Inside The Liquid Glass Show

Gliding through
Inside the glass blue
Senses keen
All that is seen
Is cylindrical and the centrifuge
Enclosed in a womb with a view
All that is heard is the humming
Of this liquid waterfall stunning
Pitching and pouring above my head like a pumping heart
It moves effortlessly, a breathing living art
I lay my hand along this liquid wall of glass
Feeling its life, its surging mass
As I move and skim about
It heaves in and it heaves out
Pulsing and pounding behind me the grace
Swallowed inside, my glide leaves no trace
Too soon and I will break free
Leaving this wet womb behind me

Copyright 2104 Wandering Satellite Publishing

Surf’s Up

Carvings From A Point In Past

This mountainside I encompass
Where my memories flicker and fade
I feel the carvings in the tree you left
The fog lifts from where the woodland and sea separate

Sweeping mist from eyes, squinting

I rub my hand over the whittle
Recalling days of future past
The past now befalls the present

Overtaken by blackberry bushes and thorns

I gently brush aside
The tree has sent its shade and leaves away forever
I observe the frozen bleak settling moon

This where our blossom first grew

Under a welcoming warming sun
But in its hallowed loneliness
It has since died like some of life

I came to resurrect some old memories and thought

No compass or map to guide my way
Just quietly listening for those old conversations we had
Nothing on the breeze adrift can I hear

One more glance back at the carving tree before I depart

A small contented smile arises…I have no regrets

Copyright 2015 Wandering Satellite Publishing

The Beginning, The End and Everything In Between

From the cradle to the grave man carries a certain burden
Like a ball and chain…mortality
How does one wander about the gates of hell
Mistaking it for some kind heaven
For some I observe, they live their days akin to a life of wine and roses
Smelling the decay but calling it perfume

What is…in the in between?

Soulful existence, just being, punctuated with bit moments of joy
Swift curtain calls of comedy and tragedy
Seasons within seasons blustering in, blowing out
How does one truly find contentment in this gift called life?

Everything in between never quenches the soul

Always, it is searching, looking for fulfillment
In every sunny area, in every dark corner of the attic
As a human being
Not one, cannot escape this condition
Are we, as one wise king lamented!
Gratification from this world is “a chasing after the wind?”

The end though, is as the beginning

It starts with a breath and ending with one
Alas, the question remains for some
What comes next?
For me contentment is my faith in Jesus Christ
Faith is the substance of things hoped for
The evidence of things not yet seen

Copyright 2104 Wandering Satellite Publishing

Hang Your Harps On The Willows

Should we weep?
For we are captive
The world’s tools we have borrowed
Alas, to the use of our own
So hang your harps on the willows…and mourn

Do not untie my binds that hold captive my hands

For I will not play for you
Nor will I open my lips to utter a joyful sound
And I shall be one as the chased roe
Are there not seasons?
To sing, to mourn

You have become like theatre, a drama

All in the name of the Holy One
The bride corrupted, her ears tickled
Lost in her identity become a shame to you?

Then untie my binds

I will take back up my harp from upon the willows
I will lament and sing of repentance
Pleading for truth to dawn on worldly deceptions

Copyright 2014 Wandering Satellite Publishing

Beyond Wild Blue Yonder

Roll back the sky Oh Lord
Peel back the wild blue yonder
That I may receive a diminutive glimpse
Of your Heavenly throne room

Let the clouds caught in vacuity drawn

Become my chariot
This bright vivid sun blotted out
Drowned out by your magnificent brilliant glory

Kneel will I at your throne

Eyes kept prostrate
Unable to glance up, your brilliance, your love too intense
But I see the scars in your feet Oh my King

Twenty four elders bow, cast their crowns before thee

Before you, I too cast my life’s crown
In the midst of angelic beings’ thundering chorus
“Worthy, Worthy the Lamb that was slain”

Before your throne of mercy

Here the aroma of incense permeates my soul
While peals of thunder commence, resound
Splendidly sounding like a sweet refrain

Here a man has no utterance

Nothing to paint with words or expression
Yet my spirit coalesced with yours
Bears me to be in Your presence

Beyond my flesh though

My spirit cries out for refreshment
Be glory and honor and power
Be Yours Lord Jesus forever

Copyright 2014 Wandering Satellite Publishing

Occasion Of The Butterflies

Out from the hostile environment surrounding occasion
A new beginning
The birthing ground gave them up
To the sky
To the air
Thousands of wings in movement
Demanding attention
Yet all is hushed
In this unshaded place we roamed
Walking the deserts meadow that day
Yet they flew
The heat of midday bothers them not
Some lived and died
But it seemed as if in this moment
They were enjoying
Sharing of themselves to us
In all directions they dispense themselves
Dawning this birth
Unto a destination unknown to us
And as all this beautiful chaos subsides
Observing this
Creation’s phenomena
Few are now left
We take this wonder in musing
And we return from whence we came

Copyright 2014 Wandering Satellite Publishing

Somerset Bazaar

Will you be there?
Trinkets, lace, colorful thread and charms
Nestled against and amidst the forest green
A song for you I will play on my instrument
Or speak poems to you

Are you going there?

Under sycamore trees watching
Stroll the path over fallen leaves
Following the wind in your hair
Until you have arrived

I will gather myself to meet up with you

Wait will I by the well
We can leave the bazaar
The busy hum, the throng of crowd
Bartering with others we need not to

Bring with you your loom and your basket

Will you weave something special for me?
Maybe a scarf you can sew to keep winter away
With thimble and thread
I will play a song or read to you

I will play until you daydream of another situate

I will trade a poem for your darning
We can have dangling conversation
Language of words that float away
Washed away by late afternoon shadows

Until then I will musing

My thought will be of you
I will be waiting to hear of you
Your arrival
To the Somerset Bazaar

Copyright 2014 Wandering Satellite Publishing