tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-358719282024-03-05T16:33:03.913-08:00A Collection Of WritingsThis log consists of my own writings, poems and others' writings and poems that have inspired me. ----------- All uncredited poems are mine.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35871928.post-10832566901941179752018-01-16T00:59:00.003-08:002018-01-16T00:59:59.381-08:00Kind Eyes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioLLV9zISrPfv5vbxfzFQYTW0d4EpGiIFLbJSJy8tMxT8jLNwTQlaQHCjGXMnLGZSRnF55LUZEtnUqist3W0YzK7CQlZU5-zUbhEJZeiRJ9mNuXkFZmmGvhVS-08c0fMUqA507OA/s1600/Kind+Eyes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioLLV9zISrPfv5vbxfzFQYTW0d4EpGiIFLbJSJy8tMxT8jLNwTQlaQHCjGXMnLGZSRnF55LUZEtnUqist3W0YzK7CQlZU5-zUbhEJZeiRJ9mNuXkFZmmGvhVS-08c0fMUqA507OA/s320/Kind+Eyes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I need to be seen with kind eyes <br />
Who look upon and not judge<br />
Who sees even the true nature of my situation<br />
And loves me anyway.<br />
<br />
I need to know the comfort<br />
Of being valued by someone.<br />
Their kind eyes see my gifts, talents and worth<br />
For just being me.<br />
<br />
I don’t want to be used anymore<br />
By those with angry glares<br />
I want to be held, nurtured and led into health<br />
Where I used to be.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35871928.post-72340644348314715032011-09-27T21:28:00.000-07:002011-09-27T21:30:07.698-07:00Stare Out at the Sea<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmlJBQA0RqvOHrkGAoSEvMQmZ6epWUxJl6xQX7qhJmRbm53VmqexeYxZjQ5h4GaRzoH7ly_lR22c2AMmLXSBMNEqxd40FttF7mM7VbmGrq0laOT4e-i6HDWXEraq7pOKFf7CapwQ/s1600/Graphic+park+bench.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 320px; height: 213px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657262841906057666" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmlJBQA0RqvOHrkGAoSEvMQmZ6epWUxJl6xQX7qhJmRbm53VmqexeYxZjQ5h4GaRzoH7ly_lR22c2AMmLXSBMNEqxd40FttF7mM7VbmGrq0laOT4e-i6HDWXEraq7pOKFf7CapwQ/s320/Graphic+park+bench.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><br />Like a wet bench on a lonely boardwalk<br />As the sun begins to set low<br />You and I, we barely talk<br />And empty is the love we knew<br />So long ago.<br /><br />So I wander down the boardwalk,<br />I sit here on the bench.<br />Stare out into the bay<br />Wondering if I’ll ever find my way.<br />Are you happy to be gone<br />Right there in the room?<br />I just want<br />To find my way back to you.<br /><br />The division is sharp like a knife,<br />I’m not going to plea.<br />You and I, you were my life<br />Now rejection is the message<br />You send me.<br /><br />So I wander down the boardwalk,<br />I sit here on the bench.<br />Stare out into the bay<br />Wondering if I’ll ever find my way.<br />Are you happy to be gone<br />Right there in the room?<br />I just want<br />To find my way back to you.<br /><br />We drifted apart and now<br />I cannot find the bridge to you.<br />You and I, I think we are gone.<br />I lay here alone and wonder<br />What will I do?<br /><br />I get up and wander down the boardwalk,<br />I sit here on the bench.<br />Stare out into the bay<br />Wondering if I’ll ever find my way.<br />Are you happy to be gone<br />Right there in the room?<br />I just want<br />To find my way back to you.<br /> <br />I stare out at the sea,<br />I stare out at the sea,<br />Wondering if you will ever want<br />To find your way back to me.</div></div><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35871928.post-14046131567493592272009-04-16T20:55:00.000-07:002009-04-18T09:21:38.351-07:00Waiting and Waiting<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnOFd2x0rTJbcW9W6-L_qVWRjncJOn-VzaG182cNdfmPyHng-emiPp6FGXpG1ADTzwckbhLrxbnfTgNDHfPd_WG7_8EtEhyI03mYHdegtkz4tkqe2jBlvFYece3ue4t0h83Sc8JQ/s1600-h/nervous_woman.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 234px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnOFd2x0rTJbcW9W6-L_qVWRjncJOn-VzaG182cNdfmPyHng-emiPp6FGXpG1ADTzwckbhLrxbnfTgNDHfPd_WG7_8EtEhyI03mYHdegtkz4tkqe2jBlvFYece3ue4t0h83Sc8JQ/s320/nervous_woman.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326067271594908898" /></a><br />Counting and counting,<br />as if that will help the time pass.<br />The waiting and waiting<br />makes me just want to get up<br />walk away and not return - <br />But I have to stay and find out.<br /><br />Pacing and pacing,<br />as if my walking will bring the answer.<br />Figiting and figiting<br />doesn't solve anything.<br />I'll just have to be patient.<br />This will all be a memory one day.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35871928.post-57819296035108954762009-04-16T19:15:00.001-07:002009-04-16T19:15:38.945-07:00The Last Remaining Aster FlowerThe Last Remaining Aster Flower<br /><br />Posses me like the very last flower<br />For one gentle, fleeting hour.<br />When my beauty is vivid and clear,<br />Smell the fregrance while I'm near.<br /><br />Then when time takes me away,<br />Let your tears fall on that day.<br />Steal away to mend and heal<br />Grieve the loss, the pain you feel.<br /><br />When the clock has ticked once more<br />Let your feet then find the floor.<br />Walk one step, then two, and three.<br />Restore your heart, but remember me.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35871928.post-60706321108806232712009-04-15T21:03:00.001-07:002009-04-15T21:03:34.479-07:00My Simplest PleasuresMy simplest pleasures<br /><br />My simplest pleasures are <br />A friend who sends me a birthday card<br />The peace of the color green<br />Knowing my puppy only cuddles with me<br /> <br />The joy in an infant’s eye<br />The laugh of my lover & knowing why<br />Touching fabric and feeling the weave <br />Knowing God’s a friend that will never leave.