Monday

I have one sock in my pocket.
It is missing it’s other half, grey,
my thoughts placing bare feet
in loafers penny colored.

I broke a towel rack before this.
While retrieving blue pants
from the counter.
It started with a small square piece,
then I decided I’d try fixing it.
Instead, the whole rod came crashing atop mother’s makeup bag.

I stared in the mirror.
God, I don’t want
to get upset over this.
I really don’t.

Tears welling, refusing
to come out.

Here I’ve sat under
dreary, less opinionated
sky, wondering
when angels above
will cry.

I’m Sorry

I don’t want to go back
to a house I’ve felt
I’ve died continually.

Where he echoes
hello twinkle, and I
smile because my heart
is swollen with before.

a girl of fourteen,
legs stretched out,
Nicholas Sparks filling her
with dreams of a boy
changed by one girl
with God’s love her guide.

You walked in,
asked how the book was,
I said, good.

You stood at the door
a minute smiling, before
walking away,
letting me continue
my fantasized walk
to remember.

What I remember-
how you stood there
with care reflected back
to my now blues,
for your love of alcohol.

A house is not a home
where the father has
lost himself for fear’s sake.

You say you want peace,
but it’ll never be found
in bottles marked, “apathy.”

I miss a past you,
who comes in present dreams.

Meditative

My heart is steadfast
with songs of deliverance,
brought from the rock of habituation,
hearing my faint cry: I want to be free.

Love broke through
as sure as the sun,
cracking open hope
I place in Him-
knowing my wilted frame.

May the words I meditate upon,
in heart & speech
be honest & kind
though my heart, broken,
becomes beautiful
with Your Spirit,
my shepherding guide
in the valley where I now reside.

Anchor of hope,
thy marvelous light
which shines upon downtrodden
souls, look to this lowly magnolia.
Fretting hours ahead,
light it’s cloistered petals,
reminding coming bloom,
if I don’t forget His love
in the valley seeming without end.

My potion and my strength,
come now, come to my aid.
I long to look on Your face.
You, who are patient, ever kind.
Your love never fails
those whom You call,
Beloved.

With You now, I am
grateful for Your love.
My God, my truest friend.
I can’t outrun Your love.
It is the balm from which
my soul rises forth,
the same breath which perfumes
lavender & honeysuckle.

It is written: He will give the weary strength.
My eyes, head, & heart
are weary from this day,
to days behind.
I beg of You to lift
me upon thy wing.
Show me what it is to
fly with thee.

Oh, Lord-
when those I love, or I
walk in ways unsatisfying,
whisper the only hope I’ve got
is You alone.

The pathway:
full of rights & wrongs,
sticks & stones, heartbreak & shame,
sorrow & blame, promises the joy
of the Lord, whom with we shall always be, though life’s night song proves long.

poem- walking

It reminds me of wailing through life. Check out her work, it’ll make you think. 🙂

Shawn L. Bird

you

me

.   sauntering

strolling     .

.           meandering

traipsing              .

.                          ambling

lumbering                     .

.                                    lurching

staggering                                    .

.                                              tottering

striding                                                   .

.                    …

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High Price

God bless whoever reads this 🙂

Chris Martin Writes

The worth and value of something is determined by the price paid.

My heart breaks this morning for the lost. For those who have never been told how amazing and valued they are in the sight of God. That they are not an accident. That they are not just an unplanned pregnancy. That they are not a mistake. They need to know that God saw and chose them before the very foundations of the world were ever formed.

Millions of people walk the Earth with an identity that is based on the ebb and flow of life, and not the truth of the Gospel. It doesn’t matter what we’ve done. It doesn’t matter where we came from. GOD LOVES US. PERIOD.

The sad thing is, it’s not just the lost who are suffering identity crisis. It’s also many people who call themselves Christians.

We allow the circumstances of life to…

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