Love Does Not Die: The Realization Thereof

The realization thereof accomplished
With a hand into which I place mine
In trust and faith,
The signification of which
Even I am at best, am only partly aware of;
The implications thereof appear boundless.
A gentle nudge, a whisper,
An almost touching,
A transitory vibration,
The electricity, ecstatic joy
Evident beyond denial.
The tender warmth of embracing enclosure;
The spirit gently penetrating, releasing,
Capturing forever
The tiniest of miracles,
Life in its fullness,
Its essence,
Its very being,
The conception and the birth
Of love, timeless and eternal.

Are you aware that love does not die?

Alone: Alone on an Island

I awaken slowly,
Somehow alone on an island
Of isolated thought,
Adrift on a sea of desolation,
But yet in a crowd of people
Walking alone,
Leaving some place
Unknown to me.
Suddenly,
I feel the gentle touch
Of a warm hand
Extended around my waist.
"I am going with you,"
A man's voice says gently.
I recognize the voice.
I turn my head.
He smiles.
He is wearing an all weather coat.
His unbroken stride matches my stride
Step for step.
Pleasantly surprised,
I do not object.
I keep on walking;
He walks with me.
I had expected to walk alone,
To walk with the crowd,
Away from the crowd,
Leaving somewhere.
I see the astonishment on their faces
As they watch us walk away.
I see that they are alone,
Each one on an island of isolated thought,
Adrift on a sea of desolation.
I am not alone.
I drift back to sleep,
Still feeling the warm touch of his hand.

Look around as you are not alone.

Experiencing Nature: Where Winds Will Blow

Where winds will blow, the rain will fall;
Where tides will rise, the sands will all
Move with the waters of the day
And sometimes, they'll be washed away.

Where sun will shine, shadows will grow;
Where ice will freeze, there'll be a glow
Of rosy cheeks and noses too,
For frost bite knows just what to do.

Where children play, there will be joy;
Where daylight dawns, death will destroy.
Life, in it fullness, will go on
As surely as the pending dawn.

Where rivers flow, waters will rise;
Where there is life, there's no disguise,
As life just cannot wear a mask
And never ending is its task.

Where love abounds, there will be peace;
Where grace e'er lives, hope cannot cease,
For God is gracious and He's good
And gives fresh mercy as He should.

God controls nature wherever the winds may blow.

Relationships: The Expectation Thereof

The fullness
And complete surrender
Of total control
Actualizing the awakening
On the horizon of perfect passion,
Embracing the ultimate moment
Of pure awareness,
Perfect peace,
Pure thought
And pure feeling.
Human sensuality
And sexuality
Perfectly tuned
To the ultimate, divine vibration
Of the melting into oneness
Encompassing,
Unfolding,
Unraveling,
Within the gentle hands of time.
The expectation thereof
In the thoughts and minds
Of hearts and souls
Like mine.

What can you expect in a love relationship?

  

Observing: The Mystery of the Sleeping Giant

Gone the Giant;
None can see
What lies o'er there?
A mystery.
The Giant poses in repose,
But gone today.
I do suppose
That hidden by gray blanket thick,
Hours away,
The clock will tick
Without the Giant waking up;
Too early in the day to sup.
Secure within a hidden veil,
That oft' obscures an early sail,
The Giant sleeps,
Just rests a day,
Until the fog wills self away.
But, beauty often hides beneath
The pow'r of Love
Or nature's sheath.
Awake the Giant?
No one can.
But surely,
There's a higher plan,
As nature changes ev'ry day.
The Giant is still here to stay.
No imag'ry this early morn.
Just one alert,
A deep fog horn.
The Giant's there.
One cannot see.
Creating what,
A mystery,
Reality?
The Giant's gone,
Until full bursting of the dawn.

The Sleeping Giant will return when the fog lifts. 

.

Love Between a Mother and Daughter: My Best Friend Forever

My best friend forever? That's my mother.
How could it ever be any other?

Who conceived me, brought me to this earth,
Awakened in me hopes and dreams, gave birth?

If ever I knew one as there for me,
Of course, it was the mother I could see.

The one who held me so close at her breast,
And snuggled me in bed, so I would rest.

Who waited, watched o'er me, when I was ill
And took the time my mem'ry bank to fill,

With sweet love, hope and values e'er supreme
And planted deep within me some new dream?

