Archive for the ‘poetry’ Category

In case you’re new, or you’ve forgotten, or you just needed an excuse to visit one more web page, Lisa of Longbourn posts her creative writing snippets at When the Pen Flows – and invites you to share the creativity by submitting your own stories or poems for publication, by commenting, and by telling your friends. Get inspired. Practice your writing skills. Give me an excuse to practice mine.
To God be all glory,
Lisa of Longbourn

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Outside the clear glass door comprising one wall of our kitchen, a landscape speaking of the fading embers of autumn diffused its horizon against pale strata of clouds.  No painting I have ever seen captured the ponderous life of such a morning.  Nor would an artist seek to inscribe its beauty, for the attraction is in the air that drifts between undecided worlds of color, texture, light, and rest.  As if worn out by the vital radiance of her early days, the autumn sways along in a stupor, ready for the peaceful hibernation of winter. 


Trees mostly bereft of leaves presided over their slain children, today still without a waft of chilling air to stir their brittle stems.  Dun grass furled its verdant banners, blades shriveled to hide in the dust until the birth of spring.  A front might have been gusting through the reaches of heaven, but stalled in its mission, the blown dunes of cloud hung where its power left them, each its own statement on the threadbare blue sky.  Light captured from tangent rays was diverted between the layers, promising the pink of dawn then the subtle gold of dusk, finally covering the whole scene in a vague grey shadow. 


Not cheerful or motivating; as George MacDonald would say, not pretty, but beautiful.  Afraid to release the grandeur of its parent mountains, the dwindling hills on which my house is set would rather be slowly consumed by the tedium of the plains, creeping like the slow tide towards our door.  I would sit in the yard, sit and pray, undistracted by irrepressible beauty, for the day is not for walking or doing.  Its lure would capture me. 


What cloaks itself in a nature like this?  Quest-calling by its disguise, perhaps the founded waiting is the source of its captivation: in-between-ness, as though retreating to no reality at all in complacent anticipation of crisis and glory.  Perception demands I see that the courage and triumph is born of the staid prudence of these hours.  Seas do not withstand tempests without concealing beneath, their unheeded depths. 


JRR Tolkien penned two verses suited by this day, this mood, this verity: “All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost.  The old that is strong does not wither; deep roots are not reached by the frost.  From the ashes a fire shall be woken; a light from the shadows shall spring.  Renewed shall be blade that was broken; the crownless again shall be king.”  Perhaps a day like this speaks of an exiled king.  Tolkien asked of his poem, what king?  George MacDonald took a twin scene from the northwest coast of Scotland and asked, “What chief?”  What epic story do the silent rocks evoke? 


If I had joined the tale of the day, would I have glimpsed as the sun rose, the carven head of the fallen king coroneted by prophetic gold-flowered vines, the piercing promise of hope before a bleak pilgrimage? 

To God be all glory,

Lisa of Longbourn

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Silence In Your Soul

I found this poem on another blog tonight. I liked it, so I decided to link it. The verse is short, so enjoy.

To God be all glory.

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Late at night
Awake again
Does this wondering
Ever end?

See the stars
Over head.
There I stand
Not in bed.

Looking out,
Waiting there,
Facing future:
I’m so scared.

Let me go;
Hold me tight.
The sky is grey,
But I’ll be all right.

Dream the dreams,
Look above.
I want so much
To fall in love.

Hoist anchors,
Set the sails.
Can I still believe
In fairy tales?

They say time flies;
Is it true?
Lord, how long
Must I wait on You?

I want to live,
Let me dance.
Tell me when
I’ll get my chance.

I need to know
If it’s all a lie.
Forget faith and
Just let me cry!

Stand up straight or
May I slouch?
Should I smile when
I want to pout?

Speak with ease,
Or close my mouth?
I’ll get through,
Don’t ask me how.

Pressure me –
See what you get:
Know what to do;
Haven’t done it yet.

One year past
Another comes.
Tell me, please,
Is this the one?

Living the now
Today is great;
Happy here
Yet I can’t wait.

“Eighteen means old,”
My friend said.
To me it seems
Life’s all ahead.

To God be all glory.
(hey, I wrote this. All rights reserved, you know?)

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Summer Past

In two hours it will be September 10th. It’s one of those moments when life seems to have gone by quickly. Lanier posted about the end of happy summer days on YLCF. I wanted to cry out, “No! Wait. I didn’t enjoy them enough. I only went swimming once. I had to work. Summer can’t be over!”

Since this week went by so fast, it highlights the speed at which summer flew. The week was so busy, but fulfilling. I’ll have reminders of the productivity of my week for months to come. That’s what life should be.

Despite all the rain we’ve been getting here, the weather is cooler, and the ground knows autumn is coming. Instead of being rich summer green, the lawn is fading. We broke out the sweaters a few weeks ago. The crispness in the air is tantalizing. I want to go out in it, properly swathed in layers of wool and fleece, and enjoy its freshness on my face. Over the horizon the moon is big and red, but it looks a little askew, as though someone kicked it, and it tipped.

I wrote this a long time ago. My poetry doesn’t win any awards, but it provides a way to end my post! = )

Adventure stirs withing the soul
People go crunching by
Once green leaves turn to bright gold
Migrating geese southward fly.

Sweaters pulled close against the wind
Beneath a thin grey sky
Soft, drenching rain soaks to the skin
Bleared sunlight seems to lie.

For warmth and green are passing quick
Pale brown the grass is now
Scent of smoke outside drifts thick
Leaves are on the ground.

Just after harvest first snow falls
Evenings are spent inside
Bright leaves carpet tree-pillared halls
Where autumn secrets hide.

To God be all glory.

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