Lord, tears fall at night so silently;
people don't notice.
In the pitch-dark hours, no one can see
puffy, red faces in broken homes
or with broken lives,
where there is no peace.
They cry and cry till sunup,
and some fall asleep,
with no appetite to eat,
for their souls are hungry for peace.
They sing,
"Who really loves me?
Who can save me
from these thoughts that torment me?"
They all judge them, Lord—
their friends and family.
They have all turned
their backs on them.
But Lord, You see.
And You are faithful,
for You never sleep.
Show them Your never-ending love,
the power of a King clothed in majesty,
with a crown of thorns
and holes in His arms and feet.
Nature tickles my senses year round.
Her treasures are easily found.
From heavenly skies to uncommon ground,
Nature's stimulants abound.
I observe a sky where sun and rain compete.
The sudden rain cools the summer heat.
As vapor rises skyward off the street,
A rainbow provides a dazzling treat.
Thunder announces an approaching storm.
As I watch, dark storm clouds form.
The smell of ozone fills the air,
While lightning carelessly strikes here and there.
The northwestern wind moves the storm along.
The skies clear and the birds resume their song.
A busy bee is buzzing in a flower,
Only briefly interrupted by the shower.
Nasturtiums dance lightly in the breeze.
Their nectar delights my tongue with a squeeze.
The colorful flowers are Nature's bling.
Their heady scents to my senses cling.
My world consists of these simple things.
I'm thankful for the sense of joy life brings.
You think you see me,
but you don't.
You see the mask I put on,
but not me,
not the real me.
You say I don't wear a mask,
that you would know if I did,
but you don't know me!
You don't see me!
And how I struggle in the world,
in conversations,
in gestures.
You don't see me,
pretend to be someone I am not.
You don't see me,
imitate your language,
your faces
your interactions,
your signals,
your cues,
your words!
You don't see me!
If I go to see a concert,
I want music that I like,
So what I expect to hear
From a performer with a mic
Is a new or old song, maybe with
Some background to be shared
On the way the lyrics came about,
In case somebody cared.
What I don’t want to experience
Is politics on stage,
Despite the fact the audience
Might want to so engage.
A show with an agenda
Should be advertised that way,
So ticket buyers are prepared
For what the stars will say.
Though some venues might be fitting
For performers speaking out,
At a music concert, that’s not what
The evening is about.
To a Certain Poet
by Frank Daub
Your modesty -- regarding talent? BECOMING to your SOUL.
The decision to embrace this thought? Belies your role –
As MESSENGER.
Long ago you took the mission
To tell beauty in words and lines.
Now time has blurred your vision.
Now doubt has wormed your mind.
Think about the adulation –
Deny those words are true!
It is you might stop creation –
It is you must see it through!
I shall not live to see changes for the better
But those who do will not notice them
Just as I did not notice the changes
Having taken them for granted
And yet, previous generations
Could only dream of such changes
Well, at least about some of the better ones
That have taken place in my lifetime
And even then, they hardly indulged themselves
In such irresponsible illusions
But I merely wish to say
That I care nothing for the future,
For the simple reason
That I won’t be there
Of course, this is selfish
But no more selfish than having a body
And a soul that belongs only to me
As part of some greater whole
I am of no interest, even to myself
Let alone to others
I have no need for lofty abstractions
To prove my existence
And find it valuable in itself.
Time i see it not.' Yet its journey has yet not stopped' if two hundred years were
The span of your days.? You would read
Better, the woes of each age' failing this
Hit the history trail, if more did; could we have
Less seething, or tantying, or railing rage.? Look at 1853; 56.' You might get to learn of dark tricks, 1910 a time of Spanish flu, 1914 and a war just grew? Forty one years untill the second go.' To clear out
fachists is the way it did go.' 1965 we got
Into nam..' right after the Korean one
damn! con-vid has been and gone
If you were two hundred now you
would have lived through every, one..Maybe you can see a pattern now, old europe can be a greedy sow, many world leaders, on puppet strings, its not just a theory, things
Turn to similar in our timeframe again, convid has been and gone' old europe eyes Crimea again..For you see a stratagist, once said who rules there, holds the world, in a
pillory, Fred or charlie or wally? Or who.? Can't you see
On which foot is the shoe.' I suggest you find out really fast, or your jacksie, might
Get one up it? way too hard' and, quite fast.'