Who guided my small hands along the way
And took the time to teach me how to play

The games of life and taught me values true,
As Godly mothers e'er are blessed to do?

Who talked with me and walked me on my path
Of life and even through war's aftermath?

Who kept me in her heart and loved me though
So many others too, were meant to grow?

The love a mother gives will never die.
My best friend was my mother; that's no lie.

A daughter recognizes the important role her mother played in her early years.

21st Century: What Kind of Love is This?

What kind of love is this
That bids a shuttle go,
So high, around the world,
That even winds can't blow?

What destiny has man
That bids him go, to fill,
Horizons vast escape,
Upon his whims, at will?

What love puts life at risk
And bids folly prevail,
When life as sacred e'er,
Unfurls each morning's sail?

If love is to succeed
And yes, it surely will,
Then God, who stands above
Time's passing says, 'Be still.'

While time enfolds the pain
And worlds apart lie man,
There are a few who'll know
What genius man can.

The heights, the depths of love
Are destined to increase
And in this realm stands man,
Who here-in shall know peace.

This century is one,
Unfolding as it should.
New heights to explore
And God says, That is good."

At times, it is difficult to understand love.

Poverty: In Total Poverty of Mind

In total poverty of mind, the old man sits by the battered door,
Seemingly confused by the reality of the present,
While locked into some needless torments from the past.
In his mind, he is alone, completely consumed by former passions
Now long gone in time, but not yet fully erased from his memory,
Or from the slowly, shattering depths of his fragile mind.
Startled by his own racing thoughts, in a sudden panic,
He quickly jumps to his feet, almost falling over.
He appears to climb a non-existent stairwell,
Still vividly fixed in his lost and wandering imagination.
A while later, reaching into a back pocket for a wallet that is not there,
He signals to his former barber to keep the change, again.
His right hand reaches up to touch the bristles of the new haircut,
Forever etched into the recesses of his fading mind.
"Who are you? I don't know you! I want to go home!"
He cries out to someone, but now less frequently every day.
In reality, he is at home, but in his increasingly shallow mind,
Home is forever somewhere else, somewhere he has been in the past,
While in truth, perhaps he may never truly know home again.
Suddenly, he senses the dawn, alert to the sounds of the cheeping robins.
Quietly, he opens the door and wanders out into the quiet, dark street,
But now one which is no longer really familiar to him.
He tugs on the imaginary leash of his long deceased dog.
He takes a few more steps and then says, "Let's go home now, old scout,"
Nearby, the neighbors are watching and listening to him talk to his dog.
"Good dog," they hear the old man say, as he turns and heads back towards his home.
Entering the house, he sits back down in the rickety chair by the door,
As if waiting for the next time his waiting dog wants to go out.
Smiling vaguely, he stares off into space towards some abstract object,
Some figment of his mind that we may never see.
Maybe this is some place where life has kept his truncated mind tethered,
'No,' he cries out as he finally gives in to despair
And closes his eyes, as if no one else is in his world
And no one is present to actually care, even if they did dwell there.
The happy child in him, it seems, was never truly there
And neither is he there now, or so it might seem,
While love still hovers, awake in the old man's soul,
Never to depart, even in his total poverty of mind.

An elderly man lives the later years of his life in his own world, one not that is real to others.

Don't Ask: Don't Ask For More

Don't ask
For more.
Don't ask
Who threw love out the door,
Then asked for more.
Don't ask.

Don't ask
Me why.
Don't ask
Me why it is men lie,
Make women cry?
Don't ask.

Don't ask
What way.
Don't ask
What way should people go,
Then fail to show.
Don't ask.

Don't ask
How much.
Don't ask
How much pure truth should cost,
When it's been lost.
Don't ask.

Don't ask
What day.
Don't ask
What day will there be peace,
While war's increase?
Don't ask.

Times when asking for more may not be a good idea.

