Valentine

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A quiet Wednesday evening here. I know I don’t usually post at this time (or – at least it’s been a while!) but thought I had my laptop out and might as well at least write a few words! Today’s been a cold drizzly grey day. Sometimes I love those kinds of days. Alas today my love was dry. After I finished work, I would have loved to go out and walk in the cold afternoon but the showers descending without mercy gave me pause. So inside I have stayed! Bonus work was accomplished. Some reading was also done. I am almost done with the adventures of the Count of Monte Cristo. What a beast of a book! I hit the thousand-page mark last night and still a good bit to go!! It is worth it, although I am not convinced that it compares to some of my other 19th-century favs. Maybe I’m just not a fan of French lit. Maybe I just prefer the Russians. What does that say about me?

In other news, the scents of dinner rise. Dani is in the kitchen and I am now pleased to report that it seems as if a delicious dinner of fried okra and beef is at hand. Soon enough we shall enjoy a pleasant and delicious dinner and then bed time will be my lot. Early I know, but work is pressing hard of late and I fear I need all my strength to meet the challenge. The Lord gives grace, always.

Now I shall cease this slightly rambling evening post. It’s been a bit since I’ve written like this (makes me nostalgic for the entries of my past a bit!) and though I can’t promise I will keep this up, it makes me smile to write a few words in the middle of a hectic tiring week. Apologies for the lack of anything resembling creativity or wit. Perhaps next time, my friends, perhaps! Oh and one question for the readers. What books should I tackle next? I’m pondering which beautiful works of fiction shall be on my reading list this year of 2026. I am considering a Lord of the Rings re-read (it’s been too long!) and perhaps some more Lewis as well. But I am undecided so I would heartily welcome any beloved recommendations.

Now I am off for real. Peace and love, my friends. Peace and love.

Fondly She Says

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They sit around the table talking of all the delicate things of life. They speak of loving from a distance and friendships severed and high drama now converted to a steady well-banked fire. On the table is laid a feast with one large pot of meat and sauce and other smaller bowls with various accoutrement and at the end sits a plate of sliced bread still slightly steaming and a small dish of butter invitingly placed nearby. It may seem slightly unnecessary to take the time to describe the food and its placement on the table yet does it not add to understanding the back and forth of the hands that go here and there as various bits of this and that get added to bowls as the conversation carries ever on? I am attempting to paint a scene and sometimes I prefer to let my gentle readers fill in the dialogue for themselves if only they see the staging well described before them. So yes. Back to the table at hand. The four friends talk in a way which indicates kinship or union of some kind, even if it can also be seen that they do not know each other as intimately as family might. Yet there are smiles that linger on one face long after an encouraging word has been said and no one is looking in his direction. What is it to share your heart with another and know that it is being seen as true? This is rare, is it not? I know I crave such. But now I leave the table and glance at the tea kettle that already is near at a boil. Four cups on the counter with tea bags placed within. A glance into the living room where sofa and comfy chairs sit and I can imagine them sitting there with cups cradled gratefully in hands, steam rising to caress joyous faces. They sit as I knew they would and then of course the continued chatting about life and death and the divine amidst the mundane of which we everyday breath and see. There is nothing grand to be said about this whole evening of course, it is just a small homey scene. Yet perhaps are not those the grandest? I think so.

Pride Strides Afore

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a dance to the death they say
i welcome it
bring it
the dance or the death?
no answer given
only my lips move slightly
in the beginnings of a
smirk
across the floor stands my opponent
well oiled, prepared, painted well
here i stand alone and sad
without a petal to my name
she tosses her bouquet of roses
and out i shimmy
we shall see who conquers
in this dingy bar under the
neon lights

Fare Thee Well

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She stood at the window gazing with calm equanimity across the chaotic void. The last ship had launched and the fiery remnants of its wake still glistened and yet her face did not display any trace of tears though she knew she would never see her love again. She stood for several long slow beats of her heart feeling her body pulse to the rhythm of the station’s reactor. There would be time to mourn later, of course. There would be nothing but time and she would struggle to know how to fill it. But for now, for this moment, she wanted to feel her union with him as a still present reality and to admit to separation would be akin to standing over her own grave. She refused to think of the long years that stretched before her. Instead, she felt the press of his hand on hers and the lingering touch of his lips. She remembered the small smile that graced his face as he had turned one last time before walking down the gangway. She let his final words ring in her ears. They would meet again, to be sure. But it would be on the other side of space and time. She would see his face again in a place which she now saw only vague outlines of in her dearest dreams.

