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Posted on 01/02/2006 7:52:08 AM PST by Soaring Feather
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the damn dam's broken
muse's ready to spin her tales
sanity restored
rim© 1/20/06
Good evening Miss Feather . . . hopefully I'm back in full form . . . ;-)
Coffee House Confessional
Coffee shop scents layer the air
as I ponder the book I read tonight.
The heat of the gas fireplace feels so right,
as my back relaxes at last I swear.
Back to the fire, I arch my back, shirt tightening now,
and the heat flows into me, a welcome friend just then.
A moment, a pause to enjoy it once again, my ken,
and I sigh, treasuring the instant, oh to save it somehow.
Soft words drift among the scattered tables here,
and if I deem to listen, I hear bits of this and that.
How their family’s doing, or did you notice Helen’s fat,
and a thousand other things over the year I fear.
I know them, and they do not realize that I do,
or the depth of our shared times over coffee here.
I know their moments of joy, and work so dear,
a precious gift they extend so unknowing too.
Confidences I hear and do not share, ours alone,
and I honor them with silences of my own.
For by such respect do we both set the right tone,
and give worth to the moment, a secret on-loan.
Here is the center of this small town so alive,
and here are the crossed paths of many souls each day.
We come, drink, and so share a moment as we stay,
gaining more than we might find, if we but did strive.
A few moments shared over the scent of coffees so fine,
Latte lingering that color our days with an ease.
We take this time to stop, to breath, for it does please,
something deeper then we know, under the Java sign.
Good morning, Hope.
Sorry I was not around last night to thank you.
Glad the damn has sprung a leak.
Coffee House Confessional
I like this poem!
On seconds thoughts . . . maybe not a complete leak . . . but, at least it's started crumbling . . . ;-)
and . . . by the way Hope . . .that should be YARN and not TALES, in post #181 . . . Sheesh . . . ;-)
I'm in a dry spell right now. Too, many things bothering me-sapping my creative muse.
Oh Lord . . . am I ever working on it!
Have I advanced your message this week?
Have I alerted a believer to transmit,
his belief? so that others that seek
His word, do not hunger or thirst
but, can drink from an enlightened one, who's
rightly divided God's word; His truth dispersed.
rim© 1/21/06
The bird whirrs by,
a pine sisken, probably,
or maybe a sparrow,
To hide in a thicket of wisteria branches
until I fill the bird feeders.
Twenty-two degrees,
and the sunlight glints off the white snow,
morning light,
honey sweet.
Quiet moment,
for a moment, I am separated
from the everday reality that is mine,
and come to this special place,
silent
save for hungry birds
and the joyous play of my dog,
and you, O Lord,
who brings me here,
this gift from you,
our time together.
Such a wonderful picture you have painted this morning.
I can hear the silence in the wisteria
the quiet of early morning
I see the glory of the sparkling fresh snow
If I listen closely enough
I can hear the voice of God
in the whispering of the pines
and see his glory in the rising sun.
A thing of beauty to behold
a patch of jump ups, blue and bold
in my garden path they grow
enticing one and all to know
their presence is shown but once a year
yet, treasured in the snowy cold
a remembrance of yester - year!
Humbled by their presence here
I look for them from year to year
impressed by their resilience
coming back from year to year
the delicate flowers to behold
a wondrous gift from God's fold.
Perfect in the eyes of God.
bentfeather (c) 01.19.06
nice!
And a lovely picture to one who is tired of the winter already!
On News/Activism ^ 01/18/2006 11:55:59 PM EST · 354 of 1,102 ^
One becomes a poet
as one becomes a painter
daubing the pallet
with hue and tint
aging in the proper places
caring not what others say
daring to face the day
and in twilight paint the way
for others not knowing how to say
the words pressed upon the heart
the tears, the agony, it did impart
the glory of a golden sun
or swimming in the Caribbean
or waking across the desert sands
alone or with some one holding hands.
bentfeather (c)
Word bounces upon word,
sound upon sound,
image upon image.
Let me slosh them around,
Wordy margarita or or verbal martini -
Stir, not shake -
osterize them in my memory,
spice them with allusions to this and to that,
and in the end,
let me sit back
and see if I like the result.
Like picking posies
from a field
words focus
across the empty page
I pick and choose
from this menu
words I like
that describe
what's going on inside
Some words make a rhyme
some entwine
some are sharp
some muted
like the sky today
Some gush forth
like a wave from the sea
and others just live inside of me.
bentfeather (c) 01/23/06
Ping hon!
I did not ping today and really don't have a real ping list. I should make one, that way you won't fall off. ;)
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