I wandered out beneath late-summer skies,
a blue so wide it felt like open thought.
The road before me stretched in quiet sighs,
inviting me toward places wonder sought.
A compass rested lightly in my hand,
its needle trembling as if it could feel
the pull of distant paths across the land~
those whispered routes the heart keeps half-concealed.
I followed where it pointed, mile by mile,
past fields still holding sunlight in their seams,
each turn a question, each new step a smile
that rose like wind through half-remembered dreams.
And when the day leaned softly into night,
my wandering felt shaped by blue-tinged light.
I am a proud American,
Nothing more, nothing less,
No tags to wear,
No labels to confess.
I am not blind to history,
Nor unaware of our mistakes.
Like nations older than our own,
We've known the risks that failure makes.
Yet through the trials of our past,
We learned, endured, and found a way.
To rise above our broken roads
And build a stronger path each day.
History is not a chain to drag,
Nor a script we must obey.
It is a compass in our hands,
To guide us forward on our way.
I know what this country means to me,
A truth no one can redefine.
Not by titles, not by degrees,
Nor by a different view than mine.
So let me stand where I believe,
Without demands that I conform.
Leave me be, and walk in peace,
No anger, only calm and warmth.
For I am a proud American,
Nothing more, nothing less;
A citizen of hope and freedom,
Without a need for anything else.
I’m just an American, and proud to be!
By James C. Chapman
“a heartbeat pulsating as living light
free from each and every limitation
I Am that dwelling in unbound delight
the source wherefrom arises creation”
My compass is set:
Forward alignmed by faith through grace.
I do not control life’s challenges,
but I command my response.
I am that I live for my purpose,
not for the world’s praise.
I do not bend;
I do not break;
I do not look back.
I am that, I am of a human sponge,
Whom listens, observers and absorbs lifes lessons and learn from its mistakes!
For this is my creed!
Sailing home to England
o'er the bounding main
oh to see those white cliffs
fields of green and feel the rain again
sailed away for a year and a day
an albatross following t'was a good sign
with wings wide-spread overhead
'tween tropics weather was fair all was fine
sailors know where the trade winds blow
and trust their compass true
but my days a'roving the briny deep are now done
I'm rolling down a rhumb line arc to you
Gratia et Veritas
Our conscience bears witness
(in the way thoughts are excused)
Our conscience bears witness
(in the way actions are accused)
Our conscience bears witness
(though inner self bemused)
Our conscience bears witness
(through God’s grace unabused)
NO COMPASS OR ANCHOR
….At sea
also known as my life, I drift.
I dream of wanting to have a
plan but I don’t. Letting down
people, not quite grasping
opportunities.
For I am a
non-commissioned
ensign of a boat in a storm lost
without its compass
or anchor.
I have passion and the drive
however I am fettered to a
chunk of seaweed.
It smells. It rots.
It becomes a part of me.
Oh the distant sunrise of a new day
is so far on the horizon it may as well be a grain of sand.
Small, minuscule, measly and insignificant.
Just like my remains of a past plan
long ago stranded on a desert island.
At sea also known as my life,
I drift….
Compass
a direction
I should take with my heart
letting it lead me to my love
journey
Reflections on the world's direction
~ empty pages
my precise compass points to innermost heart
a microcosmic myrtle of macrocosm art
I journey inward this core, where lies my
Tree of Life ____
tasting amber resonance of Self’s sap
it cradles spirit, now a blissed viburnum
spaceless space kisses,
olive is ocarina enchanting,
enthralling, embracing
earth and heaven ~ discerning,
lemon heathered ____a garden
Core imbues form with ineffable frequencies
elusive is a holly terminal
spirit discerns tree’s essence,
agape agapanthus caped appears
belled garden knows
own’s every oak throb
benevolent bonafide biome,
pulsing life force
animating Being’s fluids
in pond stillness
translucent lotus opens
sublime perfumed
destination to heart core costs zilch
no other station can compare !
