A lunar pull apart.
Born of self-same shelf.
Dig deep, Ye Pictorial Builders,
Ye Leatherneck Drivers!
One, young living coral.
Another, ancient decayed pluff.
May you tender the shelf.
Let your lines be straight.
Above the orb on reef and marsh
Life and death flow in sync.
Photographer: Tanya Ackerman
Hands hold the vessel ancient, black
Set upon with dragons, bowl to stack.
Its wizard pours out wishes, non shall lack.
Beware his brew, you’ll not come back.
My soul thirsts for the living God. The deer seeks out water brooks.
My most inner self longs for you, thirsts for the living God.
His mountains of stone like Him stand. His rapids and floods cover me.
My poured out soul cannot contain such high thought as these.
Deep calls to deep in holy noise. I fall to my face in worship.
a psalm of David…transposed…
My pen is bent to glory. I address my verses to the King.
He anointed me with grace. My pen bends to a noble theme.
Your dwelling places are lovely. Your throne is beyond our comprehension.
Truly it is God who saves me. He is my rock and my salvation.
a psalm of David…transposed…
Appearing like yuletide balls
Sun against lunar pull exerting
Converging in the heavens
Storm, wind, hail, destruction, sure
Her beauty is the moon
Best when Easter comes early
I love Carley Simon’s song “River”. In that wistful ballad she soulfully croons in her pure, true soprano that “it’s coming on Christmas, they’re cutting down trees, putting up reindeer, singing songs of joy and peace.” She goes on, “wishing” she “had a river to skate away on.”
As I gaze at this magical photograph of my tiny granddaughter enveloped in the shimmer of her Christmas tree, my thoughts turn to years and Christmases gone by-those of my childhood and those of my own children at her age. All over the world and in our own homes it is coming on Christmas. We are cutting down trees., putting up reindeer and singing songs of joy and peace. Traditions we hold dear, love and cherish from generation to generation.
However; instead of wishing for a river to skate away on, I wish to have a star as my plumb line to keep me focused on the truth of Coming on Christmas. The One who continues to bring joy and peace.
Today is still dark outside my window.
A promise of sweeping chill.
My mind and senses groan for the coming of it like the bee to the flower.
Come, Fall in all your glory!
Come with your cleansing wind!
Brush away the stickiness in my head.
The old stuffy clamminess, heat, and stuff of piled up
summer dog-days weighing me down.
Brush through my hair, my brain and soul.
Let me sprout a pair of wings perhaps, that I could dance on your breeze!
Or set me free upon the air in a huge rising balloon so as to see the entire earth.
Let me sense, touch, taste, breathe, live into the crisp sharp newness of Fall.
pen and ink on canvas-Myra
A writer’s dream, fulfilled in my very hoping,
Complete in silence, speculation, unencumbered of mind.
Ah! The mess is the latter thought.
As More of Tudor’s Court once evoking,
“Words, words, words. It is all only words.”
Less than dream, featureless, exuberantly blind.
Unfinished now, yet not for naught.
Strange dainty pods Pop on dewy prickle
Rooty faces appear Gnome-like wonder
Knobs from faces Gnarl up new joints
Knees spiral sun-ward
Pod Tree Knee
Backyard Cypress Knee Swamp
Tiny rain-soaked pots and stones
Precious, hidden, glorious.
Flourish yet untended
There’s one who cares for you.
Cherubim and tiny blooms bow down before Him
Gaze ever sun-ward
Summer Morning Song
Beauty, Blazing Color, Faith, Inspirations, Life, Photography, Poetry, Series Tagged
Blazing Color, Insprations, Musings, Poetry, Series