My emotions flow in time with the rivers current
It's so close I can smell it, what I long for
the tall cat tail grass brushing against my bare arms, wet sand and driftwood
a heavy heart longing to be carried home again
my soul craves this, the waters hymnal
It must be a dream to meet you here on these banks under the night sky
Sitting on the edge of all that I must cross
We laugh, skipping stones
Waning sunlight casts shadows across bare branched trees
whose leaves silently tumble, carpeting the ground
Autumn murmurs with gentle taps on my window
I breathe a sigh in consensual reply
acknowledging the beauty of her creation
Nimbus clouds gather in twilight skies
to brush sloping hills a shade of purple haze
I hear the lonesome call of an owl's sad lament
He sits in a loblolly pine, hoping to attract a mate
A pastoral scene being painted before my eyes
Drifting through maples
Autumn sings a hymnal song
in farewell to crimson leaves
Cloaked in gloaming mist
Fall grows weary for slumber
as Winter's approach draws nigh
October 11, 2021
Let's Mix It Up Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Poem 3 is a Choka. (5-7-7-5-7-7)
Joe Doaks was a hardened criminal
the truth about him wasn’t subliminal.
Then he met a sweetheart
who gave him a new start.
Now he leads a prison choir with a hymnal.
When winter in quietness sleeps
not long indoor nights or snowfall deep
not wreaths upon the door nor trees in stark silhouette
not lights in windows bright or the holiday banquet;
not nativity plays nor carols, joyful sung
not presents exchanged nor hallway baubles humg;
but God with us ,Emmanuel
Jesus,come to us,to dwell.
inspired by Dudley-Smith form 'When the Lord'
"Oh blessed my soul, you maketh me whole,
You've opened my door, my soul you restore,
You've given me strength when tithing my tenth.
Praise my countenance, giving me confidence,
You've covered my health, your love I have felt,
The angelic host sang, and harmony rang,
So let me lift my cup, for my prayers are on top,
For within this song, everybody belongs,
Let my praises begin, with this righteous hymn,
To our precious Lord above,
Spread
Wings your anointing dove."
2019 September 08
The tower’s high with striking chime
its clangor resonates.
With face of time now widely seen
clock’s scene thus viewed dictates.
Its dial white looks free of grime
new cleaning time awaits .
Loud presence yea with polished sheen
our day it regulates
Hymns above the leaves,
Only my sadness renounced.
Muffled miracles abroad.
Everything goes without saying.
Sliding into happiness,
Whooshing into wonder.
Eviscerate all logic.
Enumerate all grace.
The stars can't sing your song enough times.
However many times you may doubt,
Others ignite from your flicker.
Mountains carve homes for you
Everytime your praise is sung.
A book full of words
Each one connected by a tune
To create a perfect song
In its most beautiful frequency
Two different worlds
Labeled to be both picayune
Even though there's nothing wrong
They really are not just meant to be.
This songbook that I'm thumbing through,
uplifts my soul, I sing anew.
""Amazing grace how sweet the sound,
that saved a wretch like me."
(John Newton, thank you for this song,
you changed your life, you righted a wrong)
"At the cross, at the cross, where I first saw the light,
and the burden on my heart rolled away"
(With Jesus, your sins, too, will roll away,
and the joy in your heart will grow stronger and stay.)
"Love lifted me! Love lifted me!
When nothing else could help, love lifted me."
(Jesus is a lifter of souls.
When sins are forgiven, heaviness goes.)
"This little light of mine, Yes! I'm gonna let it shine;
Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine."
(Everyone of us in our own unique way,
can shine their light for Jesus today.)
"Take my hand, precious Lord. Hear my cry, hear my call,
hold my hand lest I fall. Take my hand, precious lord, lead me home."
(When you need a hand to hold,
know His touch is more precious than silver or gold.)
"When we all get to heaven, what a day of rejoicing that will be!
When we all see Jesus, we'll sing and shout the victory."
(This world is not our home.
Someday we'll see Jesus sitting on His throne.)
Hanging from the crane
is the end-all,
the pitied and plain
inheritor of pain.
It drifts and dangles
in the weak breeze.
You can't turn the pages.
Accept this and die.
I wish I could write
a simple poem like the kind
they read in church.
Poems with simple words
"heart," and "soul,"
the kind that
stay written down and chanted.
I am not
a sour puss.
My tear ducts open
just when the sentiment rushes.
I worship.
Why can't I write a hymn?
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