Streams of Imagination

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The darkened clouds build and rise quickly and quietly, the rain gathers and gently drops, the waters combine, gather more and more speed and flow toward their destination.

Childhood streams of imagination become adolescent rivers flooded by adult responsibilities and rush on to repositories of wisdom.

A great lake begun by glacial dreams, created by life experiences, unique storms, and glorious memories reveals vivid colors of bluish green, brownish gray, or golden hues depending on the time of day.

Deep and beautiful to behold, birds soar and sing above it, puffy clouds form objects in the sky, and fish leap toward them and splash back down – rippling the water.

All along the shore gnarled weathered trees with strong needles and leaves watch with folded arms as they stand on their deep roots.

The water reflects the past while revealing the future as children laugh and play with rocks, sticks and sand among the sprawling roots and sloping banks – their voices excited and full of wonder.

The sun begins to set, yet lingers long in amusement at the converging streams of imagination, then stops, smiles and winks.

 

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The Writer’s Block

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The sidewalks are closed
For some unneeded repair
All traffic has stopped

Utilities off
Nothing is open nearby
No place to buy words

Tired inspiration
No sensory ingestion
There’s nowhere to walk

Stuck, staring at stairs
Old metal ones with wet paint
Gray, like the weather

Cloudy, cold winter
Without the sun, snow or rain
Only a deep blah…

Child of Grace

Merry Christmas! Below is a Christmas Carol I wrote two years ago and thought I would share again.

GraceSyllables

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The angels praised the Child of Grace,
From old, in wonders of glory,
Then they appeared with voices clear,
To tell shepherds their story.
For the Christ, the Lord, He has come,
He has been born in Bethlehem,
O hear! Please hear! This is the One,
This Child is the Son of God.

The shepherds praised the Child of Grace,
When they found Him in a manger,
Then they explained what they had seen,
Words, Mary’s heart would treasure.
His hands, those hands, have weighed mountains,
His voice made stars by the thousands,
O sleep, in peace, dear sleepy One,
This Child is the Son of God.

And now we praise the Child of Grace,
Who grew in strength and wisdom,
His righteousness would be His gift,
To those He came to ransom.
What Grace! This Grace! Death to taste,
On the cross where our sins were placed,
O Praise!…

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Missing Notes

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Missing notes of music,
Rawly played over and over again,
Where elusive sounds turn therapeutic,
And never seem to end.

Concerts before dinner,
Instruments come alive as they are fed,
The beginner’s appetite grows bigger,
For encores before bed.

Living goes on in song,
Jazzy rhythms, soothing ballads when sad,
But all along the missing notes make strong,
The hearts of mom and dad.

Soaring music resounds,
Precisely played, missing the missing notes,
It surrounds, filling house and walls with sound,
And the love it promotes.

Hallways have grown quieter,
But the house still hums mysteriously,
Idle instruments, in dusty silence,
Hold notes in memory.

Behind the lines

I take great joy in listening to my children learn and practice their instruments. This was written about their learning process with the thought that one day the missing notes will be missed.

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