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35871928.post-76318833275424779042009-04-14T22:46:00.000-07:002011-09-13T08:31:30.377-07:00Unexplained, She's Just Gone<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6sgfVibvlRv3I5ts_COT_rrGwYrM-aKoMqmXnFm1RGbIbb8AdATKRAhau-yQYxhK6v0nGYaStx63WahZ2vJeoh7TGKq57HwZhsn56wEZM00Nn6ZvJmK9SrXipEmTJNj506PiiUQ/s1600-h/coyote-thumb.gif"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 295px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324791609200846962" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6sgfVibvlRv3I5ts_COT_rrGwYrM-aKoMqmXnFm1RGbIbb8AdATKRAhau-yQYxhK6v0nGYaStx63WahZ2vJeoh7TGKq57HwZhsn56wEZM00Nn6ZvJmK9SrXipEmTJNj506PiiUQ/s320/coyote-thumb.gif" /></a><br />I lay in bed sleepless tonight<br />As I ache for my love lost.<br />A love that was my very world,<br />And now I can find her nowhere.<br /><br />The air tonight is restless,<br />Upsetting leaves and small twigs,<br />Battering them against my window,<br />Making certain I don’t slumber.<br /><br />Then I hear a kindred soul,<br />A coyote in the dark and distance;<br />A long, low, lonesome call<br />Searching for his lost love.<br /><br />I can see it now; the rain last month<br />Caused a mudslide as she hunted.<br />Her last thoughts were of him,<br />Then the soil burried her - just gone.<br /><br />Is that the same for me, I wonder.<br />Where is my woman, my lover?<br />Fear floods me. Is she hurt, is she dead?<br />Our last touch was tender and sweet.<br /><br />For two weeks now we've searched<br />I don't recall the last time I ate.<br />I'd be out there now, but exhaustion<br />Melts the marrow from my bones<br /><br />"Why can't we find her?" I ask my pillow.<br />I loved that woman from deep inside my soul.<br />Brother beyond, I wish I could join you<br />In that long, lonesome, grieving howl.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35871928.post-78176610867487687682009-04-13T21:08:00.000-07:002009-04-13T21:54:49.990-07:00A Line-Storm Song<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5VVnrOZk-rpXJllGEEgcNLIGrD3fvm6uKt3dz5XVSrOM3yrDF1fGefY-KHPumjEyl9y0_pN5P2GsR6K4DztKthO5FNewXjrXDLdPsuasBif0Opz_9UkEb5HZ_d99QkWuiqhGpkQ/s1600-h/Line+Storm+Song.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324405850052547842" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 245px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5VVnrOZk-rpXJllGEEgcNLIGrD3fvm6uKt3dz5XVSrOM3yrDF1fGefY-KHPumjEyl9y0_pN5P2GsR6K4DztKthO5FNewXjrXDLdPsuasBif0Opz_9UkEb5HZ_d99QkWuiqhGpkQ/s320/Line+Storm+Song.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center">The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift.<br />The road is forlorn all day,<br />Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,<br />And the hoof-prints vanish away.<br />The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,<br />Expend their bloom in vain.<br />Come over the hills and far with me,<br />And be my love in the rain.<br /><br />The birds have less to say for themselves<br />In the wood-world's torn despair<br />Than now these numberless years the elves,<br />Although they are no less there:<br />All song of the woods is crushed like some<br />Wild, earily shattered rose.<br />Come, be my love in the wet woods, come,<br />Where the boughs rain when it blows.<br /><br />There is the gale to urge behind<br />And bruit our singing down,<br />And the shallow waters aflutter with wind<br />From which to gather your gown.<br />What matter if we go clear to the west,<br />And come not through dry-shod?<br />For wilding brooch shall wet your breast<br />The rain-fresh goldenrod.<br /><br />Oh, never this whelming east wind swells<br />But it seems like the sea's return<br />To the ancient lands where it left the shells<br />Before the age of the fern;<br />And it seems like the time when after doubt<br />Our love came back amain.<br />Oh, come forth into the storm and rout<br />And be my love in the rain.<br /><br />Robert Frost</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35871928.post-68137413380526180242009-03-09T23:45:00.000-07:002009-04-25T19:04:24.043-07:00Sandman Girl<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAyPc6YUtFl12yI63vr9dsykDg4Y68DUD1rNLPyJsIny6ia3anJPscKo4xRH9ATl0-ixcYnJMr7-b4s8CfTrCnBtyxvgGryhHtQ2lRS8HDB6Q_fpaxBhWHDtWc_Tg1_-Od6STofA/s1600-h/Whisperprint.png"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311454253883999218" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAyPc6YUtFl12yI63vr9dsykDg4Y68DUD1rNLPyJsIny6ia3anJPscKo4xRH9ATl0-ixcYnJMr7-b4s8CfTrCnBtyxvgGryhHtQ2lRS8HDB6Q_fpaxBhWHDtWc_Tg1_-Od6STofA/s320/Whisperprint.png" border="0" /></a><br /><div>shhhhh... I'm creeping in so slow<br />into your dream-state<br />into your room<br />into your heart<br />into your head<br />into your soul<br />to see if you know<br />how much I love you<br /><br />I'm telling you so soft<br />whispering your name<br />telling you the same<br />as I did last time<br />that you are mine<br />all the time<br /><br />I'm touching your face<br />watching your breath<br />it comes, then goes<br />my lips on yours<br />I breathe for you<br />go into your soul<br />into your heart<br />to see if you know<br />how much I love you<br /><br />I'm telling you so soft<br />whispering your name<br />telling you the same<br />as I did last time<br />that you are mine<br />all the time</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35871928.post-3508345071478423082008-08-28T13:26:00.000-07:002011-09-13T18:46:19.511-07:00Handful of Hopes<div>Jacob filled out one of those forwards that kids send around to each other asking trivial questions like what's your favoirte color, who were you named after... that kind of stuff. One of the questions