The primeval will inside,

A desire to have more,

When we have already eaten our fill,

Stirs again,

Invading peace … disguised as instinct.

 

Interrupting my scenic journey.

 

 

I know it now for sure,

I am nothing.

Well something,

Because You made me,

But nothing of myself.

 

Let me squash the foolish pride,

I once held dearly,

As if I was somebody.

And drop my head in shame,

For a life lived in me, not you.

 

It is now clear,

No better life has been given to anyone,

Than the one You gave me,

To either savor or squander,

Of which I have done both,

With great purpose … if not direction.

 

It ends now,

With the knowledge of surrender,

Full surrender,

After my Emmaus journey,

I AM aware suddenly,

Of my worthlessness, to myself.

 

It is only what I do which you direct,

Which is useful,

All other is self-serving,

As I see this through new eyes,

Opened and aware.

 

 

At the bus stop in London,

I wait fixated for the next one to arrive,

Observing all the passengers,

Snug and embroiled in their lives,

Get on and off the bus,

As another conductor looks through me,

Like I didn’t exist.

 

The traffic is heavy,

But moving quickly,

Like a symphony,

I am transfixed, watching the people,

And the noise,

In Silence.

 

As if it didn’t happen,

But I know it all did,

Some lives must have been affected by me,

But I seem of little use or effect right now.

Watching as another bus and its cargo,

Stay in perpetual motion.

 

Without me.

 

After many days of turmoil,

Wrestling with decisions,

Small and large,

I see you again at the doorstep,

A welcome friend.

 

Returned and absorbed,

Flooding the inner sanctum,

With the light and love,

Which can only come from you.

 

He waits in the wings,

Quietly sitting just a few seats away,

Observing, absorbing, patience redefined.

 

The more at peace you are,

The greater his tenacity.

Willing to appear invisible for years at a time.

 

Then suddenly an opening appears in the movie,

Something smothered in desire, old longings, past deeds,

And remembrances.

 

Time to try again.

 

Sitting on the edge of the field,

It grows taller than the others,

Sharing less water,

Not crowded in,

Like others in the city.

 

Its freedom is both its weakness,

And its strength.

 

“Lilies in Massachusetts” available as a Desktop Wallpaper Download here

The rain falls sweetly, on this Father’s Day morn,

Watering the grass,

Renewing again the growth of nature.

As I feel the green leaves soaked in delight,

Absorbing the love of God, in life bringing water.

 

Then, via Skype from another state,

A granddaughter tries to “tweek” my nose,

Muttering words of love interspersed with babble,

Only understood by a grandfather,

Who responds with similar language.

 

Counting blessings this day.

 

 

I know what I like,

When a day touches me because of the joy it brings,

Or someone spreads their love like steaming butter over my hot toast,

And the water is particularly calming by the lake.

All of these reach deep inside.

 

To a place only known to me … and God.

 

 

I know what I like,

When a day touches me because of the joy it brings,

Or someone spreads their love like steaming butter over my hot toast,

And the water is particularly calming by the lake.

All of these reach deep inside.

 

To a place only known to me … and God.