You call to me as my heart calls to you.
Each in our own separate universe,
Linked by the all invasive spirit that inundates human flesh
Seeking connection, seeking love.
We search, we probe.
Finding points of contact, like the abalone we cling
Seeking fulfilment in each other that is found only in the eternal, omnificent spirit of Him that created us to love.
The seasons change.
The hands of time, relentless, click yet another notch in the universal clock.
Seconds, minutes, hours, fall; frail as autumn leaves
Never to be seen again
Moving toward the midnight chime when time itself will cease to be
And all that’s gone before as fleeting shadows pass away.
And only love remains.
When the party’s over,
The last of guests have gone,
The importance is the after taste
With which you greet the dawn.
What is it you remember
Of all that’s said and done
The deeply felt communions
Or the feasting and the fun?
The drinks indeed were tasty
The hog roast was divine,
But the thing that lingers most with me?
The hearts that shared with mine.
Sweeter far that cocktails
The blends within each one.
Each soul enhancing flavour
Of our life beneath the sun.
When plan A, B, and C fail, make a new plan – A long walk with just the Lord and my camera for buddies. Amazing day for late autumn! So thankful for evading cold season. Get well soon folks!
He adds a tint of colour to the canvas of the sky
The faintest hint of pink in the smoke trials of the sky.
Augmented by a misty band encircling the hills
So stepping on my balcony my heart within me thrills.
I love His gentle brush strokes that brighten up the morn
Reminders of that day to come that one day soon will dawn.
When earth beneath a cloak of peace will greet His smiling face
And every pain and every tear will softly be erased.
I wake to glorious sky painting on view from my balcony.
Some have wings of paper, they fold towards the sky.
The wind draws on before them but cannot lift them high.
Some take wings of paper, so beauteous to behold,
With crimson flush and purple, touched with hint of gold.
And rushing o’er some precipice they proudly furl them forth
In arrogance forgetting, they’re paper wings of course.
And crashing to oblivion, their tattered wings do fall
Sadly they discover, they had no faith at all.
Discarding their endeavours they cast their dreams away,
Continue on as insects that crawl all through the day.
But some grow wings of purpose through which the spirit flows.
Pulsating in its courses a transformation goes.
As bloods engage the butterfly to stiffen up those wings,
The wings that once were paper become the spirit’s things,
With flesh and bone and power to lift up to the sky
To see the world below them as heavenward they fly.