These Settled Dreams

Locked up, still, these settled dreams
chilled within, near dried-up path of stone
where once flowed liquid streams,
captured inside, perhaps, by loss of hope.
Lapse time away and never talents hone,
lost motion spilled through frame that could not cope.
When is the spring to warm this fragile world?
Sing again where once the sunlight shone.
And now wait for once-bound will, unfurled,
a scent upon the breeze of coming change.
Easy to waste this time, held here alone,
entangled with grace, and bottled up to age.

---

It turned out to be a complicated rhyming structure, but I'm rather fond of the result.

Each stanza has three lines. The middle word of the first line loosely rhymes with the first word in the second line. The second line final word rhymes with the second line of every stanza for the rest of the poem, however long it grows. Final word of the first and third line of each stanza rhyme. Rhythm is important to carry the sounds well, but I'm not sure how to describe it, since it's rather loose.

If you give this a try, please send me a link so I can read it! And if someone has done this before, I'd love to know what they called it, since I'm more than likely not the first. (Calling all poetry genii?)

... a ... B
a ... C
... B
... d ... E
d ... C
... E

This Day Like Any Other

This day, like any other,
they slog through mud and tears.
Again their greasy hands repair
clogged engines, broken gears.
They stand on foreign corners
where few want them to stay,
wary of their neighbors,
some of whom might kill today.
Each one belongs to families
who worry late at night
that all too soon the day will come
when they may have to fight;
yet still they offer up their lives
as they have been assigned.
Remember them in quiet prayer
when they come to your mind
on this day,
like any other.

Not a Story - Completed

There isn’t a story, you know. Not one that can be told while the wind weeps tears in the grey moments before dawn and life falls silent at the sight. But the seed of a cast-away tale sank roots deep in the decay of years gone by and moments lost forever. 

Back when “if only” sang its theme to the mournful tune of too-long days and “what if” lurked closer to my heart within the lengthening shadows, I planted the future amid desires spent unwisely, and thought the thorns and thistles would consume the garden before it bloomed. I prepared my grave with regret then crawled in to wait for the inevitable, blaming everyone else and my own choices, too, for failing to keep me from that place.

The weight closed in and I thought I had been pressed down to the center to spin--always spin--gazing out upon the dark and cold of space, smothered by the stars. Nothing remained to me as event passed by like a vapor, intangible and unmemorable. And like the deep damp of dew a chill sank through my heart to peel away the layers of expectation one by one until my borders blended with the darkness and I was blind. 

Under the loss of hope, down deeper than the lowest low, came a touch and a sign. Food for the dead is rejected by those who consider themselves alive, for the nutrition leaks in through decayed seams and split skin. Amid the assault of unsought support I found an unexpected strength and the tantalizing lure, a mere scent, of warmth above. 

There, in the moment of ending, came the impossible choice--death with promise of a future. 

Drink deep of death and the skin sinks tendrils down into the heart of a nourishment beyond knowledge. Reach toward warmth and a golden strand unfolds from the heart with a cry and a call to understanding. Amid decomposition and the loss of all that once was I found a writhing motion upward toward the light. And so, while sinking ever deeper into death, life grew and branched toward the sky. 

Roots twine through soil and living water gathered from the tears of heaven, while my heart soars ever higher, anchored upon that which once consumed all hope. And in every moment new light and warmth blend deep into veins that inhale destruction and exhale healing, while the wind stirs me soft and colors blossom bright and full. 

Even as petals fall, while fruit rounds and fills from sour to a sweetness that drops, completed, to be consumed when winter falls cold and still upon the land, I glimpse a wisdom that whispers of the stars that whirl and spin wild, through the dark and cold of space, and gaze upon the world as its crust decays in preparation for a greater spring. 

There isn't a Story -- Wordle

Under the influence of T.S. Poetry, I've finally succumbed to Wordle.

I entered the unedited some-thing-or-other that I wrote yesterday, which still plagues me with it's lack of specific definition. If it were prose I'd edit it one way; if it were poetry, another. I held a small hope that this process would clarify my position on the matter, which it didn't.

However, I did find poems peering out from among the words. Here is one of them.

Future moments ...
one came upward,
a deeper life consumed.

Comparitively

As the seed is to the tree
so is the earth to heaven,
Christ to the church,
and a lifetime to eternity.
Yet still remains a mystery,
how death is swallowed up
in victory.