was "Where were you born?" He said, "My body was born in Nampa, Idaho, but my heart was born in the snow-covered hills of Alaska." </div><br /><div></div><br /><div><br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 207px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 143px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652025556145181586" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3330mUFDJ_gNKgxtQVoxqfs4dFfZ0NXEOuXul6lAxD3X0KZ0fRXz5iw-ApD8zmVmWCyz68ywie-t6c3-ITPDfCx8IE3VVckxa4igOM_5pamDbLYmgIF_2O7TR4dQw4b30_xIVMw/s320/Sifting%252BSand.jpg" /><br /><br /><br />Handful of Hopes<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiksLaVUHVDDNeaXOnKHRXyiKZlLgML_Mo3EV896VqFrH0dKphAs4JHmkbMATH890dPVWGWZfQwj01IxWFWHi8b0G1T9J1AatDyfmn4TlkIumTxuwE8XLKyk6KEXqWaiOWT8t61Q/s1600-h/Sifting%252BSand.jpg"></a>I have the day off today<br />Sitting in the barracks, I rest<br />Till I am called out again<br />To fight this war and give my best.<br /><br />My make-shift home, a tent<br />Where I live, sweat, wake and sleep.<br />Plywood floor, wind blows hot,<br />Lonely hour, then day turns into week.<br /><br />I sit outside the tent door flap<br />And sift the sand with my hand.<br />I pick it up and let it fall<br />Imagining I am home again.<br /><br />The sand becomes a snowfall<br />That I saw there just last year.<br />Riding snowmachines in the hills,<br />Who ever imagined that now I'd be here?<br /><br />I let myself go back there for a ride.<br />In my mind's eye I see the snow<br />Clinging to the exact leafless shape<br />Of every other tree along the road.<br /><br />The rest are evergreens, holding piles<br />Of snow like a Christmas card scene.<br />Those memories and hopes to return<br />Are the contents of my each and every dream.<br /><br />The dry, brisk cold of the air<br />Invigorates my skin and burns my eyes.<br />I plow thorough deep drifts of snow<br />Riding on trails that I have memorized.<br /><br />The beauty of the landscape grips me.<br />The temperature, now minus 10, no breeze<br />Looks like someone carelessly cast diamonds<br />On the ground and in the trees.<br /><br />Dashing back to the winter cabin,<br />My brothers and I, we race.<br />We head inside, take off our gear,<br />See the smile on my mom's face."<br /><br />Hey guys, d'ya see moose along the trail?<br />Was it cold? How was the ride? "<br />Putting aside her book she asks,<br />"Who's up for hot chocolate, soup or pumpkin pie?"<br /><br />The whistle of mortars brings me back.<br />Dashing to protect from shrapnel rain,<br />Instinct kicks in - I drop my handful of sand<br />And I become an American soldier again.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35871928.post-30435231810768365992008-05-03T13:28:00.000-07:002009-04-16T18:55:57.429-07:00Yesterday, I Was a ChildYesterday, I Was a Child<br /><br />Yesterday, I was a child<br />But it's my first day of Jr. High.<br />Lockers, boys... and I look different.<br />Will they make fun of me as I walk by?<br /><br />I'm scared to do this alone.<br />Won't you please hold my hand?<br />Into this place,<br />Afraid to show my face.<br />Go with me, Go with me.<br /><br />Yesterday, I was a child.<br />Next month I'm having one of my own.<br />Diapers, bills, him looking up to me<br />Will I be strong enough or let him down?<br /><br />I'm scared to do this alone.<br />Won't you please hold my hand?<br />Motherhood,<br />Doing what I should.<br />Go with me, go with me.<br /><br />Yesterday, I was a child.<br />Today I will watch my aging mother die.<br />The pain of the process weathers my face.<br />Will I ever get over the loss of her in my life?<br /><br />I'm scared to do this alone.<br />Won't you please hold my hand?<br />Memories<br />Of her praying on her knees.<br />Go with me, go with me.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuQa7UHw5nQcPnUBCujRHJi0Rza8_3_CB4J8yD1-1tvbgKyZLikDY_P35GvmPRUorfypWjV4j5C4hDI0wM43LeGOB1fIBpFQoOMhkJzNhH4C4YOs4oRcfKiovFbJzwyFia4Zffcg/s1600-h/Sad-woman-colorLight.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325472787648811394" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 191px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 212px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuQa7UHw5nQcPnUBCujRHJi0Rza8_3_CB4J8yD1-1tvbgKyZLikDY_P35GvmPRUorfypWjV4j5C4hDI0wM43LeGOB1fIBpFQoOMhkJzNhH4C4YOs4oRcfKiovFbJzwyFia4Zffcg/s320/Sad-woman-colorLight.jpg" border="0" /></a>Yesterday, I was a child,<br />I think as I close the door,<br />Leaving behind 25 years of marriage<br />And a man who doesn't love me anymore<br /><br />I'm scared to do this alone.<br />Won't you please hold my hand?<br />Abuse and rage;<br />Time to turn the page.<br />Go with me, go with me.<br /><br />Yesterday, I was a child,<br />"And that's ok," to myself I say.<br />This moment is a gift God's given me.<br />What will I do with this precious day?<br /><br />I won't be doing this alone<br />Because He always holds my hand.<br />Love so dear,<br />He's always near,<br />Go with me, go with me.<br /><br />Let all this maturity count for something,at least.<br />Don't let the pain be in vain.<br />Use it, Dear God, to help a hurting soul<br />Letting the hope of yesterday's child remain.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35871928.post-8630167045806793682008-03-09T17:39:00.001-07:002009-09-16T17:29:30.565-07:00UNWANTED<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNICJpeVLkldv9jYpzHYrAJx7V4Pf4X8yI-QxLc-iMbFv_A_w_5vYOM-93_vtgFVxQ3Q7tKGaOmhbHzz2PDzBeaULE6d1_zf-NpPIAQnAPVOtm2ylq2Dim1fxKSi9tQBom805ckA/s1600-h/UNWANTED.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 256px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264890979836616466" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNICJpeVLkldv9jYpzHYrAJx7V4Pf4X8yI-QxLc-iMbFv_A_w_5vYOM-93_vtgFVxQ3Q7tKGaOmhbHzz2PDzBeaULE6d1_zf-NpPIAQnAPVOtm2ylq2Dim1fxKSi9tQBom805ckA/s320/UNWANTED.