Mosaic of Hope.

You collect the tears the of hungry and the thirsty,
of the prisoner and the captive,
Of the wandering homeless,
even my tears of pain and shame,
and you weave them into this beautiful mosaic of hope
and love and peace.
Magnificent and superfluous in your ways,
in awe of you I breath.

Your goodness is the sound of many waters
crashing across my senses,
Flung through a trillion balls of fire,
from the smallest to the biggest of them all that sight can see
‎that shines on all creation and rains on all imperfect.
‎ Your goodness in display
‎transports the garment tassels
‎To heal a broken hope like the balm of Gilead
Across oceans and seas it flows
to soothe the hurt on earth transcends to life eternal.
Goodness responds to the violent suffered
To the broken in a thousand fragments
Stiched together by the scarlet flow
from the fountain of grace and mercy.

This is amazing grace
That takes the soles of my feet to tread
To claim many places trodden
The grounds of many nations, many cities
In those cities many lives.
If I claim anything, I claim them for you
For your desire, your purpose, your good.
If I claim anything,
I claim peace for the nations at war
love for the unlovable
Stoicism for mothers whose sons’ blood
Scream for respite for their sacrifice.
I claim for the homeless cities of hope
Shelters of outpouring love,
Leaders with the forthrightness and intergrity
To serve with selfless abandon,
The end to the ravages of war and the senseless death
Of the vulnerable, women and children
Weeping that their cities be returned to them
That their playgrounds be not a stench of carcasses.

I’d claim them all and lead them back home
to tranquil nights, boistrious days and playful sunsets.
I’d collect in these hands the tears of Syria, Ukraine, Haiti, Chicago
To the diaspora enslaved in Libya and pour them
As offering at your feet; I’d throw the prison doors open
To breath your freedom.
The doors of every orphanage will open into hearts of love
The unlatched entryways of domestic violence and abuse
Will match through the paths of freedom
to your unending, enduring love.
Break down the walls of pride,
leveling them to vestals of humility.
Obliterate the boundaries of color
Awash them in blood that speaks as one.
I’d take those bubbles that ensconce us
Deflate them so each seeps into the pain of
All.

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Infatuation?

I’m older and forgotten what it feels like

True love that is.

If it ever truly was love.

The last time it was smothered by insensitivity.

I forgot.

It’s been a long time ago.

My memory of it is from a forbidden place.

Was it wrong?  Too young to

comprehend.

Again I ask what love is?

They called this infatuation

I felt differently, to me it was love.

It felt good, giddy and happy

to have it around while it could stay

Heartbroken to let go,  but they said

It would  get better, it was infatuation.

Yes, it got better, but never to feel

that innocent way again.

looked all around

searched even in company of myself

searched even in a loving presence,

peeked into the heart of other’s  love

Can’t quite feel that innocent way again.

And they said it was infatuation?

Gosh!!! It felt so good!!!

 

Forbidden Door.

In bliss I wander through foyers of grandeur,
Through rooms of opulence and beauty.
Whose beauty, fills me with unspeakable
desire,
a longing that clings,
with familiar nostalgia.

Drawn to you locked in mysteries
forbidden,
I reach for you,
but awaken in perplexity.

Abandoned to wander,
In curious awe I here return time and time
to awaken to this same maze,
dazed with desire,
To comprehend,
Why such inexplicable allure?

Where my heart dares to roam and linger,
And wonder,
Why are you so familiar?
Why do I repeatedly return?
Forbidden door,
what secrets lurk within
the confines of your walls?

Nature is Beauty.

Nature is Beauty.

You are loved by a God who created
All the beauty that you see…
Across the vast Plains in Texas,
The towering mountains of Kilimanjaro and Everest
And the Rolling Hills of San Pedro, California.

Behold Him;
In the openness of flowers;
blue bells and marigold, heralding us to Spring time.
And in the togetherness of lush, green, grass
carpeting the lawn,
To the freshness of blossoming cascades of creeping vines,
That adorn the picket fence.

Behold our God;
In the expanses of green-blue seas,
that touch an endless stretch of bright, blue sky
Or the moonlit night sky,
with its supporting cast of glowing stars.
In the hues of shades of colors of the human race and
The domain where the Lion is King.

You, behold the God of love,
In the beauty spots of the Leopard,
In the wonder that arranged the black stripes on the Zebra
Or was it the white stripes on the Zebra?
Do you know? Or do you care any which way?

Who gave the cardinal it’s marvelous shades of orange and red?
Behold your God,
my God in the splendor of the beauty that surrounds you!

From,
Notes to Sammy.

The Raging Storm.

The sounds of the season return,
winds whistle our way with ferocious rage…
rains helplessly pound down my window pane
with boisterous intensity.
The skies are thickened with gloomily, grey clouds as
sparks of lightning slice through with electrifying splendor.

Thundering,
as reckless as the fury of a drunken spouse,
rustling leaves conjure melodic notes,
swaying trees back and forth, unabashed.
Mother Nature,

Relentlessly, pounds, speeds through without a care.
A soothing pause, a respite for a few…
Then, illuminating flurry, thundering, gleaming
through the night skies;
In the distance winds howl,
enters another round of fury!

A pacifying pita, pat continue,
a gentle lull to sleep.
Only but for a few, awakened,
Yet another round of roaring lights shattering
through the shutters again and again…

Once more, asleep under the enchanting lull of
the calming force of Mother Nature.
Now and then, trepidation grips,
that the rage yet again, gains control!

Nights of stolen happiness.

The scars of war…
worn in nights of stolen happiness,
heard when sirens bleed,
heart racing,
following traverses undefined.

In sleeplessness I slumber,
and drums beat,
in rhythms of lands trapped in
stories yet to be told, waiting to be born.

How come I run, feet fiercely
rooted in this place where time
stands still?
Hoping for daylight to wake.

Again,
Running, floating and flailing, yet I hear
No one, see none
open the door,
stretched out in beads of salt in dark wake of night!