Such is Life

My brother from another mother sent me a text message this morning and said "Hey I've got a favor to ask".  As curious as can be, I reply with "What's up?".  Not even two minutes later I feel my cellular device vibrate four times followed by a doorbell like noise - without surprise to see the message is from him, I was surprised with what he had to say... "You like to write right? (Ha I didn't mean to do that) uh have you written any poems?" - what have I been doing for the past week!?  With messages going back and forth traveling as fast as the speed of light (thank goodness for modern day technology!), I had committed to writing him a poem for an English class he is currently enrolled in.  It wasn't due till Tuesday, but I told him I would have it signed, sealed, and delivered by the end of the day.  I needed to look at a picture, and write a poem about it.

This is what I came up with.

 

Silent, ever so still

This road without end in view

Austere tracks, Beauty arises

Still - surrounded by clouded truths

Walking down a Misty Track

Moving forward, each step with caution

Music roaring in the background

People in the shadows mutter

Alone - now brisk strides, but no sound

Walking down a Misty Track

Holding strong to an intangible force

Enduring harsh winters, gaining power

Running - careful not to fall

Darkness so thick, do not cower

Walking down a Misty Track

Seeing an end, plain in sight

Sweet melodies surround

Head held high, hands outstretched

Light, Peace, now all around

No longer on a Misty Track

This picture reminds me of a picture that was taken while he was on his mission.  He and his companion walking down a railroad track.  While keeping that in mind, words flowed as water does from a tap.  Think.

Such is life - a railroad track.  Misty Mornings, Brighter Days.  Walking down a Misty Track.  Sometimes I think that I go on through this life, not really knowing where I am headed - it is as if I am on a course with an opaque view ahead.  This trek seems like a never ending story, but I think as long as I keep taking each step with vigilance while drowning out the background noise, then Brighter Days will soon be in view.  What is most important, is what I learn through accepting the insensitive winds and worldly torrents - lessons learned and knowledge acquired are compulsory for my growth and future defense.  Focus.   

Someone once told me that pain is weakness leaving the body.  Pain is inevitable - but purposeful.  Let Go.

When we reach the end of this Misty Morning, and find a Brighter Day - all endured will now be of value and No longer on this Misty Track we will be.  Keep Moving.

Easter Poem

A little something I wrote on the morning of Friday April 22nd 2011 - the day of His sacrifice. Not only did I gain a greater appreciation for that Easter weekend, but I allowed myself to openly express my feelings in a simple yet meaningful way. I usually come up with a title before I write a poem - but not this time... and even after, I still couldn't think of an appropriate heading that would be perfectly suited. Maybe, it didn't need one? I'm not sure. All I know, is that it can be personalized for any reader - and maybe because of that, we'll all give it our own name?

Chosen before His birth, The Son of God, The Prince of Peace

He willingly made The Sacrifice, without contract or binding lease

He was more than just a boy, more than just an ordinary man

Perfect in every measure, the only one for this Great Eternal Plan

Walking in footsteps of another, helping those in need

Ministering to those who'll listen, saying "Come follow me"

Speaking words of wisdom, acting in the name of God

Teaching the Plan of Happiness, making His word the iron rod

Leading by example, He showed us how to live

How to love one another, to be of service and to give

In the garden He suffered, excruciating pain - we cannot know

Bleeding from every pore, He knew it would soon be time to go

Asking "Father, if thou be willing, remove thy cup from me;

Nevertheless, not my will, but thine be done", as He wept in agony

Feeling every sin, every emotion and more

Every insecurity, all of this He bore

He knows our weaknesses and pain, unwanted turmoil internally seen

His suffering was for us, so on His ample arm we can lean

Out of the garden He was taken, mocked and beaten, He did not fight

Forced to wear a crown of thorns, and still, He showed powerful might

They spat on Him and cursed His name, "Crucify Him!" they wanted so

Bearing the cross alone, to Calvary Hill He must go

They pierced Him in His hands, His feet, and in His side,

Not knowing He was their Savior, and for them He must die

"Father, into thine hands I commend my spirit", were the last words He spake

Ending His physical death, a crucial step He had to take

Released from public mockery, no longer on display

Wrapped in sheets of white, preserving His body for three days

In a sacred tomb on a hillside, without audience or cheer

He resurrected on that Easter morn, a celebratory day each year

He loosed the bands of Satan, provided a way to return to Him

Let faith permeate our souls, to know this was more than a historical whim

Find meaning in His sacrifice, come closer to The Atoning One

Understand this sacred event, know He truly is God's Son

Before we get lost in worldy hype, of the Easter bunny and fun

Remember who to look for, as we go on this Easter hunt

He is in every creation, all that you touch, hear, and see

Look for His name beyond today, take heed in "Come follow me"

He is the reason for the season, no Christmas without Easter - now or then

Testify of him, live like Him

In Jesus' name, I pray, Amen.

                                                                           

Beginner Blogger..

When you write, you lay out a line of words.  The line of words is a miner's pick, a woodcarver's gouge, a surgeon's probe.  You wield it, and it digs a path you follow.  Soon you find yourself deep in new territory.  It is a dead end, or have you located the real subject?  You will know tomorrow., or this time next year.

You make the path boldly and follow it fearfully.  You go where the path leads.  At the end of the path, you find a box canyon.  You hammer out reports, dispatch bulletins. 

The writing has changed, in your hands, and in a twinkling, from an expression of your notions to an epistemological tool.   The new place interests you because it is not clear.  You attend.  In your humility, you lay down the words carefully, watching all the angles.  Now the earlier writing looks soft and careless.  Process is nothing; erase your tracks.  The path is not the work.  I hope your tracks have grown over; I hope birds ate the crumbs; I hope you will toss it all and not look back.   

From The Writing Life

Annie Dillard