Love | pictured words

SEEKING SOFTNESS (#prayforturkey #stopthehate)

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Media photo as presented by Photography of Nia

I can’t pretend to understand
As hostile minds, with arms in hand,
Disturb a peaceful country’s night
While innocents hole up in fright.

Another friend, another cry,
Another ally begging, “why?”
Another hashtag adding weight
To those who prompt and spread the hate.

This fallen universe, complex:
While animosity is flexed,
A softness tries to smooth the way
From violent night, to placid day.

Let softness have its gentle sway;
Let mankind not be mankind’s prey.

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OPEN AIR PICTURE SHOW

Photo credit: dreamstime.com

We as children
Face-up in soft grass
Hands clasped behind our heads
Watching floating scenes above,
Seeing things differently –
Each through our own lens,
Mimicking real life.

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SUMMER, ’16 (BLACK AND BLUES)

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As life bleeds red,
My guilt, this:
I thank my God
My love is not
In blue uniform;
My son, in black skin.

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Crayola and Me, 1958

Photo credit: Today I Found Out

I began as Flesh,
But only because it was 1958,
And they didn’t yet understand
A white baby may have a tint
Of Raw Sienna.

No understanding that changing Indian Red
To Chestnut is not only untrue,
But negates a child’s ability to learn
That Indian Red describes a pigment native
To India,
And not the skin of a Native American,

Or for that matter, the ability to learn what it meant to be
Prussian.
Was it easier to change Prussian to Midnight,
Than to teach us the blues of history?

And sixteen new colors were added that year, and
When I turned four I was no longer Flesh,
But Peach.
Peach with still no tint,
And no understanding that Peach is not white,
And I am not white, and I am not Peach.

But colors are sharp,
And when the summer sun shines
On sixty four colors left on Grandma’s porch,
They can run together
and
Permanently
Mingle.

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July 4, 2016

LOOKING BACK / FORWARD MARCH

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We line the street
Despite the heat;
Await the beat
Of drums.

The cadence stirs
My heart, and spurs
Excitement! Here
It comes!

The Stars and Stripes
And countless types
Of instruments
Pass by.

The pride I feel
Is deep and real
Beneath mid-
Summer’s sky.

My father’s band,
Baton in hand
Directing more
Than tunes.

His students find
He’s guided minds
And morals
Many moons.

Time marched along
So fast. So long,
Oh fleeting song
Of summer.

Now winter’s come
And slowed the drum –
But oh, I love
The drummer.

(With love and great respect for Dad … drummer, conductor, teacher, mentor, father)

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July 2, 2016

NIGHT SMILES, NILES OHIO

Photo credit: Desde La Republica Dominicana

Sunny day of summer play with friends
Ends.

Night falls.
Streetlights call me home.
Bathed and pj’d,
Porch swing lulls, but cannot dull
The day’s fun,
Spun of love.

Mom smiles;
Files away another day.
We pray and say goodnight.
Sleep tight.
Sweet dreams.

Even the moon beams.

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June 12, 2016

AND IT’S NEVER OKAY

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Bomb or gun
Mass or one

Gay or straight
Hate is hate

Foreign-run
Or homespun

Vain debate
Hate is hate

Deeply flawed
“Under God”

Won’t negate
Hate is hate

Photo from http://www.gmpcc.org.uk/news/stand-together-against-hate-crime/ .

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June 5, 2016

A WEEK IN HAIKU

Photo by Keith R. Good

“… for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning.” ~ Lamentations 3

Dawn’s light emerges,
Hastening a new week’s cares.
Her knees, eroding.

Vivid moss roses
Flamboyant ruby hummers
Adore(n) her prayer walk

A murky morning.
Gloom seems to silence nature.
A still, small Voice calls.

The sun failed to rise,
She believes. And so she seeks
Son’s radiant grace.

Unsettling dream
Halted by sound of music
Caroled in her heart

Her heart feels absent;
Her spirit, arid and parched.
A gentle rain falls.

As dusk’s light withdraws,
She reaches out for His hand,
And there, finds her heart.

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May 28, 2016

“Mary” (Entry from the journal of Mary of Magdala)

This morning
This mourning broke me.
Reality pierced my soul,
Left a gaping hole, with fears
No tears can fill.

This morning
His eyes haunted me,
As I already strained to recall
The implausible love I saw in them
Before the cross.

This morning
I longed to once again see myself –
Me as he saw me –
The me he presented to others –
Instead of the wretch I see in me.

This morning,
In darkness of mood and day,
I made my way to his tomb.
My heart and breath halted
As my eyes assaulted my senses.

This morning
He was gone.
I was even robbed of his lifeless body?
The cruelty of this was agonizing
And my wounds grew deeper still.

This morning
I wept harder and longer and deeper
Than I ever have before –
Not even at the cross, for I was too traumatized
For tears.

This morning
I saw men? Angels? Someone – something – angels
At the head and foot where he had lain.
They asked me why I was weeping.
How could I explain such pain?

This morning
I turned and saw a man – the gardener?
He asked me the same question the angels had.
“Woman, why are you weeping?”
Once my closed throat allowed me to speak,
I begged of him, “PLEASE sir, where have you put him?”

“Mary.”

Rabboni!

This morning
Mourning broke.
Light rose from darkness,
Spoke my name,
And I will never be the same.

Gospel of John, Chapter 20

Photo credit: Shutterstock.com

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May 23, 2016

PRETEND I PENNED THIS

PHOTO COURTESY OF LOVABLE IMAGES (lovableimages.blogspot.com)

My lover asks me:
“What is the difference between me and the sky?”
The difference, my love,
is that when you laugh,
I forget about the sky.”*

I sigh.
Forever I’ll yearn to compose,
In verse or prose, for you my love, and affirmation thereof.
‘til then, let’s kiss
And pretend I penned this.

pictured words

Tag: Love

July 18, 2016