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div>UN-WANTED it said<br />Proudly displaying the head<br />Of the woman in town<br />Who'd been more than around.<br /><br />UN-WANTED, the display<br />Portrayed her in the worst way.<br />Before she came clean<br />And began chasing worthy dreams.<br /><br />UN-WANTED it called<br />To passers-by who stalled<br />To glance at the thing nailed<br />Displaying the dame frail.<br /><br />UN-WANTED, indeed.<br />Folks so tired of her need.<br />Tired of her shame<br />Having to utter her name.<br /><br />UN-WANTED she knew,<br />Yet not sure why it was true.<br />Feeling hate in every glance,<br />Grimacing at the force-kind dance.<br /><br />UN-WANTED, how she tried,<br />Though, in this town, she can't hide.<br />Found to her dismay in this place<br />There was no thing of grace.<br /><br />UN-WANTED, no promises to keep,<br />She walked to the highest peak,<br />Filling the hopes of all in town,<br />She would soon no longer be around.<br /><br />UN-WANTED, eager for peace,<br />Begged God for forgiveness, at least,<br />"Pray something wants me," she finished in a hush,<br />"Down at the bottom lying in dust."<br /><br />UN-WANTED she thought<br />But then embrace of Peace He brought<br />As He taught her of His love and care,<br />Of His grace despite opinions around there.<br /><br />UN-WANTED no more<br />After a season of healing for sure<br />She searched sweet faces of the haunted<br />For the curse of the UN-WANTED.<br /><br />“You are NOW WANTED,” she announced<br />To all the hurting girls in other towns.<br />“Like He freed me, He'll free you too.<br />Now come to Him to be renewed.”<br /><br />UN-WANTED parchment hung on tree -<br />Now there for month three.<br />Someone asked about her one day.<br />"Think she left a fortnight ago," one did say.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35871928.post-80004036523449191942007-11-15T15:44:00.000-08:002009-04-15T08:48:06.561-07:00Young Family's Dismay<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvPiyWTg061eG2WZeOH0lHONduwmKZRRDMRKZNVKttEpWtCXbXlaUDVg5fNawN7-E-Tdg9g6LoeMHg_WJo9fWPPoXfCKwGjFLdljLPC7wwNOuXTQUR3aC6h1lYw0_ApbxhmM85uA/s1600-h/boy_on_phone_2_upin.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133217577252964786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvPiyWTg061eG2WZeOH0lHONduwmKZRRDMRKZNVKttEpWtCXbXlaUDVg5fNawN7-E-Tdg9g6LoeMHg_WJo9fWPPoXfCKwGjFLdljLPC7wwNOuXTQUR3aC6h1lYw0_ApbxhmM85uA/s320/boy_on_phone_2_upin.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>"Hey there, how's it going?"</div><div>I asked him on the phone.</div><div>"Yah, we're doing good.</div><div>We've sure missed you while you've been gone."</div><div></div><div></div><div><br /><br />I wondered if he was coming back</div><div>Or if he was long gone.</div><div>That ache I held inside was black,</div><div>I just couldn't share with anyone.</div><div></div><div></div><div><br /><br />But I couldn't let him see it</div><div>Or plead with some desperate sound.</div><div>It would do nothing but drive him away</div><div>I wasn't going to chase him down.</div><div></div><div></div><div><br /><br />"Are you still at the mill there?</div><div>How's the work there day to day?"</div><div>That's where I stopped, but wanted to ask,</div><div>"Honey, how long will you be away?"</div><div></div><div></div><div><br /><br />Just then our son ran in,</div><div>He saw me on the phone.</div><div>"Mom! Isth that Daddy?</div><div>Wenth he comin' home?"</div><div></div><div></div><div><br /><br />"Hi Daddy! Thif ith Mark.</div><div>How long will you be away?</div><div>Did you know that I got on base</div><div>And 'most caught a groundball today?!</div><div></div><div></div><div><br /><br />"Mom says your job there's done</div><div>Maybe nest month or two.</div><div>When you get home dad, we'll go fithin',</div><div>You know, just me and you."</div><div></div><div></div><div><br /><br />The question still hung there in the air</div><div>Long after I hung up the phone.</div><div>I just didn't know how my heart could take it</div><div>... all this being alone.</div><div></div><div></div><div><br /><br />No touch on my skin, no look in his eye.</div><div>No calling me up, just to say hi.</div><div>No plans for tomorrow, no hope for today.</div><div>What did I do to drive him away?</div><div></div><div></div><div><br /><br />I pray a new prayer this time</div><div>At my bed and on my knees,</div><div>"God, I quit asking - I just give him to you</div><div></div><div>And be my comfort, please.</div><div></div><div><br /><br />"Help me have a faithful heart,</div><div>Help me be who I need to be</div><div>For all those who see me every day</div><div>And this precious boy who you've given to me." </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35871928.post-20850076845276988192007-04-25T10:40:00.000-07:002009-04-10T11:53:37.922-07:00At Loss for Words<p align="center">I was just going along<br />Doing my normal routine one day.<br />Pain and loneliness began seeking a soul<br />A frightful visit to pay.<br /><br />It found me unawares,<br />Shot right through my body and into my spirit<br />The news that you would be around no more -<br />For awhile, I refused to hear it.<br /><br />Funny that a word-person<br />Would be at loss for words<br />To describe something so real;<br />So tangible that it burns.<br /><br />Are there words to describe,<br />Are there words that I know<br />That can explain this loss that I find<br />At having to let you go?<br /><br />Maybe that’s where words are born,<br />When the body can hold it no more –<br />The pain inside seemed to explode,<br />The only escape for emotions to pour.