Storm
Lifeless, lazy air listening
Floating, fluttering petals falling
Soothing, sunny silence
Twirling, twisting wind trampling
Cracking, crashing trees crushing
Dreadful, deafening din
Whirling, whiffling breeze whispering
Sparkling, shining drops sprinkling
Cooling comforting calm
It’s Christmas
Apples & cranberries, Santas & bows,
Red decorations & hoping it snows;
Gingerbread houses & gingerbread men,
Foamy hot chocolate, a tree in the den;
Jingle bells ringing upon the front door,
Snowflakes & pine needles on the porch floor;
Presents & secrets & giggles & plans,
Cranberry sauce from those shiny tin cans;
Christmas is coming – it’s that time of year –
Snowmen & nutcrackers, lights & reindeer;
Families gather and carolers sing,
Watching “White Christmas” with Rosie & Bing,
Cookies & candy canes, fruitcake & punch,
Planning on leftover turkey for lunch.
So much to think about, so much to do;
Stacking the firewood, cleaning the flue,
Cooking & baking & wrapping with bows,
Costumes to make for each mother who sews.
People are smiling & lights are so bright.
Everyone waits for that magical night.
But do we forget as we plan for that day
A sweet holy babe sound asleep on the hay?
A young tired mother, a strong weary dad,
A stable for warmth all the shelter they had,
A choir of angels with message of cheer,
A group of scared shepherds – the first ones to hear.
And as we each open out gifts from the mall,
Do we know that God’s son was the best gift of all?
That night He was given & wrapped with such love
In swaddling clothes by starlight from above.
His bed was a manger – a throne was His right.
He laid that aside to be born on that night.
His gift was His life – it was precious & pure –
And none of us know what He had to endure.
The road to the cross, He must walk all alone
To give us a way to a Heavenly home.
It’s Christmas, and God sent a gift from above
To show us the depth of His wonderful love.
It’s Christmas, and what can we give to God’s son?
Our hearts and our lives ‘till our work here is done.
© Audrice J Corbett 2004
Feeding My Soul
I walk through the woods in the morning
When dewdrops still cover the ground.
The sun filters down through the treetops
And scatters dew diamonds around.
A blackberry patch gives me breakfast,
And wild apple trees serve me lunch.
I walk through the ferns in the midday,
And violets I pick by the bunch.
It’s hot in the woods at the noontime.
I rest by a deep shady pool.
The trees up above play a wind song,
And sheltering leaves keep me cool.
The birds dress the trees with their colors
And fill the crisp air with their song.
The squirrels chase their friends through the branches
And follow as I stroll along.
The late afternoon brings the shadows
And concerts by tumbling brooks.
Wild rabbits are feasting on clover,
And deer tiptoe out of their nooks.
On moss covered rocks in the evening
The baby raccoons chase and play.
The leaves tumble down in gay dances.
The forest is ending its day.
I walk through the woods in the moonlight
And hear the night song on the breeze.
My soul is refreshed and so peaceful
From spending the day with the trees.
Point of View
In the woods looking out
Dark is protection
Shadows hide me
Light peers in
Searching fingers of light creeping in to find me
Hazy sunrays fog my sight
Brilliance of meadow blinds me to possible dangers there
Light forces my sleepy mind to awake
Intrudes on my numbing mindlessness
Dancing sunbeams tempt me to follow them into the brilliant unknown
Dark is comfortable, familiar
Reluctant to step out
In the meadow looking in
Sunlight is safe
Sunshine protects me
Dark peers out
Murky wall of the unknown repels me
Shadows fog my sight
Deepness of darkness hides dangers from me
Dark stirs my mind to imagination
Brings to my mind a whirl of terrors
Dark shadows hypnotize me to peer into them and see the unwanted
Sunlight is comfortable, familiar
Reluctant to step in
Real
This is not real...
This street... cookie cutter houses,
Each with its sun-baked, icing roof and gumdrop flowers smiling by each door.
What’s wrong with these people...
