Wild Goose Chase

The Celtics named God's Holy Spirit the Wild Goose. I, perhaps, may have named Him the Human Whisperer, the Good One and Only, but the Wild Goose? Oh my! Now, that I know Him well, I call Him Father. Yet, as I consider the term Wild Goose, I somehow understand the creative Celtics. After all, I must chase something to make my mark on this side of heaven. A sit-down faith remains lame. A wild goose is impossible to catch and keeps its chasers in full forward motion. The Wild Goose of the Celtics was high energy, high wisdom, the example of risk and abandonment. A wild goose has fun and never harms its followers - it just passionately flies ahead and never gives up. I like that.

Song of the Spring Bird

The sounds and scents of Spring reminds us
that there's a reason to sit and watch for the
Spring Bird and hear its tender song

We must, we must
wait and smile and look up
For when the rose buds unfold atop their thorns
A trio of the rose and robin and the dove in the air
Prepare us for new beginnings
And cultivated miracles lain dormant in the ice of winter's blast.

What if the rose bud froze and the Spring Bird stayed lame in its nest?
And what if we forgot to sing to the sky and
twirl and sway with the winds of grace

Then, the Hands of God, would surely embrace
and harken our hearts and awaken the Spring bird
and place song in its throat
to bring
Love to us again, then we, too, shall sing . . . with the Spring Bird again and again.
The Songs of the Silent Spring Symphony

MSN.com by Lenovo

MSN.com by Lenovo

Daffodils and Daydreams

Spring, one of Mother Nature's kids, flirts with our afternoons. Yea, we say. Wintry thoughts must go; warm hours invite us to our porches. Perennials play with our moods and remind us how dependable they are. Is there anything better than feeling the full peace and pleasures of a Spring morning? There answered prayers fill the baskets of our hearts. There, new prayers tossed heavenward find their way to the heart of our High Father, the Master Gardener, the Maker of Daydreams . . . and daffodils.

A Saturday in October

Little swirls of leaves curl around my shoes, my wet muddy shoes
Then wind up in tidy and untidy piles near the curb of October
Tomorrow it will no longer be October, but November - the faithful, thankful month
Where food and flair and fantastic friends and family members fold together for fellowship
In a most kind and thankful circle of voices that sometimes blend in harmony, sometimes not
Mostly the ones who speak the least get heard the most because of their respect for silence - they offer dessert - the fruitful gift of listening - and listening caresses the restless soul
Quiet dining requires a restful setting blended with the warm smells of hopeful tolerance.

The Poet Tree

November sings to us a new whopping song.   Lights appear and wrap around our rooftops, hearts rejoice, emotions clear, but not for all.  I choose to remember the . . ."not for all" folks.

 November colors our land like a wide carpet of thank yous and the smells of Autumn blankets our evenings and our midnights.   We remember, we  think, we remember, we feast, we remember.

Today, I hear November's strong voice and her story prompts me to write and pray, and to pen

a few new spunky stories that stir the weary heart, that may help clear the murky minds of those I love,

plus those with unnamed faces in crowded places.

In these days of turning, I want to spin tales and tenderly tread through the

 dread of editing the forest of it over-grown verbiage and the needless dead wood of worry.    Oh, the fine art of sentence sculpturing, simple and lean, fitfully strong, a vast test of determination, I've found.

So,

 I will listen to the Holy Muse as I meander through the readied fields of fancy rants and buttery notions.

 I am golden now and molded into a new shape, full of mercy and cavernous concern for our world; yet I remain, a child wanting.  

I am not in a hurry; I rest on the Sabbath, eat fish and walk about my studio with gusto.     I wear a watch and drink fresh water; pray a lot and often.  Sometimes I may be found drawing in the sand and mud because, just because.

 I am not at all interested in spewing out bone-hard advice,

yet bent on blending wisdom with wit so we all may smile with wide emotion. 

Oh, I yearn to make art with alarming charm, so it may cling to the heart, lustery and likeable, along with

ideas that freely dance in the wide ballrooms of our minds.

So, I read and think and think about what I think about, lest I moan my way into some kind of Autumn malaise.  I  commit my best self to November.

 Fresh produce I shall pick daily and fill my writing basket with the prime pieces 

of good fruit and specialty items like peace packaged in the shape of a cross, an empty cross.

I walk down the aisle of mid-life and search for the fruits of holy script - all nine of them. 

And,

Today, I gather the ingredients for goodness and goodwill; my basket is full, my cup as well.

I'm  prepared for November's hospitality and 

a luscious salad of meaning, splashed with oil and grace.