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Showing posts from June, 2010

A Certain Kind of Strength

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There is a certain kind of hope that comes from emerging empty handed from tribulation's fire, knowing you have survived with nothing more to loose and surely everything to gain.

There is a certian kind of grace that comes from crossing the threshold of forgiveness, to know the difference between being it's giver and the vulnerability of being it's grateful receiver.

There is a certain kind of strength that comes from reaching out, not to pick up the heavy burden, but instead to humbly lay it down.

Open Wider

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Magpie #20

Life's accumulation of all the "maybe somedays" rise up like stone walls of crumbling sins.
They build a barrier between our sense of feeling, and what penetrates and we allow in.
Then complacency seeps in and settles to stagnate underneath,
forming empty places deep where the human eye can never see.
Like birth, we open wider to try to brush the surface and kill the deeper ache we hide.
But only God can break the stone to touch the soul, and fill the cavities inside.

Magpie Tales a great site for writers



Recently I had a long visit with the dentist.  It was the completion of many trips to repair years of neglect.
When the hygienist said to me open wider, at that moment it dawned on me how we have such tunnel vision in life.  We spend all our time busy with mundane daily tasks, and neglect the things that matter most.  It was like God was saying to me,  "open wider, there are many more things to be repaired here". 
:-) I am still working on that.  :…

Underneath a Faded Quilt

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Her hands have become too shaky to stitch the detailed quilt,
yet her heart in its many years stands gracefully still.

Her eyes have lost their keen vision to connect the needle with the thread,
yet her spirit can see the glistening of life's beauty that is ahead.

Her strength is slowly unraveling making her too weak to spend hours on her work,
yet the hems of her soul are still as strong as her worth.

Her outer beauty has lost it's luster, like the fading of a cloth,
yet underneath her beauty is greater than it was.

I can see her life now as not an ending sunset, but instead the beginning of the dawn,
for underneath a faded quilt the stitches still stand strong.


For Aunt Margaret

Thief

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Regret has an anthem that echoes in the silences of the night. It blankets with doubt, and steals rest with it's own blunt knife. All the missed calls, cracked china ,and dying gardens of the day, are like open caskets that were meant to be closed, but I will look anyway. The luxury to forget all the mundane and colossal will not be found, for all the shadows blends in like a face is to a shroud. Yet, like a long illness, rest will certainly come soon enough, as it passes through the remains of what could have been ,and all that never was.
Prompt 2  Insomnia A wonderful site for blogging poets is Poets United.


The Stab That Does Not Kill

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Magpie #19
They say that a paper cut hurts worse than a stab, and Mr. Hoffman knew first hand that was right.
For he was watching his lawyer and Mrs. Hoffman's, slowly divide both their lives.
The sting of the silences had torn loves core, and emptied the words that were left.
Leaving a woman he once held, filled with morsels of regret.
Now its down to a mortgage, a dog, 3 kids, and 2 cars.
While he is left with regrets of his own, and a broken heart.
Afterwards he will lay with a remote control, and a dog on a roll out bed,
with regrets slicing torment inside of his head.
For these things were the culprit that gave the stabbing blow.
That have left him to live as half the man he had once known.

A great site for writers  Magpie Tales





"Do you know the most surprising thing about divorce? It doesn't actually kill you. Like a bullet to the heart or a head-on car wreck. It should. When someone you've promised to cherish till death do you part says "I never loved you,…

Hearkening

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It is not the lecture of the chore, but the crackling of the leaves. Nor the explanation of the weather, but the whisper of the breeze. It is not the lesson of the fowl, but the flutter of the wings. Nor the reasoning of the notes, but the echoe of it's ring. It is not the description of the fire, but the touch of the flickering flame. Nor the statistics of the dice, but the clatter of the game. It is not the message of conservation, but the rustling of planted trees in the grass. Nor the warning of the danger, but the sound of metal's crash. It is not the documented construction, but the pounding of the nails. Nor the cheering of the race, but the sudden fall's wail. It is not the phonics of the sound, but the depth of movement it will make. Nor the voice of goodbye, but the patter of footsteps waking away. It is not the theory of relativity, but the twinkling of the stars. Nor the philosophy of humanity, but the beating of one heart.

All The Words Unwritten

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She sorted her thoughts like pages of ideas that were never used
a blank canvas with dull edges unsharpened yet truly sharp                                                                    
it was like dusty guitars with no strings to play
or an empty crystal vase
her pearls were lost at the bottom of a drawer never to be worn
the creme brulee would remain untorched
each one a perfect thread to a beautiful quilt never made
.....all because when idea's orb was within her grasp
she did not take the time to get a pencil
and simply write it down.

Magpie Tales

Greater The Loss

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Is it the longing for the majestic sunset for the man that can no longer see? Or is it the ignorance of the colors for the woman who has never seen? Is it the ache for the one now left with only recollection of years of mother's embrace?
Or is it the emptiness for the orphan
who cannot recall her face?
Is it the loss of the mighty tree
burning as it falls?
Or is it the lack of the tree
that never stood at all?

Lonely Is a Velvet Chair

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In the old house I grew up in, there was an antique velvet chair that sat in the corner of the living room draped with a sheet. It was never used as far as I could tell.  Mother said it was too fine a chair to be dirtied up by our sweaty little bodies. So there it stood ,while I sat on the floor to watch television.

Years later after she passed away, the chair ended up in my grandparent's garage once again draped with a sheet. I came across it searching for old photos of my family. I had spent many nights there at my grandparent's and other friend's houses throughout that difficult time.

Looking back now, I realize it was simply my Dad's way of protecting me from the emptiness that so filled our home. I suppose he did not understand that loneliness is not merely solidarity, for I learned then, that it is also magnified by being kept apart from where you are meant to be.

Liberty Has No Saddle

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A horse within her fences needs no saddle nor her reins. Galloping her own pasture holding wind's freedom within her mane.

She follows not a footstep, for each made is yet her own. Gracefully keeping her destination, though she must dance there all alone.

A horse within her fences, where the gates are closed up tight. For liberty has no saddle, yet it always has a price.