Our news media decide what stories they will follow, and often I wonder why they promote some things, like stories of violence and death, but positive things or stories that may be right wing or not politically correct seem to be strained like a gnat, and have enquiring minds surfing the internet to find what is actually happening in America. Why do news reporters ignore such a large convergence on DC. Riders are coming in peace but numbers.
Category Archives: musings
The tides are synchronized with your moods
Precise time tables are written for decades hence
Vast oceans acquiesce to your silent command
When hurricane throws her gauntlet down
You still orchestrate from your lofty abode
Lunar light is not constant but your strength
Lies not in your reflection but in your perfection
Onion tears I heard mother say
As she used her apron to wipe them away
But she was in the process of kneading bread
I knew those tears were genuine instead
She never wanted us to see her cry
Alas, her tender heart would often sigh
Tears cleanse the soul of deepest pain
Clear the path for smile to follow the rain
IrisD , my poem for Poetic Asides April 4 prompt
Sliding away from my thoughts
So close I almost catch it with my tongue
Yet blurring as I try to savor it
What is that nombre that I want
I toss out a random word, and yet
I long to capture the perfect one
You walk away and then, voila
The word whispers through my lips
Pastures, creek, and hayloft were our playground.
During the summers my sister and I shared our domain.
Cousins would take turns staying a week at a time.
We fed the hogs, gathered eggs, and worked in garden
in mornings, but then we explored the farm.
My favorite was the two story barn with its huge hayloft.
We would move the bales to make hay igloos and play cowboys and Indians until we were called for lunch or supper.
A race was on to the windmill to wash our hands and face under the pump,
then hurry to sit at table where Mother always led us in prayer.
I flew to Canilla, Guatemala for a week mission trip in April.I have previously been in Ethiopia, Mexico,Italy, and Israel, and as I am not fluent in any language besides English, I need an interpreter to translate whenever I speak. Children do not need anyone to interpret. Their smiles and beckoning hand let you know if they are comfortable with you and if they want to share their food or sit with them. Smiles, smiles, smiles. They penetrate the language barrier and warm my heart like no words can. Here is a one of the many pictures of children in Guatemala.
I followed you relentlessly for I desired to possess you.
You tantalized my dreams and pervaded my thoughts.
Such a breathtaking vision, you seemingly flitted from path to path.
You were as elusive as a butterfly and I lost my direction in pursuit of you.
At dusk I wearily paused from my arduous and unfruitful journey.
My lethargy caused me to rest amidst the fragrant moonflowers.
I reflected in the solitude of the panoramic twilight sky.
Perceiving that you had paused in your flight too, I embraced you.
Running I could not capture you, but upon meditation you were mine.
Oh Wisdom, you are unexcelled in beauty and I regret I hurried so long.
Cascading over Larch Mountain with a surge of power, your majestic force chills the rocks far below.
Sunlight filters through you like a prism, creating rainbows of color in contrast to the white spray.
During the dark hours of pre-dawn, your ever present music seems to crescendo into the oblivious sleeping valley.
One winter you were silenced when you froze into a giant icicle, like a stalactite on the side of mountain, reaching toward the cave of earth.
What a wonderful time the creator must have had, surely He laughed as he made a path for you to follow.
His fingerprints remain imprinted on the cliffs, along the winding Columbia River Gorge.
It must have been a favorite playground of His.
Fog encumbers the hills as it cleaves to the pasture.
Sunrise viewed from heaven, only memory here.
Scarce sunlight penetrates the heavy veil.
Like a thick curtain hung in the parlor to dispel the light,
the fog hangs in the valleys,
using the trees for its curtain rod.
Headlights attempt to shine down the lane,
tiny beam to illuminate a path.
A newborn calf bawls for his mama,
she drinks from the pond shrouded in white.