Waters

At onset of life’s first spark, nestled in the cocoon of womb’s water
Into this world born through love and anguish of gushing waters
From the Potter’s hand, vessels filled with naught but thought and water
Tainting of the once untouched soul, made anew in cleansing waters
Throughout life lured back again and again to the whisper of the water
At the last hour’s goodbye kiss, restored to His embrace by Heaven’s waters

Promise (Mag 7)

quiescent unborn-soul buried lying, dying in the filth and muck of His plan
     bleak night, winter’s bitter cold, deluge of life


tiny-nothing seed forced to grow roots, twisting, clawing, taking hold
     fearless fight, hope’s untainted warmth, dawn before birth


tender seedling-soul bursts forth, writhing, grasping , gasping Him in
     glorious light, miracle’s brilliant glow, incarnation of promise

I took this photo at the Sherwood Forest Faire last weekend.  In the middle of a trampled path grew this one lovely flower, as if defying the universe.  I loved the juxtaposition of dead-gray dirt and the vibrancy of the flower.  When I saw the shot on my computer, I kept hearing the refrain, "Bloom where you are.  Bloom where you are. Bloom where you are."  Sometimes, to bloom where you are is to be reborn unto yourself.

--Lisa







This story was written for the prompt at Magpie Tales.

silver scar

nighttime edges into dawn
empty peace of sleep eludes
glance of hand that click-clacks on the alphabet
     tending, mending a broken heart, a broken dream
glance of hand that once danced in his ebony hair
     swirling, twirling silken waves in a quiet love-dance
he, gone forever
the hand remains
older, stronger with reminder of empty bed, empty heart
     silver scar of solitude
     two-hands clasp crowned-heart
     outward and away,
     away from the heart
his love now outward and away
she, the one who walked away

Nailed

Freiderich, a brash, young man itching to explore the limitless universe, wanders aimlessly and angrily, trapped in his grandfather’s antiquated hardware store. Freiderich’s father had decided, for the summer, it would be “character building” if his dreamer son got his hands dirty with the honesty of a good day’s work.

Finally the frustration of this fruitless endeavor erupts from the confines of the young man’s mind. Picking up a box of outdated nails, he waves the box and attacks, “Opa, what could a single nail offer the 22nd century? What possible advancement could it offer modern man when bio-computers, the InPlaNet (Intra-Planetary Internet), and teleportation have launched us all into the reality of your Ray Bradbury’s dreams? A nail has nothing of value to offer anyone, especially not to me.”

With strength of voice that comes only with time and wisdom, Hans turns to his upstart grandson. “What power does a single nail possess? It was a single spike that united this great land from east to west, taming the once Wild West. It was the nail that built houses that have endured for centuries, houses once a refuge of love and joy. It was the nail that pierced His Flesh, as he was placed upon a wooden cross to redeem the unworthy and the flawed. A nail can change the history of a nation. It can create a home. A single nail can deliver salvation. But then again, how could that possibly matter to you in the 22nd century?”

Inspired by the Magpie Tales.  

Pretty Little Pictures

The Fairy Tale ending,
     reveries of one single day little princesses dream about,
     carelessly neglecting an entire lifetime.
Pretty little pictures obscure serene deception.
White-laced lies carelessly placed before God’s altar,
     hand in hand, empty gazes, empty promises
     offerings of forever,
     bereft of consummation.
Only to discover, Happily Ever After’s key already in her grasp.

 

Breaking Free

Wisps of ginger tendrils dance in the wind
     as she looks back at her beloved Emerald Island,
     reminiscing over a laughing childhood turned into
          Da’s planned destiny

Wings of unborn possibilities flutter in her heart
     as she gazes towards the Land of Milk and Honey
    dreaming of unrestrained adventures, prayers that become
          her unmapped future

Le Story de L'Amour

Je regrette, Je regrette     
     said the little coquette
     she surrendered in his arms
     falling effortlessly

Je t’aime, Je t’aime
     said la très belle femme
     she placed her hand in his
     trusting entirely

Je t’adore, Je t’adore
     said la dame avec l’amour
     she gave into his heart
     loving entirely

Je pleure, Je pleure
     said la petite, white-laced fleur
     she made her life his

     pledging faithfully

Little Girl Gave Her Heart Away

Little girl, life so good
knowing not of pain
loved by parents who did as they should

Little girl, heart so big,
fearing not a thing
dared to share what she had to give

Little girl, not so little anymore
seeking destiny
sailed from the safety of her shore

Naïve miss, gave her heart away
yearning for true love
begged them each, keep her and forever stay

Woman’s heart, thrown to the ground
smiling for them all
cried hot tears, all alone without a sound

Broken spirit, soul gave up the fight
wanting no more wounds
turned inside herself, rejected love’s light

Cautious one, alone, her place to be
choosing solitude
bloomed in time, to become the real she

Healing heart, love no longer her defeat
feeling the heart mend
accepts her truth: the jaded heart still beats

Lieutenant's Song

Distant journey, locked within unspoken dreams,
     should no longer sway tender reeds of the soul.
Time has passed, youth has passed, faith has come and gone again.
      Yet, in the quiet of unexpected moments, his music still lingers here,
       more than echo of what could have been,
       more a refrain of what should have been.
Neither year, nor season, nor day passes
      without taste of mountain kisses,
      without scent of citrus, leather, and possibility,     
      without music of the siren's jazz.
And, the lieutenant still remains.

Upon His Lips

He calls me by name,
The winds carry God’s voice from Heaven.
The sound dancing, caressing my face, my soul,
      He speaks my name.
A single word as proof that he hears me, he sees me, he feels me, and
     I matter.
The others did not speak my name.
     I, an after thought, did not exist.
     I was not real.
His tender mouth creates me into being.
My name upon his lips,
    I am born again with each utterance.
He calls me by name and I am.

Love's Story

Lost. Broken. Shattered. Hopeless. Empty. Dark.
Doubt. Collapse. Succumb.

Awaken. Seek. Behold. Understand. Believe. Arise.
Step. Stride. Persist.

Found. Restored. Renewed. Inspired. Faithful. Radiant.
Know. Soar. Triumph.