By His Right Arm

joyindestructible

I Am standing, suffering self-contained.

Perpendicular to mankind’s reason;

Gazing over the vast expanse of time;

My vengeance is self- constrained!

Directing each and every season;

Toward the right conclusion of time;

In spite of the evil I left unrestrained!

Reclaiming all that I lost to treason;

Limit it to time, time, and half a time!

I leave My holy righteousness ingrained,

In children’s hearts, Spirit infusion!

Freeing them all from the prison of time;

Until Death’s sting I have fully contained;

Ending forever the universal confusion,

When by man Death began marking time;

Dispelling every deadly, strong delusion!

Of mortal human gods unrestrained;

Honor the One standing outside of time!

Omnipotent, perpendicular to our reason,

Jesus’ shed blood cleansing all sin stained!

God’s benevolent grace, saving age in time;

By My right arm! Defy age of human reason!

I Am standing, suffering self-contained.

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Isolation Splendor

joyindestructible

Welcome! To my virtual bubble;

This special place I’ve worked hard to create.

It’s free from all pain and trouble!

I sit, I scroll, I click, I sift, new reality I replicate!

High-Definition-Photo-Shop-double,

A slick profile, the Me I want to be; a duplicate.

Perfection that hides all the stubble,

Of the imperfect me, and allows me to insulate,

From all suffering outside Me bubble!

Ingenious, I’m sure you agree?

 

Welcome! But beware! Don’t say what I won’t hear!

I will block you, disengage, and ignore!

I will start scrolling, searching, find what I will hear!

Validate my opinion, make me feel more…

Sure of world created in my image; to isolate fear;

This bubble I digitally painted as reality tore,

Became too much to handle so, now find me here;

Denying all sorrow, ignoring a bloody war!

Suspending the truth, in chosen ignorance sheer!

I see you’ve done…

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November Blue

November Blue

On this sacred, blue November day

Somber, thin, high-clouds do lay

Heavy; on trees naked and gray.

Spirit? Bend me and I will pray:

Please God! Deliverance today!

For all who remain death’s prey,

The weak the wicked who will pay.

Sin’s permanent ink-stains stay,

Hard hearts can’t soften to obey,

Leading all who are lost astray,

Blind, deaf, soul’s night in the day…

There’s something sinister at play!

As those dying and lost only say,

To Jesus, to life a proud, Nay!

Sad, they the full cost must pay!

Lost. Infinite blue November day…

Father! It is for mercy that I pray

Melt all prideful blindness away!

As for me, also possible for they,

By Spirit’s grace be led to obey!

Hopeful truth, on blue November day

In Joyful Reverence

Father, fill this weary heart,

With your Spirit, your presence!

Infuse my mind with reverence,

Beyond ideas of human art!

 

May an aroma, a Holy essence,

Melt my anxious heart!

This day is a new start;

Live for you in Holy reverence!

 

Break sin’s pride apart,

By awareness of your presence!

Heaven is more than severance,

The gift of a new heart!

 

Bear Jesus’ Name in reverence,

By Holy Spirit, not apart!

No Jesus in carnal heart!

In Jesus, I enter God’s presence!

 

Praise from faith’s heart,

Grateful raise in pleasing essence!

Worship offer in awed reverence,

Giving day a joyful start!

 

 

Deception

Deception: Mary Mageleen in the Cave

Long and heavy-hot, July-Doldrum-Days;

Shag hazy thought as staggering, drunk strays;

Desperation fraught in scorching-hot-rays!

Instinct (not wisdom taught) seeks cool caves.

Safe, in a hidden spot! As my long-lost slaves…

I reclaim my thought, my icy-blue-memory saves,

My present re-caught in isolation my soul craves.

Rid of the fiery onslaught! By cool, blue waves…

Comfort the distraught,Oh Shadow of the Graves!

Deceiving the overwrought on blazing-hot-days.

 

The Artist

I haven’t been writing for awhile and I’m republishing this as a way to remind myself of what I am and what God has created me to do. I hope it resonates with my fellow creatives.

joyindestructible

On a sunny day my thoughts are lifted high

Stretched relaxed peacefully adrift in an azure sky

High pressure is my delight!

On a cloudy day my thoughts plummet to the earth

Heavy leaden weights of dusty sorrow bereft of mirth

Low pressure is my fright.

On a warm summer day my pain melts I feel strong

I love to play to work to laugh and sing many a happy song

In summer my world is right!

On a winter day I ache and I suffer from cabin fever

I read I write I contemplate and wait for warmer weather

Winter is my personal plight.

On a quiet day when the wind is still my soul and spirit rest

I gather strength from the atmosphere I am safe in Spirit’s nest

Still days are my source of Might.

On a blustery day when the wind howls sweeping the earth

I…

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Simple Songs of Truth

The Foundation
The Foundation

Play for me! Strum on silvery strings!

Old golden hymns of ancient Truth…

Soul calming song, fly on Dove wings!

Remind me of all eternity’s worth!

Tell me of the miracle only Love brings!

 

Spirit’s joy, lifted by Heaven’s mirth!