Eternity is dull.
That's something to mull,
and I would pursue it
if I had time to do it.
Like a wisp of smoke on the horizon,
just as elusive as the setting sun.
We mourn for the kind words left unspoken,
and for all the dreams broken, just for fun.
i see you
butterflies, loyal endeavor, gathering pollen
birds delirious in the delight of flight
clouds autonomous to wander in the wonder
rainbows magically appear, silently vanish
wheat swaying in the wind's caress
irises erect in the day's glory
cat balanced on a picket fence
bound for a night's glory
streams wandering in purpose
seeking their greater destination
without a worry in any ripple
rocks giving them song
as the heavenly feathered join in tune
rising upwards the slopes
from valley to mountain's end
harboring meadows of serenity
the sunflower's gaze never leaves
the path of light
where wander fawn and dove
was this not at peace
in the garden they speak of
the metaphors within it all
articulate it well
i see you
life is a miracle
worthy of an attitude of gratitude
i hear that in a baby's cry
i see you
i walk with you
i love you
you are the promise
within Creation's breath
Unambiguous in its cosmic Exhalation
Oregon 9/20/26
"As the leaf of life sleeps upon my lips,"
I will see the "foliage of farewell."
"When the soul-stars dream and die,"
I see red leaves covering the fall trees.
"O fall, let this lore of love be the last,"
for I now see "I am the Eyes of Time."
The green leaves must change colors for the fall,
but "neither dusk nor dawn can delude me."
To watch and see a grandchild shine
In a performance is to feel
Like shouting, “Yes, that one is mine!”
Of course his talents do appeal.
It’s hard to be objective, but
We want our grandkids to do well.
Still, if they aren’t great, my gut
Would let me know. (Though, would I tell?)
Not everybody who performs
In sports or some way on the stage
Will rise up way about the norms
And with the audience engage
Except within subjective eyes,
Which always think that they’re the best.
The future, though, holds the surprise
Of who will leave the world impressed.
He rammed his basket
Into the busy isle
Customers looking on
Clearing a path for the angry mile
...blind as a bat
Her face was withered
Hardened by life's trials
Raging with sharp, cutting words
Projectile vomit burning in bile
...missing the target
They line up outside the windows
With signs blazing with cause
Innocent souls passing by
Bombarded in the wrath of pause
...aware, unwilling to change
Worlds looking on the surface
Telling inhabitants how things should be
Believing enlightened consciousness
Is superior to being able to SEE
...WISDOM as necessary
...ahhh...yes, the blind can't see
Written by Trudy Schrader on 09-05-2026
Neither a patriot nor a cosmopolitan
I’m walking no party line, carrying no cross
Sorry for this, but I’m just metropolitan
Making the ends meet, giving no toss
About others, and they feel the same
About me, so we’re on equal footing
Have a nice day is the one thing we say
Whoever we meet, doesn't mean rooting, tooting
Once I had a dream to live by the sea
Then in the garden I wanted to spend
The rest of my days, but it wasn’t to be
So I waved goodbye to both dreams that I had
That’s how I see it, patriots and cosmopolitans
Immigrants, refugees, seekers of home
Set your sails straight away to the dearest ones
Otherwise, you are bound to make it alone.
My eye is a small brown bird
that won't stay in its cage.
It slips through the bars of my lashes
and flies straight out the window,
chasing a real bird across the sky.
Grown-ups call this a non-focusing,
the eye should perch on the page
like a good, quiet pet.
But I think my eye is a bee.
It wants to land on everything sweet:
the crack in the ceiling, shaped like a river,
a shoe shining like a black lake,
a little galaxy of dust
turning to gold dust in the sun.
And when my eye flies home again,
it comes back full,
its wings dusted with honey,
ready to pour all that sweetness
back into my work.
So let your eyes fly.
Let them drink the whole wide world.
Sitting still isn't the only way to see,
sometimes the best seeing
happens in flight.
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