I walk the halls of ghosts.
Of all who came before.
The memories of the foundry floor
Reverberate in my mind.
I remember silhouettes of friends;
See them smiling there.
I see toolbags, slung up on their backs.
Hear their crazy laughs.
Their grunts of strain. Their eyes in pain. As bolts found home.
As my mind wanders these halls, still entrenched in work,
Thoughts loop large to previous days.
Wishing for days gone by—to reach and grab a piece.
Stuck in the here and now—more in back than in front.
Training new by old. Futures to reveal.
Fresh hands to shake, and smiles to share...
Toolbags of their own.
Perhaps a sign of times, as future comes and goes.
Perhaps a sentimental fool in hallways, I suppose.
- Debra
God looks for real humble people
ones who have deep, reverential hearts
willing to always be obedient
so God would bless them in no small part
The commandments of God are holy and true
keeping them is for our benefit and good
so all our generations would be blessed
all their days when rightly understood
God's discipline is to teach His truth
so you obey all His sayings as you walk
in God's ways, fearfully in reverence
forever learning to walk in godly talk
The requirements of God are fourfold
to love and serve Him in holy fear
walking close by the Lord every day
with a full heart and soul all your years
God is a God rightly to be praised
bowing before Him in reverential fear
bringing our love imperfect as it is
to the lover of our soul who is ever near
Rosemary kept its fragrance longest where your sleeve had once bent through it; no gardener ever spoke of such small fidelities.
Root by root, I forgot the names of constellations until Orion became only the interval your breathing used to cross before sleep.
Resin closed around a fallen wing; amber finished the touch that time itself had left unfinished.
Ruin admitted one white hellebore between two loosened stones; no seed was seen to enter, yet every spring returned there first.
Rapture arrived without astonishment: the candle shortened, the chapel darkened, and still the perfume of warm wax continued kneeling in the air.
River water carried away our reflections at once, yet the reeds along the bank continued leaning toward the place where they had disappeared.
Rook after rook found separate branches; when the wind grew still, the leaves between them ceased to tremble first.
Holy Cherubim
Please Take me home with you
I'm told you're from the land of His Majesty
I'm lost finding my way into the heavens
Would you consider me-
A vessel of holiness in due time
Who I am today is a victim of circumstance
My steadfast conscience keeps belief alive
I do dare hope in tomorrows salvation
This is my only humble confession
Give me breath, give me life, give me freedom
I'm duped by a world of expectations
"Teach me patience,
Teach me reverence
Teach me adherence"
To keep faith active and submissive
Amen
Surviving_Pawn
pilgrim tears weeping
happiness or reverence
very deep respect
AURA OF REVERENCE
particular
interpretatIons
encompass
moods
en masse
flourish
concentrated
glories
with
enlightened
entrenched
prosaic
reality
Guilty Conscience
Spare my soul
Forgive my Spirit
Cleanse my mind
Redirect my thoughts
Rebuild my sense
Boost my motive
Energize my strength
Heaven isn't far away
Hell is always inbound
My eyes are hazy
My faith is wavy
The graveyard is ready
But my salvation is steady
Surviving_Pawn
As Twilight gleams by, from the arrival of dusk,
Both were engaged, in conversation being brusque.
were They wholly sat, beneath the darkness subdued_
Overwhelmed with replies, "I'm not you."
Staggered were thoughts, embedding the head
Where altruism gets mould into such schadenfreude'
While benevolence vanquishes and affinity becomes due,
For the reasons they clarify, "I'm not you."
The name they chant or the bible they preach;
Profound logic they share, comprehended to each.
Entirely identical, though the question stands by..
"I'm not you" and "you're not I"
Always cream rises
Greater than a single cup
Madness embodied
Too vast for this world
Gentle generosity
Quiet tenderness
Bravado to prove
Excellence executed
Best there's ever been
Revelled in reveal
Lionheart magnificence
Broken, the walls fell
Cold steel posts stand tall
Bear witness to spectacle
Squared Circle - the stage
What if
Heaven is here on earth,
Would you live to testify in his Holy name?
What if
Hell is six feet beneath,
Would you believe in resurrection of the spirit?
What if
For real, there's some judgement day,
Would your name be in the book of life?
What if
Divinity is for real
Is there a religion in your heart?
surviving_pawn
"To make pearls out of grit
is to make sorrow and hardship a thing of beauty"
Waves of pale blue wafted through the quilted Texas sky
Highlighting the tangerines and lavenders of the evening
Grandpa’s old windmill looked picturesque in the distance
Sundown believes in imagination, adoration and fantasy
I stared into the ribboned distance, wondering if the trees suspected
They had an essential part in the mystique of the moment
Birds were reverent, none of them flew through the backdrop
My camera captured the night’s beauty, but not her silent ambiance
My old guitar has traveled many miles,
And seen its fair share of tears but many more smiles.
Its listeners vary – some will stop and stay,
While others, in a rush, turn and walk away.
The melodies it sings, and the emotions it projects,
Take us back to an earlier time, or a memory we can’t forget.
Her mellow tone resonates across the room,
Filling the expanse with delights of our favorite tunes.
It may not have a mind, but some say it has a soul,
Her feelings emerge in rhythms of country, blues, or rock-n-roll.
She may be old, but she remains firm and strong,
She’s always there to get me through whatever comes along.
She is almost as old as I but still a star,
I’ll always be so thankful for my old guitar.
Boldly,
No other word will do,
For the way you forge
Into your life
Each day.
Steps I take to follow
Slow,
With trepidation.
Earmarked with caution,
Riddled with fear.
An extra skin
Carried so long,
A hardened shell,
Baked by the heat
Of a thousand
Silent stares,
Doubting me,
Until
I doubt myself.
You,
The inspiration,
The light,
That will guide me,
Free me,
From the prison
Of
Indecision.
I have heard eternal fires burn
With notes of lessons yet to learn,
And bathed in Basho’s lyric streams
Of Summer, Winter, Fall and Spring
I have climbed the lichen cliffs unseen
And heard that tranquil rhythmic theme
While watching herds of elk below
And never thought to draw my bow
For there in Father’s well-laid score
Was harmony displayed, and more.
It was here I heard the fires burn
It was here I came to prove and learn
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