Photo by Ünsal Demirbaş
Her Daddy was a Sheriff and his Deputy was her son.
She was more afraid of church folks than she was afraid of guns.
Her husband ran off for his moonshine and she was left alone and shunned.
Until one night on a full moon her mind became undone.
She awoke from a dream and in her bed was her Daddy and her son.
They laughed at her clown face where her makeup had all run.
So she grabbed the Sheriff’s shotgun
and fired and killed her son.
The Deputy died in the arms of his Father’s by his very own gun.
The next day she saddled her horse and rode away in the peace of the rising sun
Photo by Artem Saranin
I heard the devil is hanging round down on Caraway Street
He’s looking so good and singing so sweet.
The ladies how they love him, the men like his treats
Oh yea there’s hell to pay down on Caraway Street.
Lord, they say the devil is dancing on Caraway Street
Drinking tastey wine and he’s so quick on his feet.
The ladies stand in line because they can’t wait to meet
The men who love the devil on Caraway Street
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 Lisa Fotios
This snow takes me back to Memphis.
A little girl with a crooked smile.
Oh how magical that Christmas was.
Boot prints of Santa on a snowy blue lawn.
So secure in the dreams of that gospel mile.
Daddy was my hero, such warm and simple times.
Of all the rooms my life has passed through,
Memphis was the sweetest time I ever knew.
Photo by Ashutosh Jaiswal
Truth has stumbled into darkened streets.
Honesty no longer matters in our media elite.
Truth is not to each his own.
Truth is Jesus Christ alone.
Photo by Miri
Standing on the highest sand dune people moved back and forth on the ground below. She no longer has their youthfulness of an unlined face but she knew she finally possessed the joy of ageless Grace. The pilgrimage called her to this beautiful place. The wind and the sun an old friend on her face.
Now she is the shell seeker in the wide brimmed hat, as a child playing in the sun she’d laughed at people like that. She remembers younger days when she grew weary but now the days of peace are what linger here. Emotions don’t obey the rules they are the heartbeat in being human. Like waves reaching the shore emotions can be kept for a moment but are better when given away.
The shell seeker’ s eye remains clear and adept while watching the children play. She knows that life is not going back but more of giving it away. The Truth is, life consists in learning and loving well with Grace underneath God’s sun. To remain whole in the midst of life’s ups and downs, to surrender all secrets and lies is anointing oil to the soul. To shed insincerity and live in the present, the waves echo behind her now compelling her to go on.
Photo by Eternal Happiness
As I lay down my head in week six of this catastrophe I just want to say if you can fall asleep but not stay asleep that is okay. If a myriad of emotions and logic are surfing on your brain waves it’s ok. If you fall asleep and wake on a couch or a child’s room it’s ok. If you are praying more it’s ok. If you cannot find the words to pray it’s okay. If you are a conqueror one minute and not so brave the next minute it’s ok. If there are a hundred thoughts and feelings lying under the five you speak it’s ok. If you mourn for the dead and grieve for our globe it’s ok. These are where the avenues of grief and change and loss take us. It is ok. If you are active in politico or have turned all media completely off it’s okay. For it is not strength to pretend you are thriving in uncertainty and that you struggle with doubt and fear. It is in our weaknesses and doubts that God comes near. He is not limited not tethered to a cosmic heavenly throne. He is right here with us in our fragility and we are not alone. Jesus knows every cell of human bondage. He knows of courage being one heartbeat away from fear. Jesus is Emmanuel, God with us and He is with us now. So rest your weary head in his comfort when you can. I have seen His beauty and have tasted His goodness and it is a healing balm. Lay down your head and rest my friends for tomorrow we will try again. There is victory in His power over things we can’t understand. I have seen His Salvation in life and in death and He has never forgotten not one of His own since before the foundation of the world. Shalom tonight dear world. As for me I have tasted and have seen the goodness of the Lord and He is more than we can fathom and so if today you fell apart it’s okay because He never will…
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 Rakicevic Nenad
The Angels have not grown older.
I always see them over my shoulder;
gentle, yet piercing mighty eyes.
Always checking the road maps and signs.
I have grown much older;
my dreams like nets all thrown.
Some I’ve known have wished me well;
a couple of them said “go to hell.”
Words, just words without caring.
Words, just words both wrong and right.
Still, I journey on toward His Holy Light.
Still, the Angels lie down beside me each night…
I journey on.
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