Photo by GEORGE DESIPRIS
I stare out my window
Like a sea wife staring out the horizon
Time moving ever so slow
I have always felt set apart
Looking outside of dreams into the indigo haze
Time capturing the beats of my heart
This is what faith is
The hope of what can’t always be seen
Time cannot define where he is
Photo by abednego ago
The drums of lies beating through the night city swells.
The lies touting of a merry Hell.
Hardened in heart pursuing only self, dancing to the tune of gaining wealth.
When day dawns over the city’s night all will be blinded by the Holy Light.
The drums are lying, darkness takes your life.
For Hell can’t be merry and is not the tale of fairies!
Jolted from my Daydream deluged by the sudden high tide,
I slammed into rapid -fire streams of doubt and fear inside.
Memories, like clouds hide the light, wreathed in glass beads of blue.
I swallow all my viscous dread and put my faith and trust in you.
Photo by Sippakorn Yamkasikorn
It is like first seeing a wildfire not knowing what it is.
Like orange flickering holiday lights dancing on a black hill.
The odor of burnt vines and smoke are miles and months away
but slowly and surely the wildfire is edging our way.
At first people believe it won’t affect their world
they ignore their inner call to action or care.
The next thing they know all sight is lost in smoke
now everything is burning like the wheat and the tare.
We should have listened to the prophets
their facts written in black and white.
Now the oil of apathy cannot be returned to its urn
The orange lights are now full raging fire that burns.
Photo by Ithalu Dominguez
Butterscotch Sunday melted away
We rode on the train down by the bay
We built little castles with dirty brown sand
We bought Colombian
heard the Stephen Stills band.
You said I was the beauty of the earth
Flowers in my hair, cigarettes in my purse.
I thought that train ride would never end
until I saw you on the bridge with my best friend.
I pack my bags on a Butterscotch Sunday
put on my pink dress and kneel down to pray.
All the dirty brown sand castles crumble down
I’m gonna board the next train out of town.
Photo by Steve on Pexels.com
Cassidy or the Sundance Kid;
the master manipulator or
the quiet deadly one instead?
One in it for himself
the other needs the thrill.
One is the master mind
The other taking what he will.
I have known all kinds of men
and time has shown me well.
A man is either Cassidy or the Sundance Kid
as time will surely tell.
Photo by Angelo Duranti
Her passion is tender.
Her pain is massive.
Her mind is lithe and quick.
Her body is no longer as swift.
Her temple once was a house of cards,
built by her birth, her fear, and her works.
Now she stands on the rock called Jesus
careful to follow him with her cross.
A new temple foundation built,
she is sure of this The Holy One.
He makes all things new with his Holy breath,
and will lead her in both life and death…
Home.
I
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 Luck Galindo
…I can feel you there beyond the stars
so I peer and try to peek beyond the pale
every night they do not fail to shine
each name and orbit you gave in detail
and I know you can see me beneath their light
Oh how I long to see your face tonight…
Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger
A pure (unmixed, unadulterated, not touched by any other substance) knowing lay within me because you are Holy…
A finished and utter humility drives me face down to the secret place…
I am undone without the High Priest of whom my lips are unworthy to utter his name…
I enter in because of Jesus and call out to The Holy One…
for I am hidden by the shadow of His wings and allowed to soar into the Presence of my God and King…
Jill Autrey Dorman 