How did the butterfly get its name?
Did it land on a stick of butter?
Or maybe on the butter churn?
Did the first one have wings of yellow?
Or did it slide down a window easily?
Did it flutter around with pollen on its feet?
How did the butterfly get its name?
Did it steal the milk and butter?
Photo cc0 from Pixabay.
Most days I swim in the shallows of daily life,
“What’s for dinner;
Honey, help me please;
Oh, that looks good;
Where is this thing?”
Occasionally, Great White dives into the abyss
and pulls a glowing creature
from the depths of my darkness
that illuminates a way for others,
be it a story, a poem, or a painting.
And now as this northern wind blows cold
I desire to read poets and writers of old-
those scribes we can no longer blithely hire
as I sit sipping tea under a blanket by the fire.
Oh give me a pithy Shakespearean play
to digest as I dreamily drain the day away
or a hearty Dickens feast to eat
or an Austen romance, both naive and sweet…
for as the autumn and winter set in again
I feel the need to be with long buried friends.
Adam and Atom
Humanity’s building blocks
Different, but same.
Essence of my life
Thank Holy Spirit today
Comforting guidance.
Fighting for promise
Pulling from depth of being
a worthwhile struggle.
Weaving
Energy
Around
Loved
Things
Heartily, hardily, and holding holy closely.
Picture by Pixabay cc0.
Lamenting
Over
Shifted
Spirit
Photo from Pixabay cc0, edited by Dawn Paul
Liberation retreating
In hearts of misunderstanding
Battling walls and shackles
Ever changing in society.
Riots and discord
Attack free thinking,
Testing and prodding,
Instilling discontent and
Ongoing frustration that prevents
New thinking and freedom.
The passions of youth:
emotional upheavals and highs,
turmoil in incompleteness,
throwing everything to the wind.
The passions of old age:
calming of the spirit,
noticing joy in simplicity,
finding clarity through beauty.
The passions of middle age:
sometimes passions of youth,
sometimes passions of old age,
sometimes, if lucky, figuring it out.