Saintly song across the ages still rings…

Encircling all of history’s wide girth!

Jesus the Name a saint eternally sings…

Calling the lost home to a new birth!

 

Soft and low Jesus is calling; faith swings,

Life Door opens! Church of one Faith…

Ancient cloud of witness with us sings!

Healing words approving His Truth;

Faith transcends, Jesus in all age’s rings!

 

So strum and sing of Messiah’s birth!

Rock of Ages to you believer still clings…

Glory come down! A Pearl of worth!

Revive us again! Hope in praise springs!

Light the dark! Simple songs of Truth!

 

 

Lost

Vanity
Vanity

Mooribound thoughts in grey sliced by a jagged indigo wind!

Shatter across the frozen tundra of the mind…

Then conclude at the dead end of human wisdom.

Gray truth of depression speaking again!

Hopeless dry snow! Cold powdered emotion!

Stinging the eyes and faces of all daring to come near,

Offering the salve of cheerful words that burn!

Here to remain in shadowed dark retreat…

The deepest forgotten cave of a tortured brain;

Silently licking these old wounds opened again;

Protecting new gashes now, both festering as one…

Gangrene of the soul threatening amputation!

Complete severing from God and life. Woefully lie,

Safe in the embrace of isolation. “Lover hold me close!”

No one can hurt me here! Hints of safety and relief in nonexistence…

Death’s soft whisper seduces awful grey to flow into a sultry ebony dream…

Black delusion! Dead coal to burn red-hot!

Ignited as latent anger explodes! Life’s final stand!

Mollified in the righteous anger of God! Oh ancient lake, Gehenna!

Garbage dump zealous to consume,

Vain creators and their works born of carnal purposeless lives.

Faith lying dead in heaps are the broken dreams of mortal pride,

The very cutting shards of this biting indigo wind!

Wind fanning the flames that never die!

Outside the City Gate…

Where regretful lost souls gnash their teeth and cry!

Winter’s Artist

Winter's Artist
Winter’s Artist

The budding artist that never quite blossomed into fame is that eccentric old woman. I am her and she is me and the hardest part about being her is accepting her. Once active hands and mind used to create things of beauty now, often lie in rest or are consumed with self-care. However, that eternal flame that inspires still burns inside and sometimes blazes as these old hands tremble and rise once more to make something new, young, and beautiful. Old dreams awake in a turbulent rush of ideas clamoring for expression. Who knows how long this will last and can my more feeble faculties endure to give them birth? How long before the heavy blanket of age and failing health seeks again to smother that inner flame? I wonder is it fame and worldly acceptance that has the power to relabel an eccentric an artist? Or is it I who holds that power in simply expressing what I know deep inside, by that bright inner light, to be eternally true about my identity and purpose?

Yes, I am old and eccentric. I am a winter artist.

Benevolent Power

When the cotton flies on a summer day worries melt in the magic of rose bouquets presented by the Walking Stick Cactus. In the heat of sun and full life, time, age, and winter don’t matter. Swirling white cotton floating on the warm wind lifts my fanciful thoughts to go dancing in a summer-time blizzard. Feathery white stuff tickles my nose bringing me home to reality with a sneeze! This is June in the Bosque’ where the Cotton Wood is a benevolent King offering life with protection to every heat-stressed, desert creature beneath the cooling power of its shimmering leaves. Shelter for the deer and other four-footed animals is also, found among the Russian Olives, Salt Cedar, and other river-loving shrubs. The ancestral homes of many birds adorn the branches of the Cotton Wood and the lesser tree kinds of this deciduous, desert forest. During this yearly, ‘Summer Ballet of the Cotton’ all is well and at peace.

Suddenly, the cotton’s spell is broken by the sharp screech of a Magpie swooping low! He brings many of his beautiful black and white brethren with him but their dazzle is quickly forgotten in the cacophony of obnoxious sound made by these thugs bent on obtaining dominion of the Bosque’. Nothing in the trees or on the ground is spared as they swoop high and low in tacky pursuit of any creature that moves. The soothing tones of the song birds stop. A few brave parents stay in a valiant effort to protect their nests along with their young but every other bird flees. The land creatures hide beneath bushes and dive into their boroughs. An empty silence replaces the happy sounds of contentment but still the cotton drifting-twirls and the Cotton Woods are undaunted. They stand in silence offering their comforting green branches even to the likes of the Magpie who soon grow bored without the contention that defines them. In the empty, dead silence they’ve created, they begin to eye one another and soon the forest is filled with the sounds of civil war. Swooping, diving, and curling into a moving ball the great battle ensues breaking all from their assigned ranks as camaraderie is forgotten in the pursuit of personal power. Soon, the weakest among these invaders dart away and others follow until the warring mob shrinks to only two. This pair builds a nest and settles in as the other bird’s now wary, return to reclaim their home. Having revealed their true selves to all and being outnumbered, the new-comer Magpies fall silent, craftily subdue their contentious nature, and busy themselves with raising their young.

The Cotton Wood leaves quiver and quake offering their moisture to cool the hot, dry air; by wisdom blessing the righteous and the wicked alike thereby, maintaining balance in the Bosque’.