The Fields

Sun-baked bodies inch along the furrowed rows

of green and sunset colored crops.

Music drifts to the sky,

prayers wrapped in melody,

praise wrapped in harmony,

in the key of hard lessons

of a mortal life as yet

unbalanced

by deliverance and freedom.

 

The ones who fall are mourned,

and the ones who come into the world

are celebrated in songs of hope and joy,

but rocked to sleep in knowing silence…

The terror of the tyranny of those others,

thunderclouds

that break in torrents of hate,

raining blood that cries out from the ground

in streaks of upward lightning.

 

The old hands, bereft of strength, yet full of wisdom,

clasp the hands of their descendants, and pass

the tools and torches

of their endurance,

as they surrender themselves,

releasing their souls.

 

They wait to welcome us again,

and walk the fields of open sky,

unconfined, unbound by furrowed roads,

free to hold hands once more,

free to love,

and truly

free.

 

 

Planted

A piece of me,

withering,

was pruned

and planted in

new ground.

Like a seasoned seed

in the hands of a brown thumb

I have been none-too-gently

tamped down

into a

dark silence.

I will take what I can use

from this soil

and emerge as a

new and vibrant version

of myself,

but well-tended,

cared for,

and deeply loved.

Then the Shepherds Returned…

Wishing all who’ve read these devotionals continued blessings in the New Year. G-d bless you and yours.

believer55

 

Luke 2:15-20

1So it was, when the angels had gone away from them into heaven, that the shepherds said to one another, “Let us now go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has come to pass, which the Lord has made known to us.” 16 And they came with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the Babe lying in a manger. 17 Now when they had seen Him, they made widely[a] known the saying which was told them concerning this Child. 18 And all those who heard it marveled at those things which were told them by the shepherds. 19 But Mary kept all these things and pondered them in her heart. 20 Then the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told them.

There was a time when shepherds…

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Israel’s Consolation

believer55

O come, O come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel, 

that mourns in lonely exile here,

until the Son of G-d appears.

Luke 2:25-26
Simeon Sees God’s Salvation
25 And behold, there was a man in Jerusalem whose name was Simeon, and this man was just and devout, waiting for the Consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was upon him. 26 And it had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Christ.

Simeon was no prophet, or seer. He worked no miracles, saw no angels. He was not in the fields when the angel appeared to the shepherds.

He was simply this: just, and devout.

We meet him here, at the end of his life, holding Jesus in his arms and blessing G-d.

G-d honored the devout heart of his servant, and likely beyond his expectations, for in the…

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The Musings of a Star

I see them look up to where

they cannot be.

 

I feel their wishes collide

with the magnified need

of their wandering, pagan hearts.

 

The spirits of their departed

float past in silent cloaks of dust,

reflecting our own futures.

 

They send up their

rockets and space toys,

cluttering their sky

as we watch them

implode.

 

We will grieve the day

they go dark forever,

and all they knew

floats silently past us

into the past.

 

A Bitterness

Bitterness

clings to some

like a child clutching the hem

of Mother’s dress

as they walk through

deserted, razed, and filthy streets

of a forgotten war zone.

 

Criticism and rebukes

are the whisky and chaser

of all their verbiage.

 

Negativity is nectar

to their self-dissatisfaction,

disguised as humorous self-deprecation.

 

All within the perimeters and parameters

of their voice are never

immune or safe.

Their ever- angry gaze and weaponized words

find cracks and crevices

like a wind-driven hailstorm,

as they rewrite whole hedonistic histories

that absolve them of the impact of their

derisive decisions that affect the lives of others.

 

Let’s pray for them,

even as we

leave them behind.

Close Your Eyes and See

Close your eyes and see,

my darling,

close your eyes and see

the many varied places

you could be alone with me.

Upon a planet far away

or deep beneath the sea,

we’d laugh and play

and love each other.

We alone with We.

Close your eyes and dream,

my darling,

close your eyes and dream,

let your imagination flow

in life’s ungentle stream.

The soldiers and the butterflies

are standing toe to wing,

the fairies and the demons

wait for you to have them sing.

Close your eyes and fly,

my darling,

close your eyes and fly.

The heroes and the heroines

are stiffly standing by.

They wait on the adventures

that are deep inside your mind,

so turn the key that sets them free

and cut the ropes that bind.

Close your eyes and sail,

my darling,

close your eyes and sail,

and feel the ocean spray your hand

that grips the galleon rail.

The pirates and the sailors

love the winds that froth the wave,

with stars to guide you safely home,

with fearless crew so brave.

Open up your eyes,

my darling,

open them and look.

And hunt the treasures of your heart.

They’re never very far apart.

The written word’s a sacred art

in pages of a book.

 

There Were Days

There were days

of new love, good friends,

accomplishments,

awards and rewards,

accolades and victories.

There were days of

laughter and warm fires,

music and feasting,

soft touches and tender kisses.

Like waves that crash

and return to the sea,

leaving the loamy, sizzling foam

of happy times behind,

I watch them go with growing gratitude,

and graying hair.

My full heart cries and whispers thanks,

having known those splendid days.

From Painful Places

It’s not cathartic, at first,

this opening up, this outpouring.

It fill up with all the

scabs, blood, pus, and bile

of life’s blows to your mind,

to your body,

to your soul.

It reopens wounds and

unlocks memories,

but to not release it

turns you

into a dark alley in a deserted place,

forlorn and forgotten,

trash-filled and filthy.

But either way,

you’re empty.

 

Love is Not Wasted

I stand here in this wet snow,

in front of the steamy warm coffee shop

where I first saw you smile at me,

blush and turn away when

I returned it.

I watch you walk away now,

your red umbrella

bright and festive

amid the gray and weeping clouds

as you leave me.

And I have to hold on

and believe that unlike

the last unfinished cups

we had together,

Love is not wasted.