Thoughts,
like fingers trailing in the water of a quiet lake,
making ripples that fan out and eventually fade
into the stillness that makes reverie a balm
to mend the broken pieces of my wounded spirit.

Small boat
big enough for only two but I’m alone and very still,
paddles stowed and sunhat on, I drift
on currents imperceptible and slow
in directions that the birds won’t tell me.

Pine Trees
on the distant shore, unmoving in the tiny breeze,
create the vision of a cool and private place of safety
not for me, but for all those I cannot see but know
are sheltered in their shadowed depths.

Tiny Fishes
going happily about their business, clearly seen
beneath my little boat in water that’s so clear
they seem just inches from my trailing fingers,
Unafraid that they might be in danger.

Dragonfly
neon needle in the sky darting close to visit me
then swooping left to disappear against the sun
and leave me musing in my tiny boat as I discover
I am whole and healed of spirit, and can go on.
ljm

There was no bridge that was too far
No letter mailed that was too short
No message tacked to the back door
Or shouted out in front as a last resort

The open cupboard bears no fruit
The garden grows green of ****
There are no mountains , just a hill
And mutterings of , "it's all God's will."

The windows feel like bullet holes
The rusty nails tremble , weak
Wondering is it safe inside
Knowing there's nothing there that I now seek

So by ease the river flows
I sit and think and want to know
As twigs and leaves float on by
I'm asking if this isn't all a great big lie

You can always count on those pretty blue skies
Except those days it clouds
to rain from way up high
And the stores have not remained the same
when going down streets of first or main

I made a mistake we all will do
That something's stuck to the past life's super glue
There is nothing there that now remains
Except my foolish folly and
broken panes

If God granted all my prayers how miserable I would be .

~
Salvation comes with a price--

Pried open doors,
choir songs of fingerdust
resurrecting goldrush,
and a pretty little
cromulent called whitewash.

New century martyrs
have risen up to burn books,
and quotes,
and tongues,
and every contrariwise thought,
--is this intuition or inquisition?

What ascends is trapped within
tenebrific clouds,
returning to barren ground
when it rains unholy prayers.

They don't crusade for you or me.
They contest for dominion and mastery.
Those who believe are mooncalf.

This torchlight of intolerance
sends out skyrockets,
and away it goes!
trending on your homepage:

Past generations
burning at the stake,
at the hands of sinners clothed as saints,
in cathedral oblivion,
dismembering their future
in the blood of their own children.

Amen?
~