A fire, a fire,
It’s burning me.
I scream as I fall to the ground,
Writhing, growling, twisting in pain,
Sprawled across the floor,
My body a map of ache
That never leaves.
The burns run too deep,
And when the heat grows unbearable,
It almost feels cool.
Hearing my cries, they come running,
Faces frantic,
Hands reaching,
But there is no fire to smother,
No flame to put out.
Only me,
Collapsing into my own invisible inferno,
Tears spilling,
For a pain no one else can see,
A pain that consumes,
Devours,
Burns without light.
And they just stand there,
Watching as I writhe,
Helpless before the blaze
That lives only inside.
When storm clouds gather
overshadow the sun
and darkness overwhelms
has me on the run
I look on you as the lodestone
to a sense of calm serenity
see you as a compass of my own
to a place of quiet tranquility
when hard times follow
in the wake left behind
and troubles overtake
only to remind
in a yearning world
with all its sadness
and is out of joint
on a burning world
in all its madness
you are the still point
“The Path towards REMEMBERING is not for the weak. It is priceless. Move inwards, without faltering & know that you are held.” Poet
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
journey within is strewn with jagged edges
and jewels
both can lead to detours
walking a straight and narrow path one
traverses own jungle untamed
lame sometimes becomes our resolve
not to forge ahead beyond crags or rags
is not an option once undertaking begins
screams may merge with songs or dreams
cream alongside starvation or salvation
a luminous beckoning lighthouse at end of tedium slogs hold us steady
often makes us heady
in solitude with faith we need make no haste
knowingness with Heart’s compass surely
keeps us safe
neither hazard or hurdle makes us curdle
Soul the master of destined fate never late
to turn cherished key into jewelled Home
within is majestic prize to win
Am I wrong?
Always drifting left when the world turns right,
Like a compass drawn to storms instead of light.
Am I wrong?
For trusting the beat of my own internal song,
Even if silence is the chorus all along.
I move to the rhythm only I hear,
Not chasing thrill rides they hold dear.
I'm not blind,
I’m just tuned to a different spark,
Finding sunrise even when I walk through dark.
At times I'm alone, that's the price I pay,
But solitude sings in a deeper way.
Am I wrong?
For believing in my hands to shape the clay,
Carving a path no one dared to lay.
Knowing I’ve got to lead and do my part,
Even if the march begins with a solo heart.
Am I Wrong?
He drew maps for a living—
not of roads, but of promises.
Soft lines where her laughter once lived,
tiny arrows where her eyes used to point
when she couldn’t say stay.
She was the sea—
ever folding into herself,
a hymn of salt and leaving.
No harbor could hold her,
no anchor dared ask.
He traced her tides in silence,
built cartographies of could-have-beens,
and marked in inkless ink:
here be ghosts.
She tried, once,
to live on land,
to breathe stillness,
to fold her waves into windows.
But the sea is not a creature meant for ceilings.
So she left—
and the world kept spinning
in the wrong direction.
In some other verse,
some bend of time,
she learns to stay,
he forgets to wait.
But the ending, like gravity,
refuses to rewrite itself.
Every love story has a map.
Theirs had no destination.
Only a compass
that spun
and spun
and spun.
--
April 2024
Isn't it ironic?
You sat on my right side when we first met
And you exited my life making a left turn down my street
It was my right hand that comforted you in the beginning
And it was my left hand that tore off something that was supposed to be permanent in the end
How the directions changed as we danced together
Entering on the right leaving on my left
Poetic almost
How my right hand wrote stanzas about you
While my left hand is cursed to remember the words I never got to write
How it wiped away your tears
How both hands would wrap around your waist holding you close
Now we're on opposite sides of the compass
Never to be close to each other again
While I set off in my own direction
My hands itch to write your name once again
But I resist
For that left turn signal is still etched into my mind
Just as all our memories are
But that is all they are
Memories of the past
All I can do now is move onto my own path
And live with the empty space of where someone used to be.
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