetry*

~

i was minding my business,
the tending of words,
assuring they’re watered,
they’re grazed and they sleep;
dividing the ewes,
from the yous;
sadly, all shepherds have
one runaway sheep,
who needs for more tending
than attendance has thyme.

(there... see that?
see what just happened
to this story of mine?)

of course dinner is calling,
and it's not so appalling,
for we all need something
to serf on the palate.
and a wandering iamb
will serve up just fine,
yes! this palette will please
at this dinner of mine!
you tell me, “that’s mean!”
“no never!” i repeat,
for i say it’s merely
the culling of words,
... so to speak.

having far more to learn
than having been taut,
i tend rather high strung,
using all manner of phrases,
and words where ought not.
for instants...
i didn’t know,
to drive them to market
can drive one to drink,
if one isn’t careful
one can end up a shrink
(or was that need one),
or even worse,
wind up like Ms. Muffit,
who i’m told was last scene
eating her whey
through the curds...
(or was it having
her way with words?)

but back to my story,
the tending of verbs.
all I can say is
while minding my business,
as good reimer’s do,
in broadening horizons,
in pushing the boundaries,
one little poem
put a kink in my foundry;
all this to say, that
she struck a nerve...
(so is that more
like striking out
or striking it rich?)
but no matter,
for the world hasn’t
been the same since.

life's little questions
are now up in my face,
my wife doesn't speak to me
i’m losing grace,
and the more that
i wonder, i ponder,
(or was it wander and pander)
for does one miche in a niche,
and can one skulk in a sulk?
my point being simply this...

discovery or uncovery,
here’s what i found
poetry is simply,
it's so plane to see;
it's quiet oblivious
for someone like me,
she ain’t no noun...
no, i say “poetry” is a verb!
she’ll never be more than
a do-it-to-yourself project!
no, this tending of words
won’t make you a prophet.

so now, dinner is over,
they’ve served just deserts;
if you’re not gonna eat that,
would you mind very much,
if i had the last word?

~

~

clarion call, answered here by two,
were reminder ever needed,
as mating swans for lifetime do,
see, their neck’s entwined embrace,
though ’neath the surface,
feet are moving, paddle, steer,
we observing only,
this their dance of grace,
reflecting in the water’s mirror.
’tis our ever ’minder that, though
the struggle will not ever end,
dancing still is graceful when,
the dance is with your best friend.

... may your dance be always graceful!

~

*post script.

no reverend am i, yet honored today to perform a wedding, a first ever for me, though something i have always thought i would love to do.  latitude given by the bride makes preparation a most wonderful part of this intersection with their journey, stirring creativity... and this.

(response to yesterday’s prompt
for national poetry month)

~

paisley in golden rod,
the only name for
a fabric this fright'ning,
remembered all too well.
by siblings one and all.
short one for little brother.
long one for a father, tall.
each has tried to forget
this, a night of infamy
gone wrong, a season's greeting
in the middle of the sixties.
when one from distant shore
thought to add to
our family this lore,
and sent as Christmas gift,
what's not on ANY child's list;
now tis burned indelibly,
etched far too deep in memory
for sure this gaffe
they thought a boon.
till disappointed children's sighs
their echoed groans
'cross living room,
this boon a bust revealed!
for whatever possessed
this he or she?
who, but pure insanity,
would conjour up this spirit
of unholy, living terror?
for this was no gift in living color;
no... this instead,
t'was the night before Christmas,
when hell incarnate
dropped in for a visit,
and dressed children six,
with a mum and their dad
in matching paisly,
pajamas of golden rod;
still a distressing memory
forever in infamy fixed!

~

post script.

yes, there are pics and there's even a home movie; six siblings are still trying to unearth and shred every copy!

~

when all is dark,
hope seems to fade;
yet life exists
within this grave.
'neath cold cruel stone
my hope feels lost,
yet midst this storm
all 's not forlorn.
i find this shelter
from tempest torn,
though death has cut
its sharp divide
life yet still lingers,
stirs deep inside.
though in his path,
his far from mine,
his walk toward light,
this, my comforting,
'tis my ev'ry hope
in His eternity!

~

*post script.

someone told me once, nobody gets out without any scars. loss is all around us.  yet when loss comes home to roost it bites and it brings with it bitter tears, of sorrow, of regret, of hopes dashed.  that being said, there is a knowledge that death is not the end; hope that resurrection is just around the corner.

(10w)

~

experience is the best teacher…

so long as it’s another’s!

