THE KRAKEN (Part #2)

(Pssst…In case you missed the first part, you can start from HERE.)

b8c14c0de55a3a61b83929cde26aaaf0
From: gizemlervebilinmeyenler.blogspot.com and copied from Alejandro Quijano pintrest (Kinda scary, right?)

The Kraken

By Robert L. Jones III (check it out at Pneumythology)

II. Down From the Hills

Far from the ocean lived a lad who roamed about the land

And learned to make his presence scarce when there was work at hand.

He hiked the forests of the hills to set his fancy free,

Pretending that the wooded slopes were some great, frozen sea.

 

His father worked a blacksmith’s forge, the glowing metal hit

With hammering and strength of arm to make the iron fit

For many tasks as instruments that render work complete.

He fashioned plows and pruning hooks and shoes for horses’ feet.

 

Of mother’s gentle, guiding touch the boy had been denied.

They said it was at point of birth the blacksmith’s wife had died.

More than a few considered him a coarse, unruly child,

For while his father made their tools, he grew up stout and wild.

 

But, nonetheless, the father’s role was more than what it seemed.

Upon his knee at night, his son heard parables and dreamed

Of perfect things, invisible, beyond experience,

Of great dimension, fantasies contrived from common sense.

 

Young boys become young men although it’s hard to say just when,

And, on the way, in innocence, romantic thoughts begin.

One day, he sauntered through the hills with nothing much to do

When, in a vision, from the ground a perfect woman grew.

 

He could not see her clearly as she moved among the trees.

The breeze became her whisper, his companion at his ease.

As often as he waded in some pleasant summer’s dream,

He felt her fluid fingers on his ankles in the stream.

 

Her footsteps traced across the roots. Her willow waist would bend

In rhythm with the trunks of trees that bowed before the wind,

And slender ankles flashed along the dappled forest floor,

Approaching then receding as he sought to see her more.

 

He chased her all that summer, but her face he could not see.

No speed afoot could satisfy his curiosity.

At start of fall, that season when the leaves begin to turn,

His youthful pulse was quickened, and his chest began to burn.

 

Then came the day he lost all track of normal time and place,

Absorbed in contemplation of that fair but hidden face.

The vision pulled him far from home and into fading light.

At length, he stopped and kneeled to hear her breathing in the night.

 

He ran for days from tree to tree and bounded hedge to hedge

Through farms on lower slopes until he chanced on water’s edge.

The ocean wore its atmosphere, a gray and clouded hood,

And there his fervent running ceased, for there she clearly stood.

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT THURSDAY!!

So, You Wanna Be a Writer

quillThis poem, another great one by Dawn Paoletta, (not me, I’m the OTHER Dawn, and you know, not a poet…), pretty much speaks for itself.  Talk about insight, and wit!  Be sure and check out her beautiful place on the planet at Enthusiastically Dawn!  

So, You Wanna Be A Writer (Secrets of a Writer’s Life)

So

YOU

wanna be

a writer?

Well, listen carefully to me

before your dreams are crushed

and ego bruised carelessly.

I’ll tell you what you need to do

and why you shouldn’t care

whether or not your published

or write as a career.

I’ll tell you the secrets

all writers need to know,

how writing in your closet

and writing on the go

will take you on a journey

not unlike Jacques Cousteau.

Listen very closely,

as I preach with my keys-

secret number one

is to write exactly as you please-

forget about the masses,

and what “everyone” will think

ignore your morning chores,

leave the dishes in the sink.

Take your pen and journal

shut the door and sit-

I’m onto secret number two-

in just a little bit.

Conclusion number one is this:

A Writer never quits! 

Secret number two is this,

just be still!

Hurry up, seize the day –

be present where you are-

fill up every moment

as you would an empty jar-

with fireflies,

people’s lies,

and everything you know

capture every moment

as if falling snow.