Going shopping, mowing lawns,
Letting their children play in the streets?
Don’t they know this isn’t real?
I can tell you real...
Real - an ocean of sand swallowing up the horizon.
Real - the scream of an interrupted life.
Children don’t laugh and play –
They hide with wide dark eyes,
Silently crouching in desperate fear.
I saw them as we marched and drove and fought,
Clasping dirty rags around them as tightly
As these children clutch baseball bats and Barbies.
Real - a river of trucks, tanks, and men flowing across a desert land,
Sand slowly absorbs them, yet the river flows.
Not this stench of vehicles going nowhere...
Home and work and home and work,
But a river of men and machines pouring across countless miles of desert
Bringing life, bringing hope.
I was there...
I felt the hot sand on my feet, tasted the dry heat and the constant presence of death.
I saw real...
All this pretend world of routines and hot food, mowing lawns and children playing faded away.
I thought this life was real –
But I’ve seen real...
Crumpled bodies, staring eyes,
Bombs exploding,
Endless days of blinding sun and sand and death.
I heard the splat of bullets every day...
When I felt them, I watched myself fall down
Lying on the sand – I bled...real blood.
They took me away from that world
Brought me here where I thought I lived.
I watch pretend people living in a pretend world.
But I know...
I know where the real world is.
I remember...
I look out the windows and I know.
Faithfulness
Wherein lies the proof of faithfulness?
Is it in the obvious, the action,
Or the hidden heart that beats in constant devotion
Behind the reserve of insecurity?
Is the obvious performed from the heart
Or from the watchful eye upon the judges?
Is the reserve a vacuum, or a golden opportunity
Poised on the threshold of invitation,
Waiting to be asked in?
The Gypsy’s Call
A raucous caw drew my attention skyward, and I watched as a glossy black crow flapped his way across a patch of brilliant blue and came to rest on the branch of a scarlet maple. His mate answered from deep within the woods, her cry traveling on the gentle breeze of the crisp autumn morning.
Near me, two jays argued loudly in an ancient oak, and sparrows chirped busily in the tangle of honeysuckle vines hanging on the fence below it. The aroma of honeysuckle blossoms floated to me on the wind, reminding me of the sweet taste of nectar on my tongue. A mockingbird trilled from the top of a beech tree, his song dancing merrily through the golden leaves.
Acorns from the massive oak punctuated the music of this autumn morning, bouncing off the porch roof as they dropped from their high branches to find a winter resting place in the leaves below. A squirrel, flourishing his bushy tail, scampered about gathering them for his winter stash before the falling leaves could cover them.
All through the woods, I saw flashes of color, as birds and leaves traveled the breeze of that beautiful morning. The early morning sun was barely warm on my face as I sat on the concrete porch steps of the green-shingled house I called home. My jeans and red-plaid flannel shirt kept the breeze at bay as I sipped bittersweet hot chocolate from a mug that warmed my fingers. My curly brown hair danced about my face as if ready to join the leaves twirling in the morning sunbeams.
The autumn gypsy had called me from my quilts early that day to join the celebration of color and cool breezes she had brought to chase the summer away. Even the squirrels so busily gathering their winter food could not help pausing their work to chatter and chase, scampering through the fallen leaves, darting up trees and across branches.
The concrete was rough under my fingers as I pushed myself up to do my morning chores. As I worked, through every window I heard the gypsy call me and saw the colors and movements of her temptations.
Finishing my chores, I grabbed a purple plum from the bushel by the door and ran outside to join the autumn. My sneakers left footprints in the dew-covered grass, and I could feel the cool wetness seeping through to my toes. I pushed my way through the prickly branches of the blue spruces edging my yard, the smell from their spicy needles filling my nose.
I followed a narrow path into the woods, winding my way through delicate green ferns and across a brook that gurgled noisily as it tumbled over mossy rocks, sending its cold spray into the air. The path ended in a clearing encircled by towering pines. Here, lying comfortably on the moss-covered ground under a patch of blue sky, I enjoyed my tart juicy plum, reveling in the beauty lavished around me by the dancing gypsy called Autumn.