~

post script.

happy ten-word Tuesday, all!  

that’s the thing about clichés, we tend to choose only the part we like… usually the shortest point between A and B, or the one that affirms our chosen conclusion.   (truth is, i really dislike most clichés!)

~

bits and pieces,
lines and creases,
dusty shelves
of storied past;
where could-haves
turned should-haves,
make half-lives gone by.
haunt in our reticence,
expressed in our sigh;
they hide in our silence,
betrayed by our tears,
from missed opportunities
     down through the years.

this is no stroll
o’er memory’s lane,
but a ***-holed, hard-roll
on a boulevard unnamed,
     where deepest regrets
          must defend against shame.

~

i make my peace
by drawing a line,
before it can fade
shifting with time.
i say “enough!
this far and no more!”
i give it my heel
and walk out that door.
past the garden,
past the fences,
to the edge of my mind,
resolve saying, “goodbye”  
      to this pain i have known.

then for reasons unfathomed
i turn at the bend,
to see what i'll miss
as if that place were my friend,
yet that house where i lived
so long and knew well,
was standing no longer,
up in smoke, gone in flames,
     now just ashes and bricks
          are all that remained.

~

so homeless i felt,
with no place to return.
no basement to bury
the ghosts of my past;
no attic to wander,
no hallways to creep,
no corners to ponder,
no front porch to weep,
lost without home,
     now no pillow to sleep.

“please turn around,”
spoke, a voice on the breeze
“there's a new life ahead”
and then, to my relief,
“you're not homeless, my son;
you’ve a new windowed view!
square your shoulders
to the pathway,
see the journey anew!
in promising thoughts
so hopefully wrought
of brand new can-be’s
that only dreamers can see
these, are your new life
you're not abandoned, but free.
     let regrets turn to fuel
          build steam from this fire.”

~

as i turned back to thank
the voice offering these words
i found no sage of advice
but here’s what i heard.
"offer thanks to your own heart,
to strength buried within.
the matches lay dormant
’til your heart found its stremgth.
the mere act of leaving
was the spark for your fire;
     for in striking your new path
          your past built your pyre.”

~

*post script.

after much stirring, much wrestling, we are now with anticipations imagining what will change as we light the fire.  i’m excited about the possibilities as we let go.

(10w)

~

is "you’ll never know how much I care" a dare?

~

post script.

and would it be wrong to ask you to die... trying?  i've always felt the irony of this statement and.wondered why others hadn't felt it too.

~

gold-encrusted jewels dance
on sun-drenched ocean stacks,
his rugged rocks etched deep
by her waves from far beneath,
and Pacific’s gusty breath;
his wind-swept islets burn,
aflame in sunset's dying embers,
like a lover's siren call.
his chiseled keyholes waiting
for the ciphered piercing rays
to collide in rushing tidal spray.
unlocking sunset's golden hour...
surging forth then quickly fades,
as sunbeam fingers slowly slip,
beneath horizon's sultry lip;
dusk unfolds in magic hues,
molten rose turns scarlet blues,
night descends as one by one,
we raptured star-kissed lovers
disembark this ferris wheel;
the curtain falls again,
with sea and rocks
rehearsing lines
to play again another day.
this their theatre
of the night,
performed by two alone,
beneath the moon
and starry sky.

~

*post script.

our last time through in 2004 was a blur on our way through to San Diego, an exhilarating ride for certain, with all of its bends and curves experienced top down in a convertible, but hardly doing justice to Big Sur’s stunning scene in mere hours; we told ourselves we simply had to return.  

it took eleven years, and this time we spent a full five days and nights along Highway 1, towing a camper and slow-driving south from Monterrey all the curves to Morro Bay, exploring just about every hike and lookout in between; and in so doing, validating our return in a most satisfying way.  Big Sur is officially off our bucket list!  her sunsets were particularly rewarding, especially two... one enjoyed at sea level, from the sand and keyholes at Pfeiffer Beach day use area, the other delighted us from high above the ocean waves, seated at the picnic table of our cliff-side camp site at Kirk Creek Campground.

a most refreshing time to recuperate and recharge our spirits; five glorious days of disconnection, reconnecting to nature, each other and best of all, life at the speed of sunsets and star gazing; evenings spent round the campfire with no cell, no i-pad, no laptop, only the light of the fire, the stars and that sparkle in each other's eyes!