---


Sketch: Inspiration from Psalm 119 | Pen on 3x5 card

Distraction Detail

I wrote something today,
though you probably won't see it ...
or at least not until it simmers
long, or too long,
and the broth is rich
or burnt.

There is always a question
when it comes to prose
of whether the flow
or the edit
brings the heart through
onto a page.

But making a fake-poem
and posting it here
has made me feel
as though something accomplished
happened when I wasn't looking.
---
In the meantime,
here are some photos of robins
in my backyard.

Some Questions for the Day

How much of what is worth less
am I willing to live without
in order to focus entirely upon
what is of eternal value?

How much of what is worth less 

could become part 

of what is worth most 

if only I released it

into the control of the one 

who imputes value?

Life is never without worth,
but blind eyes will not see 
even the brightest treasure.

Enlighten my eyes, oh Lord, 

that I may perceive wisdom.

When He Knew, She Knew

She stood there by the water, feeling thirsty,
a broken vessel welling up with tears,
and the salt still stained the stone work in the shadows
where she'd often poured her pain and looming fears.

He saw what she had been and all she'd do, 
and mourned for all the pain that she'd lived through,
then he shared the secret story of her life
and the failure of her longing to be a good man's wife.

She stood there by the water, overflowing,
amazed by all that he had seen and said,
and she found her secret shame no longer quelling
her desire to share the grace that she'd been fed.

There were no secrets;
he saw her deepest soul,
accepting her in spite of 
how she'd failed to play her role,
then he provided for the need
that she simply couldn't see.

His compassion and grace filled her heart until his face
sourced the only love that ever made her whole.

Gold - Photo Prompt

When sunlight caresses spring-touched growth, gold blooms among the trees.

Please do take a moment to click on the image. I wish I could have zoomed in further, because the sunlight made this tree glow!

Posted for

I Didn't Tell You

Amid corners and crevices
and in hollow spaces
where soul-searching reaches 
beneath mulch of pain,
I showed you the flowers
and new seeds unfolding
in the mess of their death
to new hope in the rain,
but I didn't tell you
the reason for breaking,
the circumstance pressing
by the mark of sin's stain.

My broken relationship
struggles for meaning
amid emptied promises,
hollow and sharp.
Confined by what must be
to frustration, feeling
that nothing can clean
the deception of heart.
And with frantic motion
in deep thought, still reeling,
stir up unexpected
into a new start.
Who knows where we're going
or whether concealing
has yet been exposed
to the innermost part.

---

And, well ... pray for us. Sometimes finding and replacing the destructive core of a relationship looks a little like trying to defuse an explosive device. Bring on the *remote-control robot, but if things go wrong, it's going to be messy.

*otherwise known as the working of the Holy Spirit, which reaches places no man can touch

Times

There is always a place
where nothing makes sense,
a time when the world crumbles
into confusion ...
where faith trembles and stands.

What God Gave

I hold growing gifts God gave me for you,
tucked in and around my broken life
--true--
but shining more bright and meaningful there.
It's he (and not I) that brings value to share.
I'm honestly sinful, exposed as unclean;
by miracle of grace my life is redeemed.
So see what you will when the light hits my heart.
I'm dying to death, 
and new life is his art.

Branches and Sky

What is it about branches and sky
that silently pulls a new longing by
to nestle in close beneath the heart
and pause every motion inclined to start?

Now feel the reach of the growing branch
inhale the moisture of clouds as they dance,
anchored below on a strength unseen
that nurtures the world to make it clean.

So many mysteries hide within,
illustrations of love, exposures of sin,
and new ways to notice how unending grace
begins amid death yet gives life a face.


---

What a creative God we follow. Everywhere I look I see signs of his presence, stories about who he is, and an ever-growing realization of how much we depend on him.

Image:  A recent photo of the tree out my window.

Remember When I Said I'd Won?

When my favorite modern author, Jeffrey Overstreet, suggested that interested parties should submit a brief essay to participate in a giveaway of his entire series, I was thrilled at the chance. I've been impatiently waiting to read the last two Auralia *Strands, so of course I entered.

Winning made my year! --so far, anyway-- Above is a photo of the books (in reading order) which I photographed yesterday, fresh from the box, before settling in to read them all, starting with Auralia's Colors.

I'm now about to start Cyndere's Midnight, and while I'm looking forward to reaching uncharted territory, I'm already caught up in the story just as much as if I'd never read it before. These books contain many facets to fill the heart with new meaning at every reading, so do find a way to give them a chance to enrich your life.

