Category: Uncategorized

Goldee

Our footsteps squish the damp grass,
The morning dew still in place.
The purple hue of early twilight
Clings to the barns, the mountains.

Her shoes click the concrete,
The noise echoes against the silence.
The rope slides over the rail,
A knot’s, gentle, but firm, hold.

The brush bristles her coat,
Dust and hay flicker down.
The pick scrapes at the mud,
Freeing her hoof from the damp.   

The saddle pad settles on her back,
The buckles of the girth snap, secured.
The bit glides into her mouth, she chews,
As first light breaks over the horizon.

A foot in the stirrup, swing over and down.
Her head lifts, her ears flick forward.
The beams reach us, glittering,
As we both look into the future.   

Rainbow

 

 

A rainbow is hard to photograph,
Almost impossible to capture, to hold.
A trick of light, the play of an angle,
Gone before you know it was real.

Their beauty is radiant, like nothing else,
But you have to accept some darkness first—
The clouds, the downpour, the winds of change—
Before you can see, or appreciate, the color.

Light and storm have to combine,
For the arch, the spectrum, to show.
The droplets have to reflect, refract, disperse,
Sending the beam one way, before the other.

They follow the opposite schedule of the sun,
Shining in the west early, the east late.
Unpredictable, but constant, always there,
Just waiting for their chance to be.

Only under certain circumstances will one form,
When the timing is perfect, the conditions just right.
And even then, the view changes from eye to eye.
Where’s the beginning? What’s waiting, at the end?

 

The One

Rushing and hurrying. Impatience growing.
Scheduling and scrambling. Restlessness building.
—Waiting on the One
Who created and controls all time.

Dreaming and pursuing, but goals disappearing.
Working and trying. Heartbreak consuming.
—Trusting in the plans and promises
Of the One who never fails.

Fearful and hiding. Timidity’s hold.
Creating, shaping, for my eyes alone?
—Confiding and finding confidence
In the One who provides all gifts. 

Constant worry and stress. Anxiety’s grasp.
Wondering, will I ever get it right?
—Choosing to follow the One,
Who first chose and loved me.

Mistake after mistake, over and over.
Failing and falling. Again, and again.
—Relying on the forgiveness given
By the One who’s life was faultless.

 

Hawk or Hummingbird

 

 

Are you the hawk?
Or the hummingbird?
Maybe something in between?

The hawk is fierce,
Hunting, searching, never satisfied.
Preying on those weaker than himself.

His cry pierces the earth,
Signaling his beauty, his control,
A reminder to those who fear him.

He circles the sun, soaring
Higher than most dare to go.
What could ever cause him to fall?

The hummingbird is gentle,
Waiting, hovering, always pleasing.
Hiding from all confrontation.

Her silence keeps her safe,
Showing her inner strength, her mind,
A token to those who regard her.

She drifts from flower to flower,
Never staying still for too long.
What will ever make her settle?

So, are you the hawk?
Or the hummingbird?

Is there a way to be in between?

Cycle

 

Sunrise—the light of a new beginning,
the chance to start again.
Hope breaks through the clouds,
chasing away the dark, the rain.

Flowers—new growth,
showing change can be okay.
Petals reaching, leaves outstretched,
searching for their purpose, their plan.

But the wind will blow,
scattering the leaves, tearing the petals.
The thunder will roar, water will overtake,
hiding the light, stunting the growth.

But time will pass, the breeze will calm.
allowing the clouds and flowers to settle.
The sun brings new light, seeds bring new blooms.
The cycle continues, all the same.

One tear slid down her cheek as she walked towards the setting sun, the purple and navy shades of dusk settling in around her. What shocked her was not the small ache that settled in around her heart as she thought about the decision she had just made, everything that she had just walked away from, or the life she had just left behind.

What shocked her, was the sense of relief.

Angle

May not have represented hope…

A different angle can change everything.
It can provide a new perspective,
Help gain a fresh understanding.

The purple flowers, from any other side,
Would have just existed.
Would have just been there.

The leaves, if looked at from another direction,
Could have been trampled without a thought,
Could have been bit off by the hungry muzzle nearby.

The sunset, through any other lens,
Might have been missed.
Might not have been appreciated.

The light, if blocked by any thicker foe,
May not have interrupted the shadows.
May not have represented hope.

Sometimes

The moon shines through my window
I can see it without lifting my weary, sleepy head.
If only it was that easy to see you.

To check on you.
To know you.

There’s just a sliver tonight,
Most of it is blocked by earth.
Missing.
Like you. And me. Us.

The wind howls and rattles the leaves.
The window shakes in anger.
The grass bows in submission from the weight
Of my questions.

Do you hate me? Love me? Forgive me?
Or am I forgotten? Swept away like leftover crumbs.
To be taken out on cleaning day.

The clouds are misleading.
Sometimes dark and thundering,
Sometimes pure and soft.
I guess it depends on the day
Or on your perspective.

That’s kind of how it is with my questions
At times pressing, demanding, even haunting.
Other times light and gently passing,
Not in desperate need of answers.

But like the moon, they come and go
Sometimes a sliver, sometimes consuming.
Sometimes easy to see, sometimes missing.
And sometimes, simply,
gone.

 

 

Cracked

The lightning spat, the thunder growled. Dogs scurried every which way, searching for shelter under anything they could find. Most of the horses cowered into the darkest corners of their stalls, seeking safety, but not him. He was unswerving, storm tested, braver than all. He was his own security. His russet head hung over the stall door, his golden eyes quiet, considerate. The rain dripped down from the cracked gutter, soaking his floppy ears and face. But he didn’t seem to mind. I had to wonder why. Could he hear my thoughts? Was he done, was this the end? Would he ever be the same again? Was that what kept him still? I realized my own face was just as drenched-but not from rain. From the burning, salty tears staining my cheeks, sneaking freely from cracked tear ducts.