~

do you embrace
as ambiance,
the thrill of
winter’s chill?
or does the
blustery blast
of bitter breath
a rush in you instill?
do you let
his frigid fingers
longing linger on
your cooling cheek?
or to the doorway,
to the shelter
do you wince and sprint
as warmth you seek?
i stand here
at the window
watching passers
bustling by;
in my dreams
upon my pillow,
to the islands
i may fly,
but never to
the sea at dawn
will i walk
the foam alone;
no…
this i’ll dream
of longingly
and leave for
summer’s thrill.

~

*post script.

word play with winter,
besides, its way too cold outside.  
will leave the walks for
warm summer’s breeze
and simply bundle up inside
on frigid days like these.

~

preamble

in this vividly colorless frame
the artist leaves the coloring to us,
and to imagination's meandering waters.

~

a most picturesque
canyon in the dead
of winter's grip;
white contrast of
new fallen snow on
a red rugged rock;
her river’s pacing slowly
a choreographed flowing
yet a minder still
that she is his
ancient sculptor,
her ever changing moods
etched in centuries deep;
carved together,
she rests her head
on his broad shoulder,
as with soothing voice
she lulls his weary
soul to wintery sleep...
she, his crooked river,
winding through his
smithed rocks.

~

post script.

*(nuances of Oregon abound in this.) Central Oregon’s Crooked River flows through Smith Rock State Park... with its easy “river trail” and arduous “misery ridge” hike, they are compellingly reminiscent of a relationship’s lows and highs; a favorite of rock climbers, hikers, and photographers, their views together provide the sweetest hiking companions for my love and i.

(10w)

~
intent of heart
goes further far than
talent of hand!

~

*post script.

much as my father used to tell me, "son, do not be a man whose talent elevates you to pinnacles your character cannot keep you!" his words ever ring true!!  a shout out to Denel, who inspired these words, with her own.  thank you, friend!! (: Steve

Re-written today... dusted off and delivered, to our beautiful friends, the Chambers...

Ron, Nathan, Ian, Jill...

We know... you can't see us... but you are not forgotten!!  The Reimers remember... we are here... with you in this room, now... as is your Margie!!  

___________

remember her with us, as you read and hear these words.  it is good to remember... to never forgot... a cycle of life, brought full circle, best in remembrance.  and this makes remembering perhaps the most important facet that defines, sets us apart as humans, best captured in this thought, "in forgetting the past we cease to be and bring hope forward for the future. and so we remember... for we must never forget!” this is why we line our shelves, our walls with them, and visit inscribed stones behind fences.   you are not forgotten, Margie Chambers!

~

posted first in the Christmas season of 2014,  the original post script remains and speaks of my original motivation in writing this, but events this year prompt my re-post, if nothing but as a reminder to all of us to look beneath the surface with intentionality and to see the pain that many walk in daily.  though they will shield it from uncaring eyes, they are likely to let in those who show they truly care.  and is not this, the truest, the finest, the greatest of Christmas gifts we could give such a one?

~

it is a storm approaching,
not the tempestuous kind;
of driving rain or whirling wind,
but a storm all the same;
a mingling of sorts,
a marriage that blends,
my joy with my tears;
my hopes and my fears,
of life and of death,
of all that has come,
with what has not yet;
where photos and albums,
and letters and cards;
are all we can touch,
of what has gone by.
 
yet there's a tree to light,
there are gifts to wrap,
there are cards to send
to loved ones dear;
while the hug that we wish,
the one we most want,
it's the one we can't give,
caught... in its grip;
this our loss has us,
ties us in knots.
for memories and laughter,
their kindest words,
and shouts of joy;
these are fading away,
and yet... are all that remain.
uninvited to the table,
these call in the park,
at Sunday Mass
and the post office,
but especially the back porch,
when it is quiet after dark.
these join us at parties,
where thoughts of our missing,
join the gay, happy greetings;
and on Christmas morn,
when gifts lie unopened;
their chair empty still,
at dinner... a space,
no one ever will fill;
in their place is a candle,
a scent we know well,
a light we'll not crush;
it's the closest we'll get,
to their presence we so miss.

the storm on the inside,
one that no one else sees;
as they stroll down the street,
as they shop merrily;
our hearts beat... quietly,
inside we are breaking,
this storm threatens to drown;
but no one will save us,
because no one's around;
who ever would notice,
or  knows how to care?
its the cry of our heart
that no one can hear.
our tears brushed aside,
hoping no one can see;
this storm it is raging,
raging wildly in me.

i looked for a card,
my thoughts to express,
but the cards in the store
say nothing like this,
no words such as "weeping",
or "anguish" are found;
no topics like "lonely" or "angry",
in the Christmas card aisle.
so just how to reconcile,
my juxtaposition?
how can I quell,
this sense of foreboding
that i know all too well?
truth is...  i cannot!
i must go through
with this marriage.
and pray that some day,
soon... i can hope,
that i will awaken,
to see sunshine again;
and consider these memories,
not nightmares, but friends.