Autumn Visit
In memory, I stroll down leafy lanes,
Familiar dirt roads beneath my feet.
Trees crowd in on every side,
Eager to show their autumn gowns,
Flaunting their limbs
To steal my gaze from their neighbors.
Crisp autumn sounds delight my ears,
As tumbling nuts and drifting leaves
Tap their way from branch to ground,
Dancing along the forest path.
Chattering squirrels
Compete to harvest their bounty.
My face seeks the warmth of autumn sun,
As cool breezes toss my unbound hair.
Resting on a mossy rock,
I feast on berries, plump and sweet.
Colorful birds
Rejoice with song in the treetops.
Trees drop their fiery stars to weave
The carpet of hues they spread below.
Swirling down a rocky brook,
Scarlet and golden leaves embrace.
Autumn explodes
Her short life into the forest.
General Douglas MacArthur stated, concerning war, “I have long advocated its complete abolition, as its very destructiveness on both friend and foe has rendered it useless as a method of settling international disputes.”
Men wage war for many reasons, some selfish, some self-less. Some wage war to steal, overpower, or annihilate and some to protect, free, or punish. Regardless of the reasons that men use it, war changes lives in ways that neither army nor citizens plan, for war has a nature of its own, and this nature, once awakened, explodes into the lives of both friend and foe, righteous and wrongdoers, and there it wages its own battles with mankind.
The nature of war is destruction, and this destruction occurs on many levels. Upon approaching a war zone, from the air, for example, the most obvious destruction is in the landscape. Nature’s countryside, man’s great cities, beautiful homes, great cathedrals . . . none are impermeable to war’s destruction. Closer inspection reveals ruined vehicles, ships, and statues, all man’s inventions and monuments. None is safe, no matter how sacred or honored. Then, the dead, dying, and injured soldiers and civilians, come into focus. War has spread the slaughter across fields and streets, cities and countryside. Herein lays the greatest destruction of all – the destruction of mankind.
We expect, lament, and turn away in pain from, this scene of human destruction. Yet, beyond the tragic deaths, beyond the wounded, the mentally destroyed, and the crippled, beyond the widowed, the orphaned, and the bereaved, the destructive nature of war strikes on an even deeper level that we cannot see, except in consequential actions.
This destruction strikes at the hearts and lives of people, obliterating their security, their hopes, plans, and their life’s works. Then it burrows deeper, into their very souls. There the destroyer, with its inconceivable horrors, wages a battle for the individual’s very being. This seemingly unbeatable onslaught strikes young and old, male and female, good and bad.
When men and women lose this battle for their souls, the changes come. The loss of this private war lowers inhibitions, changes priorities, and breaks down humane barriers that protect mankind from becoming no better than savages. War then uses this conquered individual to wage an even uglier war against his or her own kind. Defeated citizens abandon themselves to loose morals, betrayal of marriage, family, and patriotic vows, and even exploitation of their own countrymen for gain. Soldiers who lose this inner war lose sight of their individual principles and do things, either alone, or in a “mob” frame of mind with others, that they would never have done at home; steal, rape, and massacre, for example.
Despite these examples of defeat, there are those individuals who, through faith and strong character, combat war’s onslaught on their souls and win. During, and after, a war, we joyfully celebrate these individuals. We pin medals on broad chests and erect monuments in stone, marble, or text, praising the brave, the noble, and the self-sacrificing. These qualities abound during war, as strong people unite to pool resources, render sacrificial service, and share encouragement, both on the battlefields and at home. It even happens that class, race, and gender barriers break down, as men and women bravely strive together to survive, to overcome, and to protect life and liberty.
The nature of war, as horribly destructive and self-serving as it is, cannot overcome the nature of honorable men and women, when they combat it with deep faith, noble strength, and strong character.
Solitude is either the lonely dungeon of those imprisoned there by rejection or the sought-after dream of those besieged by the clamor of the over-abundance of attention.