Each experience encountered

provides an empty box

with a plethora of topics

not unlike a crazy fox-

doubling back on his tracks

and knowing that each step

matters in the sequence

not unlike a writer’s prep.

One more thing I must add now

In all things keep your wit-

Conclusion number two is this:

A Writer never quits!

On to secret number three

I’ll squeeze the best into this test

a thought for you to ponder

a writer

must write

 as sure as birds fly yonder.

A writer wages a war with pen

brings life to his reflections

the ink does birth

the writer’s thoughts

making magical connections,

but every writer needs one friend

to suggest a few corrections.

Otherwise he must stay true

to his own introspection.

The Writer’s only secret

I must now admit

is conclusion number three:

A Writer never quits! 

by Dawn Paoletta (A Writer)

Just Mow

quill

Pastor Anthony Baker at The Recovering Legalist, (and I so totally love that for a blog name!), has his moments of frustration and is not ashamed to let others know that he does not, in fact, walk on water.  On the other hand, he is likewise not ashamed to introduce you to Someone Who does….walk on water, that is.

So here is one of his productive solutions to the stresses of the clergy, or of life for that matter!

 Just Mow

I have so much to write

But it was too long a night.

The stress of it all, all the phone calls

I slept till I saw the light.

Yeah, I “saw the light”

I don’t have to write!

This is my blog, I’m not on the clock

There’s nowhere a paycheck to write.

So, it’s a beautiful day

The weather is great

I’ll crank the John Deere, put buds in my ear

And just mow all my stresses away.

So for a good dose of “so-what’s-your-problem-anyway!?!” theology, check out The Recovering Legalist, and enjoy the journey with Pastor Baker.

A Little House

quillA great poem by Kathy Boecher at A Time To Share!  Not only does it speak to me because of my house (I’ll let the percolate in your imagination–even This Old House experts might be challenged here…) but mostly because of the redemption message that is deeply embedded yet thinly veiled for those who know the grace of our Lord Jesus.  And, as always, the fab painting is by her talented husband, Paul.  

red house

Original art painted plein air by Paul T. Boecher©

A LITTLE HOUSE

A little house stands all alone, no people left inside,

There once was life within that house and laughter did abide,

The windows are now boarded up, the grass is overgrown,

The roof is battered, walls need paint, some love needs to be sown,

A fixer upper, yes indeed, but still a strong foundation,

Where walls can once again be filled with strong determination.

KATHY BOECHER©.

Poem in my pocket

quill

Clay Watkins, I can relate to you!  Teaching science everyday to middle schoolers—yeah, that’s my world, too, only I don’t teach, I’m their nurse.  You’re a treasure, and what you do is extremely important, more than you know.   So if you’re reading this today (which is a Thursday, meaning we’re both at work….) my hat’s off to you and all you and your colleagues do!

The name of Clay’s blogsite is: https://makingthedayscount.org  and that should tell you the quality of the content!  (oh, yeah, and my disclaimer….)

POEM IN MY POCKET

Earlier today, I discovered to my dismay,
I had missed an important day.
I looked down into my screen
to discover what I had missed
National Poem in Your Pocket Day.

I didn’t have a poem in my pocket,
It – my pocket that is – was rather empty,
But I smiled, and moved forward,
One foot after the other,
And, made it count, anyway.

Arise and Shine

quill

Another beautiful offering from artistic poet jacobemet!  Poetry is such a soul-full language.  It’s still not one I fully appreciate, not being a poet myself (see HERE), but I admire those who have the gift of poetry, for truly, being able to compose it is a gift, as is poetry itself.  