Here is the essay I submitted about an Auralia in my life:

I learned to look beyond the surface from George MacDonald. As a child I loved life with Clare Skymer, learned to be helpful with Willie MacMichael, followed the thread of wisdom with Irene, and suffered toward contentment with Rosamund.

As a result of reading his books, I often visit the moon-cottage when life seems hopeless and glance into reflections in search of insight, knowing faith teaches lessons that come around deeper at every encounter and trusting the maker of the world to construct beauty from the ashes of loss.

From my experiences new seeds now drop, glittering, into the hearts I touch--jewels that take root and grow. No matter how they spread, there are always more to share, shaping a beautiful mystery.

Gems of faith discovered in childhood dreams continue to prove true within the testing of life. They will last into eternity, suspended as they are upon God's presence. This love weaves through existence until nothing remains untouched by the hope encountered long ago within the words of a story-teller.

The giveaway also contained a very cool map of the Expanse, and a teleidoscope, which I used for this photo, hoping to catch a little of how it feels to look through into a rainbow world.

Unlike a kaleidoscope, a teleidoscope uses the view at the other end for its reflective transformation. I'm planning to point it at some of my art and take photos of the results, eventually, since I don't think I scratched the camera lens while taking this picture, after all!



 

*Secret code for "books in the series" since weaving, color, and art are strong components of this story.

Reaching - Pleasantly Disturbed Thursdays

Many fine fingers reach to the sky, desiring breath in the wind brushing by while warmed by the turning of light's loving face and nourished below by the deep roots of grace. Don't ask the trees why they set their roots there. They don't really know, nor do they care. They simply exist in the presence of all that has ever been made until someday they fall.

Life just is, like the space between inhalation and exhalation, made up of what happens amid the air we breathe. It pours through us even though we don't understand it or see what it means. But because God loves us, air flows, and because he loves us he lets us glimpse what love is, though sometimes we only notice when the air becomes a wind that moves the visible.

---

Image:  Sunlit branch against the sky, taken recently

Post written as a part of The Great Scott's Pleasantly Disturbed Thursdays

Playing Around

Images:  A Solitary Life - Sol Itary is telling a story today. Feel free to add your own words. - Camera play from this morning while the sun was still shining. Now we have rain ... heigh-ho, it's spring!

Broken Heart

My heart is broken,
I think,
though it's hard to be confident
of what once existed
among the crushed layers
of stone and flesh,
the one bleeding,
the other crumbling into sand.
I found shattered fragments,
softened by liquid contact,
and shaped them in the palm of my hand.
They say concrete is strong,
compacted together
in a blend beyond simple definition.
And so I'm pouring out my heart
into the mold of hope
that once again I will be whole.

---

For the "reviving a dead metaphor" prompt from the High Calling RAP.

Image:  a church-note sketch

Art Is

Art is like a whisper in the wind.
By the time it is received
it has tangled with mystery in flight
and shares secrets  the artist never knew.

Image:  a 3x5 card drawing

Beneath the Ending

We hold tragedy in our hearts,
death within death,
the dying seed surrounded by deterioration.
How often do we realize
that the seeming uselessness of it all
hides the most meaningful implication?
Should the fact that the dying came
in unexpected ways
change the inevitability of the ending?
No, the tragedy ensues
when the seed of truth  
is crushed before germinating.
We are supposed to die
and the world is intended to break
(unlike the beginning) to source new hope.
And amid the instability
we learn to seek the steady hand
that holds light, warmth, and water to bring growth.

Truth

If words aren't from the heart, do they have meaning?
If they do not touch the soul, do they have worth?
If we cannot echo truth, simply by breathing,
can we really claim to shape it by our search?

How can we touch the soul with well-phrased echoes?
How might we prove our lives through space and time?
We try so hard to change our moving shadows,
alterations too much shaped by false design.

Dealing with the masking of affections
must expose the very core of who we are,
yet the fear of being known leads to distraction
from our need to be consumed by living fire.

Can reality pretend to be appealing
when our every act and choice denies what's true?
Better to reveal than try concealing,
and proceed from where we are to be made new.

---

Image ... exposure, sunlight, shadows, textures, and the unseen ... a photo I took last year.

The Song

I heard a song with a simple sound
and a rhythm that turns you right around,
and now my words keep flowing soft and smoothly.
It's like the heartbeat calling blood
or the soothing hum of a mother's love;
whoever wrote the words knew how to move me.