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Sweet Morpheus. . .
In reading today’s post of Maria Wulf’s fullmoonfiberart.com she talked of dreams and how one does not question the dream nor truly its significance. Or one’s presence in it. It brought to mind my own questions during my life’s journey at about the same age as Maria and a poem I have not thought…
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Mother God, Father God. . . .
Mother God, Father God. . . We sit side by side, shoulders hunched toward each other, stealing glances like children do looking for approval. Mother God, Father God, love me they say. I am good. I try. And they grow up and away looking at reflections of their faces, so much like us. I steal…
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I Break Bread. . .
I Break Bread I break bread with these my brothers deep into who we are and what we have been. . . . Not much, I hear, but the faith is dear, held tight to the heart. For free it never was. But come. It is time now, again to break bread. It will be…
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At The Gates. . .
At The Gates They stood as Amazons, great and glorious in their largess, in their girth. . . With moss flowing horizontally from their branches, thick as trees themselves. These Spanish Oaks stood their stance, worshiping at the shores of the waters whipped to a froth. . . Their centuries told of standing at the…
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Let The Lessons Begin. . . .
It occurred to me that a new meaning for the maxim, ‘at the end of your life you become more of what you were in the beginning’ throws it into another light. I always thought in terms of this life, that should you have been a brat as a child, you will become even more…
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All Worlds Become An Altar For Kneeling. . . . . . .
Is It The Water? Is it the water, he asked, this youngest son of mine as he watched me mindlessly wording wow, oh wow, oh wow. . . . or is it the trees, he continued, as I looked through the veil that had separated me from a lifetime of what I knew. The oaks…
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Everything Teaches. . .
Teaching Respect It was a muggy summer evening when a dear friend of many years and I went for a walk to catch up on our friendship. It looked like it might rain that evening if we were lucky. So far it had been a dry month. As we were passing her yard I said…
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Life With a Capital L. . . . . .
From a recent journal entry in October. . . .I have been doing a lot of thinking and a lot of reading and am nowhere near coming to any kind of conclusions other than it is all lived in the mind. And perhaps Frank Herbert is correct when he has Odrade in Chapterhouse say is…
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Another Conversation. . . . .
She Says, He Says. . . . She says, speak to me! He says, I have nothing to say. . . . She says, you can say I love you. . . . He says, I look out for you, don’t I, and help others every chance I can? And she says, and everyone…
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This Valentine Heart. . . .
It is a truth. . . . Sometimes we cannot improve upon a something that supports a truth and this is one of those times for me. As we approach Valentine’s Day, to all who are bereft and do not or have not known love, what is missed is something you have known somewhere at…