Still

in-the-appalachian-mountains

“Be still and know
that I am God.” We owe
no less than every minute, every day.
Before our eyes,
He spreads the wondrous skies
and hangs the stars in glorious array.

Let lives exude
eternal gratitude
like mountain streams. His goodness, undeterred
by doubting minds,
flows freely as it winds
through ever deeper channels of His Word.

Our boundless debt
reflects in others met
with genuine forgiveness and goodwill
from hearts at rest
in knowing we are blessed
beyond imagination. Love can spill
from unexpected places when we’re still.

———

cc-by-nc-nd  Mary Boren, 2014

Public Domain Photo

Lamplighter

lamplighter

As truth revolves, its facets are revealed
in changing light.  My muse awaits, concealed
in shadows, steering clear of Father Zeus
(who set a slew of noisy daughters loose
in poets’ heads).

For only in the stillness, where the threads
of myth and fable intersect, can reds
and yellows, mystic blues, and shades of grey
be woven into words that light the way
as truth revolves.

In poets’ heads, illusion’s snare absolves
the writer of the story — fact dissolves
in smoke and mirror’s slanted tell, not show.
But when Lamplighter comes to me, I know
she speaks no lies.

If then, and only then, do I arise
to paraphrase, with freshly opened eyes,
the broader bearings of the lessons wrought
from living into truth, each tender thought
serenely spreads.

———

cc-by-nc-nd  Mary Boren, 2011


Image by ceoln (CCL)

Take a Minute

swinging-hammock-backyard

Take a minute to enjoy
loving simple things around you.
Work can wait, let peace employ
all your senses. They’ll astound you
with the sights and sounds and scents
in the lap of nature when it
sets the pace for your events.
Take a minute.

———

cc-by-nc-nd  Mary Boren, 2012

Public Domain Photo

Tranquility

bluebells-in-woods

Secluded in a woodland glade,
the bunnies, fawns and squirrels stir
to mothers’ nudges.  Silently,
they stretch their legs and fluff their fur.

The muted hues of dawn exude
seclusion.  In a woodland glade,
no raucous horns intrude upon
the day’s impending promenade.

Along the misty river, birds
begin to fill the hush with tune.
Secluded in a woodland glade,
they celebrate til half past noon.

How often in the bustling world
assaulted by the noise we’ve made,
our spirits yearn for reverie,
secluded in a woodland glade.

———

cc-by-nc-nd Mary Boren, 2011

The form is quatern.