And now comes the long march. Now comes the cold dark of the unknown years which stretch afore her. She must fill the void with the little graces and beauties that she had spent so many years cultivating in fertile soil. Now comes the refining fire and the test of faith. But the void is too vast for her to fill with the finite scribblings of a weary heart. Yet still it must be filled.

Juliet let her shoulders relax and she sighed a mortal sigh. And in the light of the star filled sky she felt tears begin to fill her eyes.

Friend

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A Monday morning says hello and soon oh too soon must I begin to work, this I know. But can I not spend a bare few minutes typing up a little soliloquy? Whether or not I’m granted permission, I proceed. It is a cold morning and though I wish I could enjoy it with a nice long walk, there is no time alas. Perhaps later! For the now, I simply sit and meditate on what I’ve read this morning. From beautiful words of comfort and joy found in the Bible to words of strong exhortation and sweet encouragement from JC Ryle, I’m grateful for the time I have to ponder heavenly things as I think on the inheritance that is mine through the glorious work of Jesus Christ. Soon enough the hustle and bustle of the daily stresses will commence and I shall deal with those in their proper order. But no matter what comes, I walk forward in calm confidence that all I do is through the grace and power granted me by God himself. I rejoice knowing that I am called a child of God and have no fear of what may come this day. Though I was once a sinner vile and blind of eye and perverse of heart, I now have been made anew, am regenerated true and born again that I might sing glory glory to my God! Jesus is my friend. What a thought! I sit here and let that wash over me and think on it again. Jesus is my friend.

And though now I act in faith and bemoan the fact that I cannot take his hand and feel the scars and touch the side that bore the spear for me, I do look upward now knowing that he is there at the right hand of God ever mediating for me his friend. Yet he is there yet also here in union with me in divine mystery that I don’t fully understand. But this union is something beautiful, a vine that I am part of. Yes, I abide in Christ. I close my eyes for a second and think again that I am a child of God. The Spirit prods me closer down the path and reminds me that this world is not my home. I have another and even now my friend Jesus makes it ready for me. Soon I come. Not yet. But soon. I long for that far country where I shall sit at the feet of Jesus and share a meal with him. Now I think on the meal I take in memory, that wine and bread which reminds me of that work which Jesus did for me. His body, broken for me. His blood, given for me. I am washed and clean and wear robes of white because the Lamb of God gave his life for me. And this is not a mere transactional note in the divine ledgers. No, Jesus looks to me in love and stretches out his hand and says come. Come to me and you shall find your rest. Yes, my Lord, I come. I rest in you. I delight to say – Jesus, my dear friend and brother, I rest in you! My Lord and my God, I rest in you.

Signed and Sealed

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in the fog he strides and sings
glory glory to my king!
he lifts his head and smells the smoke
whispering to himself of what he knows
promises that were long ago written
words of life that for him were given
and though too oft he tends to stutter
and wastes his thoughts on another
there are times like now when he stands tall
and remembers seeing the rainbow at the falls
so please forgive him for not always being plain of speech
for it brings him perhaps perverse delight to weave poetry
that subtly whispers truth that aches with love
and gently hints at the truths of him who sits above
but now he laughs and cries as he remembers his story
his heart burns within him as he ponders that farther glory
and he knows that though he was lost and broken true
and that he had no idea what if anything he could do
there was one who reached out his hand
and pleaded him to come into the farther land
all he had to do was fall and kneel and pray
and in desperate humble brokenness ask and say
Lord I bring nothing I am but ash and rust
save me save me oh save me or I am lost!
and so he looks to the cross and says i believe
help me God to come now to thee
for on my own i would surely be done
but now i rest my faith in you God’s own Son!
and that is all and that is enough he cries
for he knows that for his soul the Son did die!
so now he’s washed and now he’s clean
and now he stands forever among the redeemed
he rises up through the waters of the brook
and to the far shore he now dares to look
the pilgrim way continues on and ever on
but now he walks with the light of God
and though his writings still sometimes stumble
and though his poetry tends to kind of mumble
he leaves this here for a witness
to the God whom he confesses
Father, Son and Spirit Holy
eternity now whispers
and I follow

To Be Raised

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She writes of what she knows, of cliffside walks and fireside conversations and books that end with a sigh on the lips and a prick of the heart. It is challenging for her to write of battles and fiery declamations or of back and forth duels or action set pieces. She at times wishes she had a more exciting life on which to draw rich inspiration for she knows not what it is to crawl in the mud in the trenches of a war which long ago ceased to have any meaning or forward drive. Think of the scars on her soul and the weariness of heart that would have resulted from such a campaign and think of the poetry that would of necessity sprung forth.

