Photo by Pixabay
Looking for the pretty notes I strain my ear to hear
that melody of Holy song telling me you are near.
No minor chords of sad goodbye or Sin’s death and decay.
No more lies and darkened skies to distort my journeys way.
I listen for the harmony of your singing clear and sweet
The pretty notes of your presence your love song on repeat…
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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?
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.