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.
Author: Michael J. Cunningham
Thoughts for Lent – Day One
A series of reflections for the Christian period of Lent. In our tradition, Lent is a period of time where we get to reflect and consider what needs to change in our lives. That we may become closer to God; a slightly better person, or rid ourselves of habits and behaviors we don’t like about ourselves.
Which Way?
Which way is the river flowing in my life?
I see the waterfall, but it seems I am drifting in another direction.
How is that possible?
Let the living water wash over me and refresh my body and lead me home …
UnObscured Vision
The painting of light build its own canvas,
The needed impression,
And communicates only what you see.
Make of it whatever you will.
The Banquet in the Dark
Before the flashlight flickered,
It was blackness,
Not negative, just nothing to me.
Unable to discern,
What lies below.
Now, revealed; all is clear.
The table is set,
All which remains is to reach out once more,
Into the divine darkness.
And trust I will find the food I desire.
The Pear
The Sacramentals
Those sacramentals on the table,
Pickin’s for the grieving family,
Some unworn watches, car boot sale bargains,
The oil painting of home in Ireland from Uncle Jim,
A funny plate, from a holiday in Cornwall.
All sacramentals now,
To be spread amongst others,
Or saved for another such event,
30 years from now.
As his children set the dining room table again.
For another semi-colon in an eternal sentence.
The Choices
Almost the same,
Leading to the same place,
One as invitational as the other.
The doors stay firmly closed,
Waiting only for awakening,
A key.
Or someone inside to invite you in.
The choice to discern or decide.
The Choice
The path on this seashore seemed familiar,
The walk from the Welsh village contained all the characters from Undermilk Wood,
Yet, none came from their houses,
Making this our own set, and not surreal at it seemed.
Her hand firmly clasped in a grip of 37 years,
No mans land in marriage, yet as perfect as the first days,
Only better now because we know each other,
And that we didn’t make the right choice.
But rather God did.
Alt Path
Holding her hand in a grip,
Which will not hurt, caressing, but not easy to shake.
Like the time we have spent here together,
Traveling encased in a dream which has lasted all those years.
We walked together.
Here now was the alternative path,
Close to the coastal wall,
Tall, make of Celtic stone and surrounded by a hedge of many years,
Making it full on impassable.
Years ago it was narrow, but easily navigated,
The alt path now blocked by the darkness,
Even though it is full on daylight,
On this coastal day in Wales.
We are forced back to the main path
Perfectly cleared of any debris, illuminated and almost straight,
Making it clear where we are called to go,
But winding enough to make it interesting,
Filled with parts unseen to increase that Holy Longing
Which is our love for each other,
And for Him.
The Gower Coast
The Welsh weather keeps our skin perfect,
Never too much sun, but when it comes, a little wind to douse it’s affect,
So as not too feel too warm,
And then changing to overcast,
As shadows dance over the coast,
Creating sunbeams, and shadows, and images,
Only to be apprehended by an imagination, or a paparazzi camera.
Yet yearning for Gainsborough, Constable, or some Hudson River artist to daub it, and capture it forever.
The Monastery Within 