~

post script.
"blessed are those who morn, for they shall be comforted"  Matthew 5:4

*these are so many among us who mourn, in particular at what are otherwise joyous occasions.  for these ones, Christmas only adds to the acuteness of their pain.  for them, Christmas is a storm they know is coming, a time when they must prepare for, battening down the hatches of their soul, so they are assured their grief does not leak out on the joy of everyone around.  my advice for us all- know who walks near you well enough to reach out to them, give them a shoulder to weep on, share your tears with theirs. assure them you have not forgotten.  repeat the name of their loved one, a name they long to hear others speak.  for most of us, this name is one you cannot say too often. speak in the present tense of their loved one for they are not lost, they are still present and very much a part of the grieving one's life.  as just one of many examples, remember... a mother who has lost her only child is still a mother.  it is a title that she still bears, coming with all the burden, yet without any future benefit, these having been stripped away. love her, hold her, be shelter for her heart in the coming Christmas storm.

~

i have never particularly cared for him or for his style of play.  there is a fine line between knowledge of one’s talents and arrogance and i have always thought Kobe walked on the downhill side of that line, when doing so was unnecessary.  of course it did not help that a Lakers / Blazers rivalry cost the Blazers at least one NBA Finals berth… most of us are, after all, most likely to gravitate toward our hometown team.  

but on seeing this post from Kobe in the Player’s Tribune, i found that i simply must acknowledge the classiness of his retirement penning...

instead of a letter, the guy writes a poem.  how can i not embrace this?

~

BY KOBE BRYANT
LOS ANGELES LAKERS

Dear Basketball,

From the moment
I started rolling my dad’s tube socks
And shooting imaginary
Game-winning shots
In the Great Western Forum
I knew one thing was real:

I fell in love with you.
A love so deep I gave you my all —
From my mind & body
To my spirit & soul.

As a six-year-old boy
Deeply in love with you
I never saw the end of the tunnel.
I only saw myself
Running out of one.

And so I ran.
I ran up and down every court
After every loose ball for you.
You asked for my hustle
I gave you my heart
Because it came with so much more.

I played through the sweat and hurt
Not because challenge called me
But because YOU called me.
I did everything for YOU
Because that’s what you do
When someone makes you feel as
Alive as you’ve made me feel.

You gave a six-year-old boy his Laker dream
And I’ll always love you for it.
But I can’t love you obsessively for much longer.
This season is all I have left to give.
My heart can take the pounding
My mind can handle the grind
But my body knows it’s time to say goodbye.

And that’s OK.
I’m ready to let you go.
I want you to know now
So we both can savor every moment we have left together.
The good and the bad.
We have given each other
All that we have.

And we both know, no matter what I do next
I’ll always be that kid
With the rolled up socks
Garbage can in the corner
:05 seconds on the clock
Ball in my hands.
5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1

Love you always,
Kobe

~

do you believe?  

hold that thought!

what you are about to take is a journey.  my telling of this journey is brief; we poets are after all not well known for our long attention spans.  this is a tale of astronomic proportions, an epic years in the making, and now centuries old.

have you ever considered this?  the starry host above us cannot lie.  its movements are as sure as the movement of the clock; as predictable as the tide, a sunset's hour and as precise as a moon-rise's geo-placement at our horizon- precisely where it will rise and at precisely what time.  it is after all  precisely the study and understanding of such things that allowed us to place mankind on the surface of the moon, to know precisely where she would be before she got there, therefore permitting us to plan the journey well ahead of time, a journey that took three days of travelling once it began...  and then returning those men home to us.  but back to our larger journey.  

such things only require an understanding of relatively simple mathematics and a knowledge of each unique planetary orbit.  the only questions remaining then, ones that require acceptance of less proveable things, is do the events of the starry host above us reflect back or point to us, to humanity? are they a fortelling of earthly events and eventuallly a coinciding with earthly events? some have trouble believing such things.  for me, it is not a leap to accept that the visibly established order above me (what we call astronomy) is simply a mirror of the order below, here surrrounding me.  but then that takes us back to the first question... do...   you...   believe?  for this part... it requires acceptance ... acceptance that some things are true, though i cannot see them.  some call this "faith," though i think "acceptance" is more relateable, and therefore a far better word.

if i have not lost you yet, thank you for reading this far!! please continue the journey.

like me, have you ever wondered... what is (or what was) the Bethlehem Star?  according to some who research historically astronomic events, the “Bethlehem Star” was no star at all.  but more on that after the poem... for is that not the purpose of these walls?  

below is a poem birthed out of their research... the poem mine, the research compiled by smarter folks than i.