But one look into the eyes of her bosom companion persuaded her that perhaps it was for the best that her life up until now had really been rather boring. When she looked into his eyes and saw the pain that seemed to leak through at the most odd moments, she, well – she knew she would have broken long before. And even if the best art comes from the most broken amongst us, who can say that she would not have been one of the broken ones who only brings forth crumbling potsherds and ashy rags, crumbling crying on the rug afore the fire? A few are marked for greatness and for gold shining forth from that ancient forge. But there are too many shattered skeletons nearby that belie the idea that beauty needs only a little fire to metamorphosize into the divine.

Remember this, she says to herself softly. Remember this. And then she reaches across the table and takes his hand and squeezes it gently as she kisses him with her eyes. She thinks of her notebook on the coffee table and her half-written scribbling of a girl walking through the meadow grass as the last of the evening sun shines through the winter branches. That girl walks in beauty and knows it in the moment. That is a precious gift and shall not be squandered.

Remember and hold on to beauty, she whispers to him now. I do he responds soft. But it’s not quite as hard as you think, for I am also one who is held. And the arms around me are made of sterner stuff than even my nightmares dare to be. His smile broke through and he lifts his hands in mock surprise. Even I too though mortal am reminded by these words of my immortality. Does that seem quite odd to you? That’s the paradox of resurrection. That’s a slender sapling growing up through the ash. That’s a scorched seed falling slowly through the wind. That music you hear? That’s an echo of the song that even now my heart yearns to sing in full. Someday, she says. Springtime comes.

Flexing

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Hello friends! A quick post this lovely Saturday evening which may or may not lead to more writing down the line, who can say? Certainly not I. As is usual, I’ll start out by noting the absolute gorgeousness of this day. It’s about 50 degrees outside, a chill that delights my heart and warms my soul. The sky is of a cornflower blue, it’s face friendly and well-washed by the recent rain. And feathery clouds rest atop the horizon heralding the sunset that is soon to come. I could have stayed at home and written there of course and I almost did. But I walked down the street to the coffeeshop here mostly because I craved the walk and all its attendant delights. Now I sit here at a small wooden table at Antidote, resting my back against the block wall and subtly listening in on some of the conversations around. Right now to my left sit a couple from England talking to a couple from the Netherlands and I’m enjoying their random chat. But let’s see if I can shut that off and focus on writing, shall I? The electronic beat of the music – warehouse techno in styling – sounds firm in my ears and drives me ever forward. I must write. I shall write. My fingers have been inactive too long. But what? Shall I write of that which I love? Shall I write of those dreams that linger afore my waking eyes and softly draws me closer with the soft scent of rose perfume? Or shall I instead crack open my heart a bit and let it pour forth that molten gold that has been in the forging processing these many months? I know not, I know not. Too often I allow myself these stream-of-consciousness sessions and at times it is beautiful but at times I slightly worry about what may issue forth. But then I remember to whom I belong and who even now is at work pruning me and making me fit for the far country for which I long. And I smile and worry no more. I am a child of God, am I not? What love is mine. So let’s write and let’s love and let’s wonder. I’ll let others worry, I simply rest on the promises that are mine. Peace and love, dear friends.

Styrofoam

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so many of us feel hollow inside, a pinata gaudily painted
and fated soon to burst
and though there are those who hoot and holler and proclaim
all is merry all is fine
the hollow ones know that the fuss is all for show
for at the end of the day the glitter and feathers
are cheap camouflage for the cracks that gape open
when she sobs her emptiness into her fingers tapping
up again and up again and up again
the phone reveals nothing new but why not a little more
but if we are hollow all
and even the full ones uneasy bite their lips
perhaps there’s more to this?
then what does this mean if we’ve written off the story
and decided the author’s all for show
i make all my decisions
autonomy and free will and agency
those fine guiding lights
i’d rather be my own
even if it means i call myself a hollow one
who cares if i’m all alone
close your eyes and don’t look to the horizon
there is no shore that beckons that’s only imaginary rain
cry and feel alive once more and scream the chorus
and paint yourselves up again

Witness

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the moonlight shines down slantwise upon the eastern wall
neglecting to reveal the refuse strewn down its base
but a few words from a recent traveler remain
i love you my darling Em
and then a scribble from a scoffer
that may or may not be profane
but in the stillness of that 3am hour
there is one who looks down the alley
and reading the prophecies decides against
so she leans against the corner and lets the streetlight warm her
and pulls her scarf closer now