I remember those mornings, on the darkish country lanes of England.

Thinking silently while inhaling the fresh, damp, cold,

Morning air.

 

While the motorcycle hummed beneath me,

It was not a distracting noise, rather soothing.

As the ride gently moved from dusky darkness,

As light seeping onto the planet,

Awakening my day.

What a delight I have enjoyed all my life,

Seeing and feeling the day and night,

Its temperature changes,

Affecting attitudes,

Conversations,

Disposure,

Clothing,

And most of all.

 

Mindfulness.

 

Let me replay these days again,

To feel the touch of God in my life today.

And why when light falls or fades,

Meaning becomes obvious to me.

 

 

 
Sprinkled gently through the day,

Random thoughts occur, stay for a moment,

Then disappear.

 

Today, I will examine those lost thoughts,

To see if I have some good news in these fleeting messages.

 

 

The artist sees with the eyes,

But paints with the heart.

Each brushstroke carefully selected to create an impression,

Perhaps unknown when started,

But guided by a mysterious force.

Seeing, reflecting, painting …

 

Teach me to see like an artist.

The two hands lay dormant by my side,

Preparing for the act of forgiveness, about to occur.

Heart and Mind misaligned,

Again.

 

The right hand is relaxed,

Imagining the joy of forgiveness,

A welcoming, extension,

Of a soul at peace.

 

Meanwhile, next door,

A left hand clenches,

Desperately hanging onto the residue of hate,

Separating the single intention of love.

 

The arm is extended,

My external, smiling face,

Forces out the words.

“I forgive you”.

But the heart and God knows the difference.

Slipping out in the evening cooled by a passing breeze,

It stops for a moment,

Delivering perfect silence,

Broken only by the frogs,

Who once again begin their symphony.

 

For this garden of Eden, where I abide.

 

 

At rest now, in this lonely place,

Yet strangely not alone,

The presence of God steeped in a scene,

In this wondrous resting place

.

My heart is restless, till I rest in thee.†

 

 

† Words of St. Augustine

Read to me tonight dad,
It’s really not so late,
I want to hear that Seuss,
Just once again, it’s great

Oh don’t say that you’ll be up,
The minutes ticking by,
I am getting lonely here,
Myself and just one book.

I love it when you read to me,
Oh do so come and tell,
It is the only time we get,
To have our hug and spell.

Dad, the book is open on my bed,
I have the page right here
Is Dr. Seuss so dead?
Oh do come up and read.

Maybe he will come quite soon,
I’m getting rather sleepy,
Happy are the sounds down there,
Perhaps work has made him weary.

It’s morning now, my school day starts,
I’m off to early art,
Perhaps tonight I’ll win the prize,
Seuss and right from the start;

Oh Daddy, come and read to me.

The uncle in pursuit,
Never to catch the little ones,
Screaming with delight,
Knowing they are ahead,
But not sure why.

Comforted by the love of the longer legs giving chase.
To the larger heart of a family.

 

Sorrow, the heart feeling pain,
Not just the mind,
Bent on retribution,
But forgiveness and remorse are now together.
As friends who will reduce the hurt with authentic love.

Sorrow.

Looking Inward 

Sweeping lines paint the waves which make up my nature,
Punctuated by the conversation of raindrops,
Here and there, placing thoughts where they will.

And a small leaf, shows reality as I see it,
Yet not as others see me.