poetry, fiction, nature, culture, compassion, love
We often live within the memory of the oceans, don’t we?
with every silent dream,
all our whispered prayers
as the water draws us
even farther along
allowing our spirits to stretch out
over the sparkling water
under the expanse
sending light deep within
who we always were,
yet with a new revelation.
Sea water.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2018, ancient skies
An uneasy nakedness begins to grip our heart
when our brokenness is exposed
the rawness of being shattered
and yet healing
will not walk very close to us
until we grasp, accept really
our very own truth.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2018, ancient skies
Slowly turning, falling, finding its way
in the soft wind
a snowflake floating
as if prayers were always answered
descending down
until finally finding
its way
to the man’s nose.
Producing yet another
smile on his face.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2018, ancient skies
Hope ascending, as we consider
poems and prayers
and sunlight
glistening
in the clouds.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2018, ancient skies
Sometimes, I am a waterfall surging as my words overflow
into shapes only desiring
to bring a smile to her face.
And sometimes I write to her,
about her, to encourage
us both as we fight in the war,
as we barrel through
another holiday
holding on to each other
through the pain.
Note: A number of you have asked about how my wife is doing. Mostly she is doing well in spite of having cancer.
If you didn’t know this is the second time for her. We nearly lost her the first time.
The mass in her chest (not on her chest) is shrinking. Yay!
At the moment she has an infection and is on a lot of medicine, but this is not uncommon.
The toughest part of the battle is fighting – to not be afraid.
Thank you for your positive thoughts and prayers!
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2018, ancient skies
Our hearts opening in the sun
sacred doors,
gateways
to a different world
where light lives
where our spirits run free
and colors shape shift
our creativity.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2018, ancient skies
Not every wound, not every cut, will grow us wings of hope,
not every poem will birth a healing
through the pain
but by God, when we reach for our pens
something does stir within us,
a spark
a notion of light,
that declares
we’re not giving up.
Did you find your pen?
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2018, ancient skies