<br /><br />Or maybe that’s where heartache is born,<br />When the explosion happens within.<br />All too much, too soon to process<br />And the trembling begins again.<br /><br />Oh, to have had one day with you,<br />Just you and I alone,<br />To tell you how much you were loved<br />And how you’ll be missed when you are gone.<br /><br />Strange how we’re allowed to love so deep<br />Then have to let go after a time.<br />I love you dear, and miss you so much.<br />I'd rather say any word but "<em>good-bye</em>."</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35871928.post-35543450423474645192007-01-26T21:19:00.000-08:002009-04-10T11:54:01.916-07:00What You Learn<div align="left">After a while you learn the difference,</div><div align="left">Subtle difference,</div><div align="left">Between holding a hand and </div><div align="left">Chaining a soul.<br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">You learn that love</div><div align="left">Doesn't mean leaning and</div><div align="left">Company doesn't mean security.<br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">You begin to learn</div><div align="left">That kisses aren't contracts and</div><div align="left">Presents aren't promises.<br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">You begin to accept your defeats</div><div align="left">With your head up and your eyes open,</div><div align="left">With the grace of an adult,</div><div align="left">Not the grief of a child.<br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">You learn to build</div><div align="left">All your roads on today</div><div align="left">Because tomorrow's ground</div><div align="left">Is too uncertain for plans.<br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">After a while you learn</div><div align="left">That even sunshine burns</div><div align="left">If you get too much.<br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">So you plant your own garden and </div><div align="left">Decorate your own soul</div><div align="left">Instead of waiting</div><div align="left">For someone to bring you flowers.<br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">You learn</div><div align="left">That you really can endure.</div><div align="left">That you really are strong. </div><div align="left">You really do have worth.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><br /><br />Author Unknown </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35871928.post-28781282434810982792007-01-23T22:47:00.000-08:002009-04-10T11:54:20.501-07:00Music to Me<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn01E7vp6t9OuxAb38zvs9nJQSL1lxqFwFhoIwdY926cs_Lvdkr86_zqvESBZISCNgP9Z_HZpuvpfO215ibc4v2GUX7qEymaLsejsAFmyjwlwJ6_IUHIkBDxIE-O9kVNaGJjXefQ/s1600-h/Umbrella+song.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5023485112343917410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn01E7vp6t9OuxAb38zvs9nJQSL1lxqFwFhoIwdY926cs_Lvdkr86_zqvESBZISCNgP9Z_HZpuvpfO215ibc4v2GUX7qEymaLsejsAFmyjwlwJ6_IUHIkBDxIE-O9kVNaGJjXefQ/s320/Umbrella+song.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center">The piano or organ,<br />A bug or the sea;<br />I may be strange,<br />But all is music to me.<br /><br />Music comes from<br />A tuba? A violin?<br />Or maybe from the fire<br />As well as any violin.<br /><br />Some is fun,<br />Some is more slow.<br />Your preference is which?<br />For me, I don’t know.<br /><br />When I am sad<br />I like sad songs.<br />When I’m in the mood<br />I like bells and gongs.<br /><br />I also like the rain;<br />The bass drum – the thunder.<br />And the string section?<br />It’s the umbrella I’m under.<br /><br />Love is the prettiest one.<br />It’s going on everywhere.<br />However sweet or sour<br />By how much you care.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35871928.post-41817016278033490392007-01-03T09:21:00.000-08:002009-04-10T11:54:43.282-07:00A Heart Mending Wish<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfURt997tIeG76puc7N2yfStBNQE9vqjZJA6GFwPSFRanwHo6pRKfbQ7D1o3ITFSa9QLZmsXIufDnL8xhFA8pWS4jl1GTRHm8QNxZNryqJJeRnjjSIGE3WkVvUZ6ZO-xZ8PduBgQ/s1600-h/iStock_000001876522Small.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5015867725494155810" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 176px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 276px" height="292" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfURt997tIeG76puc7N2yfStBNQE9vqjZJA6GFwPSFRanwHo6pRKfbQ7D1o3ITFSa9QLZmsXIufDnL8xhFA8pWS4jl1GTRHm8QNxZNryqJJeRnjjSIGE3WkVvUZ6ZO-xZ8PduBgQ/s320/iStock_000001876522Small.jpg" width="176" border="0" /></a> I have a pair of jeans so old.<br />They've been through many things;<br />Painting the house, trip by the creek,<br />Grass-stained picknicking games.<br /><br />The time when I fell off my bike,<br />Tore a hole and gashed my leg.<br />The time when I fought with my husband<br />and knocked over some dye in a rage.<br /><br />Used up and torn, ripped, stained;<br />They need a bit of repair.<br />I think I shall take the effort now<br />To sew them here... and there... and there.<br /><br />Oh to be able to mend the holes like those<br />That are in my heart so deep.<br />They don't show like the jeans do<br />So no one sees the damage I keep.<br /><br />But the frays tend to make my heart<br />Lose the function it used to have.<br />Oh, I wish I could sew it up<br />Because I have so much love to give.<br /><br />Like these blue jeans I am feeding<br />Through my sewing machine<br />I could patch a spot or two<br />Reinforce here, and there scrub it clean.<br /><br />Why does it have to stay broken?<br />Damaged, injured and scared?<br />I am a woman in want of love<br />And refuse to make my heart hard.