my camera’s lens captures unusual qualities
scoured by flood and drought’s full vengeance
a hundred trees, precious trees, now stand dying
lush woodland slipped away, no longer speaks is dying
why is it the present holds hand with faults of past qualities
ripping with revenge, pouring payback and venting vengeance?
wind whipping loose bark from trunk with vengeance
brittle branches breaking, crackling under foot still dying
is tree’s charm mislaid or making way for new emerging qualities?
my eye captures new qualities
no longer dying
Written in Tritinas Form (a,b,c…c,a,b…b,c,a…abc) in reflection to finding beauty in dieing tree and photographing them. Inspired by Emma’s dirge to Summer’s end. Linking up at dVerse.
The nature of a child is that of wonder,
discovery and constant exploration.
What makes the shape of a puffy balloon?
Why does a leaf float steady on water’s edge?
When does a tiny stone become a colossal rock?
All these things are in the nature of a child.
“Train up a child in the way he should go,
and when he is old he will not depart from it.*”
What transforms the nature of a loved child?
Why do so many struggle as torrents in wind?
When did the seasons turn to dust as the sands?
All in all we try our best; or at least should.
I know not much of philosophies of life:
what makes the hairy bear hibernate so long,
why the sun moderates warmth on the earth,
when did the dinosaurs disappear from sight?
What I do know is a child needs love, instruction
and family to make them feel tenderly sheltered.
Over at dverse we’re celebrating anniversaries and philosophies; thanks to Brian. Hug a child today and change the world! *Proverbs 22:6
The nightingale’s last cry;
a still born child at twilight.
A bundle of feather scattered,
tattered on parched ground.
Silent is the bleakest night,
till in prayer I cry out…
“Hear my prayer, O Lord,
and give ear to my cry;
do not be silent at my tears;
for I am a stranger with You,
a sojourner, as all my fathers were.”
Not the feathers of a nightingale, I know, yet the music of one I no longer hear.
I walked by turtle tucked deep, as padding through dark wood drenched forest where I stood, yet she made not a motion. “Eggs,” was my first notion. Alabaster shells covered with loamy earth. Now, she needed a time for rest… Twiggy soil covering till their birth, and camouflage leaves would test a predator from towering sky. Did you know turtles can’t fly? At my desk I still can see thin shelled turtles breaking past; lined up one-by-one as they flee. Moving slowly… first to last. Our earthly work should be so; wake each morning in faith we go.
Beneath a canopy of lofty tree,
among lush woodland earthly stall,
the mourning dove’s endless echoing call.
So much to gaze, gape and see;
yet invisible am I, so small,
as forest phantom comes.
Thick throaty bull frogs hum.
While twilight begins to fall,
past latticed of woody trunks,
golden sunfish giant leap
shadowy water’s surface broken.
Last of day has now shrunk,
bushy squirrels coyly creep
with countless words unspoken
beneath a canopy of lofty tree.
A little time in Wisconsin woodlands and twilight brings a whirlwind of nature activity to mind. Linking up at dVerse later today.
Still waters flow; they’re running down
from up above, flowing all around.
God’s healing love; is pure and clean.
Still waters flow, are flowing down.
This is the chorus to my recent lyrical writing. A few months ago I started a new blog site His Small Still Voice. A few times a week I post short conversations with God in attempts to encourage the reader. Life gets pretty complicated; stop by sometime.
First of June,
a busy mosaic floor;
pass winter’s twilight
disguise, unseen muster
seed sleeping till warmth
of spring awakes it
and calls in quiet voice
we harbor talents unused
a patchwork undone.
So vibrant hectic earth…
a medley of brittle leaf
carefully intertwined in
hairs of new birthed grass.
A tortoise-shell butterfly
sipping sweet nectar
from powdery weed;
brilliant yellow bloom.
Beneath buried seeds
housed in shells
deep under the soil.
Pull past the debris,
each tender blade.
Listen to butterfly wings,
once an egg,
now vibrant with color
towers on high
with bird and plane
journeys to tropical
climates where seeds
do grow from rubble.
What seeds of
hope, faith, charity
lie dormant in a life.
What montage of
talents sleep beneath
spring’s warming earth:
an artist, a poet, or musician
waiting, as the mustard seed
or butterfly, to soar
then stretch and grow.
Today I’ll be helping out over at dVerse with the prompt Microworld Poetry; we’ll stop and look intently at something small nature has to offer us. Doors open at 3PM EST; check in on what’s happening around the world!