Who Cares?

Who cares about the suffering?
Who cares for the pain?
This planet is hurting,
our heroes are falling,
our dreams are burning.
What are we teaching ?
What are we learning?

“Who cares?” they will ask us
“We care,” we will respond
for though we’re born weak,
Love will make us strong.

Who cares if the sun is shining
or rain is falling?
If laughter is foolish
what about the weeping?
Children are hungering.
How will they survive
if we’re myopic guides?

“Who cares?” they will ask us
“We care,” we will respond
for though we’re born weak,
Love will make us strong.

Who cares to have diamonds and gold,
the sheen soon grows dim.
Open up our hearts, Lord,
Lift us from the shadow
of sin. Heal us of
our instinct to judge.
Fill us with your love.

“Who cares?” they will ask us
“We care,” we will respond
for though we’re born weak,
Love will make us strong.

Always Near

…in the shadows
that sashay
across the sweeping lawn,
dancing at twilight
to settle quietly
with the first sweet blush
of each new dawn.

Always near…
in the prism
cast by morning dew,
the fiery flash
of the tiny tear
that drops silently;
that is you.

Always near…
You are the sky,
the earth, the essence
of all that is
or ever will be
through all the eons
of eternity.

Sometimes heaven
seems so far,
but you, my child
who dwells
among the stars,
live ever in my heart.
You are always near.

Blaming it on the Keyboard

The ‘C’ sticks,
repeats itself
as if caught up
in some mad recall

The ‘S’ engaged
in the same such goo
goes sluggish
in extended hiss

The ‘M’ is faded
like a fuzzy memory
and all the keys
are worn

state of the art,
it stumbles, forgets its words
and how to spell them

It types
so much
than it used to

and seems
no longer sure
if what it types
is true

Why on earth
would I use such machinery?
Well, that’s easy:
The tablet,

the i-phone,
the i-pad and
even the android
have a grudge against me.

Is it just me?

Is it just me or is there something special in the air today?

I have only read a few posts as it is a busy day, but what I’ve read has been so splendid
that I had to share a couple of links to blog entries that really struck a chord on this
beautiful day-after-Thanksgiving.

Torn Pages by MSScheffer

Under the Ice by Kerrianna

My Mother’s Death by Mitch Teamley

Dyma gartref by bongler

Turner gets busted    by Carl D’Agostino

I know there are others that will knock my socks off, and I tip my hat to those too.

Many thanks!



A Lull

Mist rises over the mountains,
The world is between sips,
requiring nothing
for just this second.

Elms are stripped
of their umbrella leaves;
their bare limbs celebrate freedom
with no inkling of brooding.

There is peace in the sound
of November rain.
It lulls into thoughts
of content.

No victories or failures to plague us,
there’s no struggle to overcome,
just an overwhelming sense
of simplicity

at the kiss of the kindred rain.

A Wren Sings in an Idle Mill

The idle mill has oxidized,
weeds and rust claim empty ovens.
Smokestacks devour themselves;
row after row of broken brick
falling, filling
falling, filling
like minds gone dim.
Memories and old dreams
make us realize our innocence.
A tinge of sadness at the smallness
of our might have beens.
Then in the wasteland
of baser thoughts, of sidewalks cracked
and old cars rusting on cinder blocks,
a wee wren boldly lands and sings.
Amidst the ugliness of an idle mill
where empty spaces are filled with wind,
we glimpse the pure, the beautiful,
the benevolent touch of God’s hand.

Art Final 101

What joy, those wintery fields
where wheat will green the ground
in spring, where corn
will lift its ears to catch the wind
and soy beans will wait
for harvest moon to ripen,

But now, half-frozen furrows
blankly bide their time,
Empty beneath an arching sky
and one old spreading tree,
gnarled and kingly
in its freshly frosted dominion.

It sets the mind to wondering
at God’s artistry, what was he thinking?
Of contrast and of symmetry?
Of hues and tints that swirl
and blend, or did his canvas
bloom with pure necessity?

When he nourished wheat,
did he smell bread? Those
luscious loaves brown and steaming
from the oven, did he plan the hearth
prior to the seed, or did his creation
mother his invention.

How blank his canvas must have been
with nothing but the sky, the ocean,
and the empty fields, Perhaps it was
a sunny day, the sky a bright
cerulean, Perhaps he stood back
pondering the possibilities…

A splash of emerald green
for contrast, a hint of olive
for the shadow, did he apply the color
straight from the tube? From
titanium to burnt umber, not waiting
for it to dry?

How deftly he created leaves, perhaps
to satisfy the need for shade ? Was there
a manual spelling out the elemental order
of the final? Requirements of competency
with color and texture. A familiarity
with geometric design?

Or did he fill each spot with something
needed … Choose his colors somewhat
randomly, The picture once completed
was a harmony of elements that fulfilled
each other’s needs, The bread the art,
The art the seed.