<br /><br />By hardening my heart<br />I know what I'd hide myself from -<br />The continued barage of damage,<br />Though true recovery would not come.<br /><br />I look for hints in your eyes...<br /><em>Despite my brokenness and pain,<br />Do you see that I want your love?<br />Do I dare to approach you again?<br /></em><br />You come to me at my machine,<br />You look into my sad eyes green,<br />Shyly say, "Dear, could you sew up <em>my</em> heart<br />Like you're sewing those old blue jeans?"<br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35871928.post-17130791918190240422006-12-09T21:11:00.000-08:002009-04-10T11:55:44.193-07:00The Forgotten Traveler<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRph_yRLejYq0dUvzQRmiRAeDA0fAQ0QIasI2cmtlIM8LUn2sMSsvjH93ghAWaWfecZTT3tOCd8r632NLXIPwsZHkHaCSMvs_gFO6WDB1t-lE-emn16Tu7q_V29N2tURWeAMnnaQ/s1600-h/cold+and+scared.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5006766115102710930" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 210px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 261px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRph_yRLejYq0dUvzQRmiRAeDA0fAQ0QIasI2cmtlIM8LUn2sMSsvjH93ghAWaWfecZTT3tOCd8r632NLXIPwsZHkHaCSMvs_gFO6WDB1t-lE-emn16Tu7q_V29N2tURWeAMnnaQ/s320/cold+and+scared.bmp" border="0" /></a>Headed sure, I was,<br />Your way one day,<br />Then sun went down<br />The cold wind, trees swayed.<br /><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">I hurried by an empty lot<br />Familiar in the day’s heat.<br />Yet this night in deep they held<br />Such evil I could not repeat.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">The darkness there<br />Loomed such secrets of fright -<br />I felt I’d come<br />Between enemies in fight.<br /><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,153,153)">.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Hoping to go unnoticed<br />I stepped quietly by there,<br />Then suddenly I heard a noise...<br />Of me they were now aware.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Instead of letting me pass,<br />Evil & Evil joined together<br />To aim their bitter hatred at me,<br />Though I was not the offender.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Turned quickly then<br />When I could take no more<br />And soon lost my way,<br />No longer headed to your door.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Chasing me deep into the wood,<br />I ran, not even dressed for going out.<br />I fell through an icy creek<br />And had no strength to shout.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">The two of evil laughed together,<br />Spewing clouds of sulfur, they did.<br />Patched up their wicked fight;<br />Then they went off as friends…</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Looking up from your book<br />You peered into the night,<br />Thought of me then forgot again,<br />Sat and continued to read by firelight. </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35871928.post-1160722877312082922006-10-12T23:50:00.000-07:002006-12-20T17:33:12.203-08:00Thanksgiving at the Besherse House<p class="MsoNormal" style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><a href="http://storyofpa.blogspot.com/">"Buried deep in the storehouse of our subconscious are precious keepsakes and timeless treasures. These are memories of a time and portraits from a place we call yesterday. </a><a href="http://storyofpa.blogspot.com/">Occasionally, if only for a while something beckons us there again."</a></p><p><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">When I read that line in "The Story of Pa," it had been so very long since I let myself drift back into those sun-drenched summer days I spent running through tall grass, swimming in ponds and riding bikes down a dirt road.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> Today, the quote drew me back once again and I allowed myself to be swept to the joyous moments of my childhood; those truly precious keepsakes that I have from my early years. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">Probably my most precious portrait is that of my Grandfather, Solomon Delbert Besherse. I don't as much have a picture portrait as I have a feeling etched on my heart. The feeling is that of love <em>unconditional</em>. My grandparents both shared that love for the 12 grandkids living within that 1/2 mile radius which encompassed 4 homesteads and 100 acres of apple orchard in Washington State. We would often pop into the house only 1/4 mile away to come say hi... only to find that Grandpa was in the middle of reading the Bible aloud to Grandma. She would be sitting there knitting or doing some other hand project, atte</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3039/3974/1600/apples.jpg"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 152px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 189px" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3039/3974/320/apples.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;">ntively listening to him. We thought nothing of it, knowing our place was on a sofa or on the floor, patiently listening until his selection was completed. That truly is not just a m</span><span style="font-family:arial;">emory for me. It is a treasure. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">Grandpa read that book, but he also lived it. Evidence of his belief was seen by how he loved his wife. I have come to believe that this one factor can tell you what a man is like in his deepest heart; how he treats his wife. I watched him love her in so many dear and tender tangible ways - realizing even at that young age that this kind of love was not commonplace. He was a family man too, always welcoming his grandkids with eager joy and a big bear hug. He lived it in intimacy with his wife, in corporation with his extended family, but he also lived it in</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> his community as a member of his political party. He would travel to the State Capital to lobby for his convictions, speaking his mind, writing letters, effecting change in his world. He felt it was his great honor and responsibility to do so as a free man in a free society. He also refused to be considered one who is apathetic - a good man who did nothing. