Redemption.

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Colour decked, the marbled skies entwine in splendid hue
And echoed in the earth below a rendered scarlet dew.
All earth besmirched with war and pain while heavens gaze on down
“T’was given to the hand of man,” God answers with a frown.
“And rendered up upon that day, he hands it back to Me,
E’en sky above, polluted, foul, which once was wild and free.”
The sins of man recorded here and buried in the clay
The skull, the bone, that once were fair, in dead abandon lay.
The blood soaked down within the soil, the dirt, the filth, the grime,
A thousand belching factory’s smoke eclipse the sun’s dim shine.

And man, what has become of him, the first creations prize,
He’s turned away to hate and sin, from truth he’s turned to lies.
“But see,” God says, on looking down, “some jewels within this flock
Of anguished souls intent on gain, still cling unto the rock.
They shine and glimmer in the dark and round them shines a light
That though the darkness press it hard continues in the night.
In them a seed, though thinly sowed, a hope that lies within,
That to the promise, stained in blood, they set their hopes to win.
To these brave few shall dawn a day when dark is turned to light
For all the evil then shall flee the day I join the fight.”

And Yet…

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Alone we watch last leaves of autumn fall upon this world
Fearing stark winter follows icy breath in hand.
Alone we watch the fleeting sun rise and set its measure of time
Believing one day the frost shall melt at the coming.
Alone we ponder and learn of wonders withheld,
And yet, at small space, from our present eyes
Alone we partake as one that peeps through a slit at a waiting world of wonder
One that is warmed with thoughts and emotions as yet unformulated.
For light streams through in colored glory from worlds beyond if we still ourselves to listen
Soft words of comfort echo through chasms formed by love long ago
Yet still they calm our senses , refresh our vision, as a fresh wind from the mountain.
Stop, look up, and we will see fresh vision here with God with we…

(While troubled and pained by recent attacks in London and in Syria I came across this old poem and found comfort.)

In search of love.

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Perhaps it was a fairytale,
This thing which they called love.
This thing that though intangible,
Was heralded above
The normal humdrum sphere of life.
A dream upon the wing,
Romantic, heady, streaming
Filling emptiness within.
She sought it much with eager heart
And quickly running feet,
Yet fingers seemed to grasp at mist
Its substance failed to meet
Until at last she lingered
And in a twilight’s song
A voice came softly singing
What she’d evaded all along.
She noticed other voices
Soft pleading like her own,
They had no loved one with them
They suffered all alone.
And tending to their plight
She quickly came enmeshed
In a love that was so blessed.
She’d found the very best.

Kuala Lumpar New years end.

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Full moon competes with bursts of brilliant colour,
Drums rolls challenge the fireworks crack.
Cries of joy and merriment echo below.
The moon completes the circle
Festivities end tonight though décor will linger.
Crumpled red envelopes remain in hands and pockets
The “luck” bestowed on red accessorized givers hopefully lingers also.

(This is a day late as it wouldn’t post yesterday)

Drifting in a world of magic.

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Shimmering white closes behind us, ahead concealing mist.

Trees hide behind shimmering, soft veils of light, shadowed echoes.

Carols ring out through the silence, mulled wine enhancing vocal chords,

Silenced by Christmas luncheon.

Water skims slowly by ornamented by clusters of ducks, a swan here or there.

All upstaged by the jeweled visitor, surveying us from his perch, streaking of, dazzling in his vest of emerald and midnight blue – a kingfisher dressed for the season.

(Thoughts on a Christmas canal trip with my fellow sailing volunteers.)

 

Before Halloween there was …

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Overshadowed by US show,

Slowly waning yet you know…

Remembered in my child’s eye,

The homemade doll, the painted guy,

The wheelbarrows in which he dwelt,

The schoolboy hands in search of gelt.

All running to the shop to buy

The fireworks gleaned from crafted guys.

Pennies gleaming in the bowl,

Rockets wedged within a hole.

Bonfires burning, guy discarded,

To the flames he’s now departed.

Till again small hands will forge,

An image of old England’s gorge.

(November 5th is Guy Fawkes Night in England. For my non English readers it remembers a failed plot to blow up the houses of parliament in which children made images of Guy Fawkes (the ring leader) and paraded around with them prior to Nov. 5th. collecting money for their efforts, used  to buy fireworks. The guys would then be ceremonially burnt on a communal or backyard bonfire to the accompaniment of fireworks, mimicking the hidden barrels of gun powder exploding.)

 

All has its day.

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Seasons come and go
Each a special flavor,
Marking out the times within my span,
Summer departs, the glory of sunshine,
Still water and gentle breezes dims.
Flowers fade.
Seeds disperse, ensuring the next generation.
I recall seasons long past,
Indulge nostalgia
When together we dreamed of peace.
I must not linger in summer,
But divest myself of its joys,
Put on longer sleeves,
Turn thoughts to warm heaters, hot chocolate…
Embrace each season’s splendor
Watch for the red tints (I know where they grow)
Kick the leaves,
Enjoy the new swishing songs.
Not mourn the loss of summer,
Embrace always things to come
Even so is life.