Category Archives: Stories and Poems

Ocean sunset picture

Ocean Song

Just breathe.
Just breathe.
Listen.
And breathe.

The ocean and the sky
Touch.
Kiss.
Love.
To sing a song of healing
over you.

To sing.
Over humanity.
Healing waves
of Mercy.
Love.

The ocean is wise,
understanding
of human folly,
foolishness,
selfishness,
sin.
The ocean will heal us
if we let her.

But we must also
heal her.
We have polluted her patience,
treaded on her tenderness,
broken her bravery.

The whales,
keepers of the deep Mystery,
weep salty tears
over us.
Do we hear their cry?

When will we listen?
To the ocean?
To the whales?
To the song of time?

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Cloud Eyes

Depression falls around me.
A streaming cascade of gray droplets clouding my eyes.

How will the mist rise
                                up
from the valley of hardship
and wisdom?

Clouds hide behind white orbs
and green crysalides.
My eyes
      wait
for wings of spirit
to fly
with clear sight
of heaven and earth.

Cataracts,
Surgery,
the Doctor says.
Thick black glasses
                    perching
on his white hawk nose.
Thin black pen
                    opinionating
on the white chart paper.
Slim black hand
                    ticking
on the white clock.

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Spring and the Sparrow

Spring is here in Minnesota. The mountains of white snow are melting into brown puddles of mush, splashed by passing cars. Brave green grass pushes through the litter of brown leaves left buried by autumn snow. Birds chirp in the trees, and I even heard a few early frogs singing their spring tune. Signs of new life surround me, so welcome after this cold, challenging winter.

Is it spring in your life, too, friend? Whatever challenges you have been facing, you can look forward to a spring of healing. Spread your arms and your heart wide open like a child dancing shameless in the light, or a flower reaching toward the warmth and life of the sun. Like a sparrow starting a new life.

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The Empty Room

Photo used freely, courtesy of iprole on sxc.hu

Photo used freely, courtesy of iprole on sxc.hu

I just quit my day job at the preschool where I have worked for the last year. The situation became very suffocating, and I have better opportunities ahead of me. Here are my feelings.

The Empty Room

I look upon the empty room,
A room exhaling silence
             memories
             of child voices

The room sees
Eyes pour over lesson plans.
All the educational demands.
A told B and B told C
about the spontaneous ecstasy,
the momentary lessons be
of childhood wonder.

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Victims, and Victory Through Perception

The snow falls around me,
snowflakes kissing my lashes,
tickling my nose.

I stick out my tongue
to taste the cool wetness on my lips,
and I remember the taste of peppermint
in the candy cane hot chocolate
of childhood winters.

I scoop a wet snowball
in my softly-mittened hands,
as the fast-falling flakes
circle my warm jacket
in an intimate embrace
of white.

I meditate on the moment,
knowing that, for this fleeting gesture,
this silent tick on the forward march of time,
I am at peace.

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Who Am I?

Who am I?

I am a lover
and a dreamer.
I am a writer and poet,
a musician,
a seer of the unseen,
a knower of the unknown.

I am free,
but I feel the bondage of
the unlearned souls
who try to shackle me
and make me follow their way.

I want to fly free as a bird,
but I am a worrier and a carer.
I feel the pain of others,
their griefs, their sorrows
and their stories
ground me to solid earth.

I am a learner,
learning to overcome fear,
fear of not having enough,
fear of no place to rest my head,
fear of no voice for my swirling thoughts.

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Free From Capture: Yeshua and the Woman Caught in Adultery

Used freely, courtesy of duchesssa on stock.xchng

Used freely, courtesy of duchesssa on stock.xchng

She felt the cold air rush in on her face and graze her naked skin. She looked at her partner next to her in the bed, wicked smile starting across his lips. “You’re going to get it now, whore,” he whispered. She stared into his dark eyes, looking for a sign of humanity, a sign of life. She only saw blackness, and demons.

She had given him everything he asked, and she hadn’t even demanded a very high price. She hated the rough treatment, the constant pain in her body and mind. She felt all their glances on the street. They all knew that she was a dirty woman.

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The Dandelion and the Truth of Love

It is quickly becoming winter here in Minnesota. We even had our first snow flurries today! But as I walked on an errand, I saw some brave dandelions still raising their gray, fluffy heads to the sky. I wrote a blog post some time ago about the brave dandelion, and here I revisit the flower with this poem.

Blowing dandelions
in the wind,
cottony white puffs,
softly shining joy and hope,
reminding me of childhood
against a cloudy and bleak sky.

Each seed is a promise,
which will grow into a yellow youth,
deepen into a furry white old age,
and finally give itself up,
in another cloud of seeds,
in love,
in the cycle of earth.

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I Know Why the Willow Weeps

SONY DSC

This is an excerpt from a novel which I am currently writing, but I think it is timely to post this in light of the continuing destruction and strife which our country is facing under the government shutdown.

***

I know why the willow weeps.

The willow is a sensitive soul that sees all and carries all. More than all the other trees, she feels a burden for humanity and for the state of your earth. She does not fear her own destiny, but she fears the destiny of the human heart.

Once upon a time long ago, the willow stood tall and her branches reached toward the sky, like all of the other trees. She lived in the green garden with the Tree of Life. She gently watched over Creation as she soaked in the deep secrets. Dewy teardrops would sometimes gather on her leaves as she felt so grateful and overwhelmed by awe at Creation and the great Author of Life.

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tree soul

The Soul of the Tree

Spring is my favorite season. I enjoy feeling the wind tickling my leaves and the sun warming my branches. I enjoy watching the flowers popping up around my roots, adding their blues, yellows, purples to the newly-green grass, like a bunch of crayons in a child’s world. Spring is innocent and new. Spring is a child.

Summer is nice, too. I especially like the summer evenings, a cool blanket of darkness chasing away the thick heat. I dream of the starry constellations carrying me away to the realm of mystery and spirit, timelessness, peace. I especially like when the owls light on my branches, their deep voices echoing the wisdom of time past and future. I have never experienced the ocean, but I have known whispers from the coastal trees, and I imagine the owls and the whales singing the same haunting songs calling for the harmony and healing on earth.

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