Virgo's child

~

oh, planetary royalty,
and mother of the sky,
your celestial stage of six,
a ballad echoing our hopeful cry;
pirouette the stars amidst,
sets a course for rising king,
closer with each night's descent,
hope, your brilliant union brings.
conjunctive encore heaven sent,
today our song in advent sings!

oh, wise men of the east,
following a westward star,
the king you sought
you found because,
discontent you were,
to be a distant onlooker
from your home afar.

hallelujahs here composing,
with stunning care the stars portending,
in universal magnitude,
oh fallen man your dirge is ending.
in retrograding motion,
encircled thrice your halo spun,
Virgo’s child in coronation,
the starry night foretells,
and with splendid sky’s array
the joyful birth of king pronounces

oh, wise men of the east,
following a beckoning star,
bearing gifts you came,
and on bended knee
you offered praise, for
empty-handed for a king,
is no fitting offering.

look to the sky, you men of earth;
behold your king in humble birth!
a stable for his sleeping head,
here rocks a mother’s babe;
what Adam lost, in him restored,
oh, Virgo’s child, and living Lord.

~

*post script.

~ Cast~
the six acclaimed celestial actors/actresses of this starry dance

Role ° Played By ° ​Meaning/Symbol

Moon ° ​the Moon ° life cycle symbolism
Star ° ​Regulus​ ° ​King of stars (regal king)
Planet 1​ ° ​Jupiter ° ​King of planets
Planet 2 ° ​Venus ° ​Mother of planets
Constellation 1​ ° ​Leo ° ​the Lion (heavenly kingship and tribal significance)
Constellation 2 ° ​Virgo ° ​the ****** (maidenly and earthly significance)

the basis for this write can be found here...
add: http://www.
to: bethlehemstar.com/setting-the-stage/what-was-the-star/

in summary --
whatever it was, the Star of Bethlehem needs meet nine qualifications to plausibly satisfy what is written in the Biblical accounts:
1. The first conjunction signified birth by its association to the day with Virgo “birthing” the new moon. Some might argue that the unusual triple conjunction by itself could be taken to indicate a new king.
2. The Planet of King’s coronation of the Star of Kings signified kingship.
3. The triple conjunction began with the Jewish New Year and took place within Leo, showing a connection with the Jewish tribe of Judah (and prophecies of the Jewish Messiah).
4. Jupiter rises in the east.
5. The conjunctions appeared at precise, identifiable times.
6. Herod, puppet King under Roman rule, was unaware of these things; they were astronomical events which had significance only when explained by experts.
7. The events took place over a span of time sufficient for the Magi to see them both from the East and upon their arrival in Jerusalem.
8. Jupiter was ahead of the Magi as they traveled south from Jerusalem to Bethlehem.
9. Jupiter “stops” as it enters retrograde motion “over Bethlehem.”  On December 25 of 2 BC it enters retrograde and reaches full stop in its travel through the fixed stars. The Magi viewing from Jerusalem would have seen it “stopped” in the sky above the town of Bethlehem.

according to astronomical research of historical events, the “Bethlehem Star” is, at least by this explanation, no star at all, but was instead Jupiter’s rendezvous (planetary conjunction) with Venus in 2 BC.  this is a tale of two planets normally radiant and distinguishable forming a single-looking, indistinguishable, and never-before-in -their-life-time-appearing large and radiantly brilliant “star”, which when coupled with each of the previous eight facets creates a most noteworthy series of events, all of which match words written centuries previous, and pointed their gaze to a pivotal and altering point in mankind’s history.  

now back to the beginning question...  do...  you...  believe?

(publication of this write is intended to coincide with the first of the four Sundays of Advent, 2015.  tis the season for Merry Christmas, my friends!)

(10w)

~

if God we trust indeed, 
love we must, in deed!

~

post script.

we say we love, but our definition may need to be redefined.  selah!

happy ten-word-Tuesday my poetic friends!