ARISE AND SHINE

All that sings

And all that speaks,

All that rises

From valleys and peaks,

All that aches

And all that pleads,

All that groans

With basic needs,

All that marches

And all that climbs,

All that hangs

For times and signs,

All that ebbs

And all that flows,

All that sleeps

In blanketed snows,

Echos the voice

Of Love Divine

Calling our name,

Arise and shine

I Don’t Want This

quillThis is such a cool poem.  Right, I know that doesn’t sound very sophisticated, but since I’m not a poet, I’m satisfied with that assessment.  Here’s why I like it: The author, Rose at http://seekingyoufirst.com/, has it tagged under “motherhood”, which intrigues me.  I’m thinking (Rose, I’m willing to stand corrected) that the author came up against some crazy arguments about how staying home to raise your children is somehow a waste of potential skill and talent.  

Like raising children doesn’t take skill, talent, and several more virtues besides?  (Okay, now I’m just getting revved up.  Best not go there.)  Here’s from Rose, a poignant statement:

I Don’t Want This 

What If I told you I don’t want this?

What if I told you I wanted to trade in for less…

Would you see me as weak?

Would I cease to be a pillar of strength?

Would I somehow become less intelligent?

I know this is what I’ve worked for,

But this is not what I want.

I’m not her, I am not that woman!

I don’t want this and I don’t want that.

I need more of…

What if I told you I want, no need, to trade in for less.

How could I, with so much

Settle for such less?

 

Ahh… but it’s   so      much      more.

 

I don’t want this!

Check out Rose’s site!

Roses are red, etc…

quill

I know, I know.  This is called “Not-My-Poetry”, but I couldn’t resist.  It is, after all, a) my site, and b) traditionally a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.  So I thought I would add my yet-to-be-discovered talent to the mix.  I do, however, maintain my disclaimer HERE.

Proceed at your own risk. (An encomium to some great folks where I work.)

 

To: Our most wonderful middle school custodians!

Have I told you lately how much I appreciate all you do??  (No, probably not, so here it is again–)

ROSES ARE RED

AND CALL ME A KOOK

BUT I’D RATHER DO BLOOD

THAN MOP UP THE PUKE

(wait a minute, that wasn’t very good, let me try again…)

ROSES ARE RED

AND PB IS BROWN

CLEANING MY FLOOR

COULD MAKE ANYONE FROWN

(wait, except for Donna, ‘cuz she’s always smiling.  Once more…)

ROSES ARE RED

AND IVY IS GREEN

YOU ARE THE ONES

WHO KEEP MY ROOM CLEAN!

(So who cares what color roses are anyway!  You guys are super to work with!! Thanks for all you do!  Nurse Dawn, the “non-poet”)Picture1

 

Happy Sprinter!

quillThanks to Mitch Teemley for this whimsical (but very profound) offering!  If you haven’t found Mitch’s site, The Power of Story, go there!! (Well, I mean, read this first, THEN go there.) You’ll laugh, be inspired, made to think.  And you will have fun. Thanks, Mitch!

yellow_crocus_flowers_in_the_snow_1600x1279

Uncertain spring,

no longer winter.

Transition’s the only

permanent thing.

So why should we wait

to lift up our hearts?

Let us huddle together

and celebrate Sprinter!

⇔ ⇔ ⇔

“To be interested in the changing seasons is a happier state of mind than to be hopelessly in love with spring.”

~George Santayana

Fool d’ya!

quill

I interrupt this normally scheduled “Not-My-Poetry” day for a poem of my ow-em.  All you true poets (consult list below), go easy on me. 

What is real life without struggle,

   And is courage true without fear?

There is no movement without friction.

   It is loss that reveals what is dear.

And PS—Doubt makes really good fuel for faith, but I ran out of rhymes….

For some honest poets, check out these sites:

https://poetrybydeborahann.wordpress.com/

https://joyindestrucible.com

http://enthusiasticallydawn.com/

https://nicodemasplusthree.wordpress.com/about/

https://atimetoshare.me/

https://jacobemet.wordpress.com/

http://seekingyoufirst.com/

http://www.drbigpond.com/

And for today’s REAL poem, it’s Mitch Teemley! (It’ll be posted later this evening!)

THANKS to the ones who

COLOR 

our lives with their words!