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">Our family had only a few traditions, but they still run deep and strong to this day. The Besherses gathered for Thanksgiving each year. We lived with each other day to day in that little 1/2 mile radius. But when Thanksgiving came we would just spread the glue thick, bonding together in love, laughter and food. Grandma and the other women would spend who-knows-how-long on the preparations for the meal. My grandparents did not own a television, so the men would sit around and talk politics, religion or work. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">I don't recall i</span><span style="font-family:arial;">n those days that much extended family would come visit. Only since that generation has grown have I witnessed the larger extended gatherings. What I do remember is a man from our community who didn't have family of his own that gathered, yet he was always present at our Thanksgiving table and many times throughout the year. He was welcomed in as a part of our family without question. I remember realizing that we were reaching out as a family in love to this man. It had a tremendous impact on me, teaching me by example of grace and acceptance. To this day there will be a non-family member (or several) at the Thanksgiving table. But if you were a stranger observing this, you would be hard pressed to be able to tell which one is the non-family member. The love and acceptance will not be different on account of blood relation. To the Besherses, everyone is precious and worthy of love.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">One particular Thanksgiving when I was about 12, the kids all gathered in Grandma's sewing room. We sta</span><span style="font-family:arial;">rted pulling out her yards of fabric and pretending like we were movie stars, warriors, Queens & Kings. That day we decided that we would put on a play for the adults. We talked over the options of what we would bring to them. I don't remember the story line of the first play we ever did, but I do recall the efforts of casting this person for this part, that one for another, this person the narrator, etc. I was the second oldest of the then 10 grandkids, so, by default, I was one of those in charge. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">Though I don't remember the actual content of the performance, what does paint that portrait in my mind is the way the adults handled it. We came down the stairs in an orderly fashion, lined the kids up just out of sight of the living room, all decked out in their painstakingly, elegantly made costume</span><span style="font-family:arial;">s. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">They were a sight for sure. 9 year old Keith with a yardstick usually used to measure the length of a hem from the floor to <em>far</em> below the knees. Today, the yardstick was his trusty sword and he was playing the part of someone OLD... well over 20 years old! Kathy with wide, eager eyes, always had to be the star. Yards of fabric draped her little 8 year old body, tied with upholstery cord with matching ric-rac hair ribbons. Amy at 7, only happy to help and comply, doing whatever Kathy told her to do. Alan and Leroy, 7 and 8 year old cousins, running around with more energy than they really deserved to have. They were good </span><span style="font-family:arial;">for a speaking line or two, then they were off wrestling with each other again. The rest of the crew was the same, fabric, ric-rac, seam tape, spoons for microphones, flip-flops for elegant high heals.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">I went to the living room to announce our intentions. All the adults were chatting, a couple of women were in</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> the kitchen. I said, "We would like to do a play for you." Everyone stopped and looked at me, giving me their full attention and respect. "Oh! Ok!" Grandpa exclaimed. "Ma, come on in here. The kids are going to put on a play for us!" Grandma came in, drying her hands on the front of her apron, an eager look on her face. Everyone else followed suit. If it was important to Grandpa, they honored his opinion and it immediately became important to them. I announced the title and went back out of sight. The narrator came out speaking into his spoon and we began our present</span><span style="font-family:arial;">ation. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">There was attention, laughter throughout the play and a roaring applause at the end of our short first-effort. We gathered up in the sewing room ... well, those of us who had any sort of attention span that is. We were thrilled with the response from the adults and we talked about what we would do next time. That day another tradition was born.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">The next play we did was the following Thanksgiving. As we were preparing our costumes we decided we needed a name for our production team. Grandma and Grandpa were rock hounds and always had the most beautiful tumbled rocks around the house. Kathy had been carting around one of those rock</span><span style="font-family:arial;">s. "Let's name it Pretty Rock Plays" she suggested, and we did just that. