Exposed and Authentic

brown sand

Photo by Miri on Pexels.com

 

The salty air lay thick upon my skin.

Laughter in the village sings so sweetly.

Never does a hard day meet me here,

when I walk by the sea in God’s keeping.

 

This beach helps me see outside of my self,

and find The One who is the Hope of all things.

Exposed and authentic the waves hit my feet,

with no fear of the dance tomorrow will surely bring.

 

I will sing in this His cathedral

of sky and sand and sea.

I praise The Holy One who cannot be undone

and give thanks as He walks here with me.

Everything that used to be solid

silhouette of two person

Photo by Trung Nguyen

 

Everything that used to be solid is suddenly fluid.

The mid-afternoon sky the color of hammered gold

Waves of heat rising from the horizon looks like water only to find a hard rock road

I do love living where the Sky is bigger

Somehow it feels tedious to have too many trees above

If I don’t know you then I don’t know anybody

It is like waiting to touch the bottom of a bottomless well

The Quiet Side, A Different Peace…

I

two boat on ocean during golden time

Photo by Skitterphoto

 

The North shore of my piece of sugar white heaven faces the sound (Bay) side of the island.

The three mile bridge stands sentinel guard and my  small bay is dotted with white sails stirring my heart.

The bridge that brings me home to my nautical world.

The smell of fish and salt is a soothing balm to a weary girl.

The hermit crabs do a miniature square dance that leads them safely home.

The Sandpipers play hopscotch in the tide pool foam

The Gulls swoop and squawk over schools of fish and bones

There is a different peace on the Sound, the quiet side.

It always feels like the end of the day here where the tired come home to rest.

Like a sweet baby’s coo the waves lap upon the shore.

The “Quiet Side” is what the locals call the back door.

And are happily living and dying on this island right here.

 

 

 

 

 

Inner City Poet

photography of person walking on road

Photo by Leo Cardelli

I heard a story ’bout a poet who gave himself away

The inner city was his canvas with no color in his dreams

He was a wanderin’ grifter but no one knows for sure

It is said he still wanders ’round downtown at local bars

 

This City is a hard place and it stings when North winds blow

It shows no mercy to the poor child with no where else to go

I heard a story ’bout a poet who sang his songs for all the lost

Then he set himself on fire to warm them from the chillin’ frost

 

The  children who roam the Night Streets tell the story of a man

called the Inner City Poet who comes each night to tuck them in

Inside their cardboard boxes they lay there heads upon the ground

and the wanderer sings them lullabies ’til morning comes around

Bell Fright

door wooden bell old

Photo by Little Visuals

 

Her hooded gray blue eyes are unexpectedly bright

She speaks of the “old days, the days of Bell Fright

The terror, relentless ringing in the darkest hour of the night.

 

Communism she says, “did not deliver futures bright.”

Just more betrayal and fear, and torture called Bell Fright.

Not the Nazis, no but Comrades Stalin and Marx

Different regimes but same death toll ringing in their hearts.

 

Haunting broken melodies played on Hungarian violins

She still shivers with the memories of dark dank cells

She says  no one ever knew before  it could be so cold in hell.

 

This poem is inspired by the book Goodbye to Budapest by Margarita Morris and to all who have survived the Bell Fright of dictators of evil.

 

 

The Key Hole

antique close up door iron

Photo by Lukasz Dziegel

Peeping through the key hole in someone else’s dream

I thought I saw the answers to the meaning of deep things

There was no life-size rabbit or a balded man named Oz

There was simply Light blazing brighter than the sun

The Son, He is the King with lovers all around him

He cried, “everyone is welcome” but some people would not have him

Then once the door was open the King said, “Please come in”

His loving arms enveloped me can I sing that song again?

 

In the Key of Life

assorted color sequins

Photo by Sharon McCutcheon 

She sees musical notes in color

and the tunes flow like a breeze.

Minor keys are her blue notes

and her hope is the colors of Spring.

 

She can rush on rum and beat on drums

and can play all the chords of strife.

She sees musical notes in color

and writes songs in the key of life.