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">The treasure in that memory follows me today. Feeling at 12 years old, that the most important people in my life valued my thoughts, opinions and creativity and those of all the children in our family. Valued enough to suspend all of the lofty discussions of politics, religion and high finances of marketing to a global economy in exchange for a moment of lovin' on the little ones. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">I believe in God, and I believe that this kind of human initiated honor for me helps me to understand God's love for me. It also teaches me how to love others. Family or non-family, everyone is worthy of being loved. I do so treasure the love of my Grandfather and his commitment to follow his convictions; his commitment to build, practice and maintain his faith by studying then practicing the principles he found in God's Word.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">This year if you happen to need a place to go for Thanksgiving, I have not a doubt in the world that there's a pl</span><span style="font-family:arial;">ace for you at the table of the Besherse family. Be prepared though, because the children will be doing a Pretty Rock Play. It's just the way it's done around there; painting a portrait of what those little ones will call yesterday - a place where they learned love, grace, acceptance and value.</span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">The most re</span><span style="font-family:arial;">cent Besherse Thanksgiving that I attended (2005)</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3039/3974/1600/Thanksgiving%2005.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 259px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 158px" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3039/3974/320/Thanksgiving%2005.jpg" border="0" /></a></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35871928.post-1160722032448000942006-10-12T23:45:00.000-07:002006-12-18T10:42:38.256-08:00Send Me<i>"Lord, send me anywhere, only go with me.<br />Lay any burden on me, only sustain me.<br />Sever any ties but the tie that binds me<br />to Your service and to Your heart."</i><br />-- <a href="http://www.mwtb.org/html/410470.html">David Livingstone, Missionary to Africa</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35871928.post-1160627282140218932006-10-11T21:13:00.000-07:002006-12-18T10:42:24.455-08:00Ezekiel 36:21-32 Paraphrased<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3039/3974/1600/hands%20pour%202.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3039/3974/320/hands%20pour%202.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">It is not because of you that I am about to act. It is because of My holy name, which you have put to shame. I will show how holy My great name is when I use <em>you</em> to show them that I am holy. Then I will put clean water on you, and you will be clean. I will make you clean from all your unclean ways and from all your false gods. I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you. I will take away your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. And I will put My Spirit within you and cause you to follow My laws and be careful to do what I tell you. I will save you from all your unclean ways. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35871928.post-1160620773630798442006-10-11T19:35:00.000-07:002006-12-20T21:54:34.336-08:00George Gray - From the Spoon River Anthology by Edgar Lee Masters<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3039/3974/1600/Ship_at_sea.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3039/3974/320/Ship_at_sea.jpg" border="0" /></a><b>George Gray</b><p><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />I have studied many times<br />The marble which was chiseled for me--<br />A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">In truth it pictures not my destination<br />But my life.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment;<br />Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;<br />Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.<br />Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">And now I know that we must lift the sail<br />And catch the winds of destiny<br />Wherever they drive the boat.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">To put meaning in one's life may end in madness,<br />But life without meaning is the torture<br />Of restlessness and vague desire--<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid. </span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35871928.post-1160596801706182802006-10-11T12:58:00.000-07:002006-12-18T10:41:01.478-08:00A Late Walk, by Robert FrostA Late Walk<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3039/3974/1600/Aster%20Flower.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 217px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 358px" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3039/3974/320/Aster%20Flower.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />When I go up through the mowing field,<br />The headless aftermath,<br />Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,<br />Half closes the garden path.<br /><br /><br />And when I come to the garden ground,<br />The whir of sober birds<br />Up from the tangle of withered weeds<br />Is sadder than any words<br /><br />A tree beside the wall stands bare,<br />But a leaf that lingered brown,<br />Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,<br />Comes softly rattling down.<br /><br />I end not far from my going forth<br />By picking the faded blue<br />Of the last remaining aster flower<br />To carry again to you.<br /><br />Robert FrostUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0