The Mind: From the Recesses of the Mind

From the recesses of the mind
Eternal darkness flows
Like recurrent waves of black water,
Bouncing against the hard rocks of time.
The friction creates a faint mist,
That rises high above the water
Bouncing about, wherever it chooses to go.
A fresh, pure, white foam
Dances lightly across the water
Re-imaging and re-creating,
In its own light and shadow,
While in reality, actually reflecting the light
Emanating from the recesses of the mind.
What lies deep within the mind
Waits to be sifted out like flour,
Needing to be refined
And re-defined again by stress,
Raised above what is,
Or what at first appears to be,
But in reality, is not.
It has to be gently roused
In order to be actualized
Or fully realized,
Yes, fully awakened from within.
There is always a silent yearning for more depth,
Another explicit exposition,
Or a second revelation
Of majestic proportions and difference,
Even though from the very beginning,
At first, it appears to be lying deep within defiance
And the total deafness of the deep.
The dark water mode appears to be locked in time
Or at best, in some unknown place;
At least, so it would seem.
It cannot emerge as utter darkness.
It won't allow truth to awaken
Without first hammering itself
With all its might and power
Upon its own inherent blackness.
It's own internal friction
Is forever creating;
While re-creating as light,
Its own exposure to be revealed
From the deep recesses of the mind.
The genuine realm of discovery
Lying forever dormant
Until the master key of time
Allows the unlocking of its doorway,
The sudden emergence,
And inevitable divergence,
Giving freely the gift of room,
Allowing the new leaven to rise
Above its own black waters,
From the recesses of the mind.

Can this be insight into the working of the human mind?

Night: I Write as a Person

I write as a person
Exploring the recesses of the night,
Throwing open the door,
Allowing some light,
Discovering
And developing diminoes
That are emerging,
Converging,
Diverging,
Disappearing
And then somehow re-emerging,
Coming back into the light,
Again and again,
While dominoes
Leaning upon one another,
Tumble by the wayside.
I observe existence
Somehow breaking through,
Coming from somewhere
That appears to be nowhere,
As it seems not to be,
At all anywhere. 
Who knows where
What comes into existence
Really comes from?

Why does it suddenly emerge?
How does it appear
On the horizon
Of what seems to be nothingness?
Simply because
What is to be,
Is?
I search the black night,
Probing for signs of existence,
Prying with curiosity,
Into the how, why, what, when and where
Of the existence
That appears to be emerging,
While seemingly incapable of revealing itself
And yet ever self revealing,
Even capable of disappearing,
And re-appearing
Miraculously,
In reality's world.
I question reality's hold on life
And life's hold on reality,
While composing a discourse
On what appears not to be,
But in reality,
Is actually a dimino.
I write as a person
Exploring the recesses of the night.

A poet explores the recesses of night.

An Angel's Wings: With One Angel Wing

With one angel wing, an angel stands
Ever awaiting the Lord's commands.

Angels with two wings, can fly away;
The angels with one wing have to stay

To pick up the others who fall down,
Or brighten the lives of those who frown.

The work of an angel's never done,
From early dawn to the setting sun.

Did you hear that whisper in your ear?
An angel with one wing, "Do not fear."

If one angel cries, another's there;
If you are an angel, do not despair.

When someone falls down, it may take two;
Without one word, they know what to do.

They'll stand that person back on her feet
And give her a smile that is so sweet.

The uplifted person goes away,
While the angels hold watch and pray.

You'll hear one angel soon say "Thank you."
The other will say, "You're welcome," too.

The angel with one wing, filled with love,
Does acts of mercy for God above.

If you see an angel with one wing,
Maybe it's yours that will make him sing.

Angels appear when you least expect,
When lives are broken, or homes lie wrecked.

Just open your eyes and soon you'll see,
You have two wings; you're an angel free.
Just be the angel you're called to be;
God has a plan for eternity.

You're part of that plan though it may seem
To many others just one wild dream.

Your angel call is simply for you;
Do whatever God leads you to do.

Soon you will know that your task is done;
You'll rest in the heavens with His Son.

Maybe you feel like an angel with just one wing?

Right Here Waiting: I Waited on the Winds of Time

I waited on the winds of time
To waft in gentle words of rhyme
And soon the words were sent my way;
I had a blessing for that day.
But then I knew that others too,
Would far surpass the words that grew,
As time is destined to move on.
It brings new wafting with each dawn
And morning dawns around the world
With love, as e'er a flag unfurled
And messages of peace and joy
Are there for ev'ry girl and boy.
"What brings the wind," I e'er will ask
And just continue with my task.
I'll pen the words as they arrive
And know that they will ever strive
To spread a message true, of peace
And wonders that will never cease.
So waft on winds and bring my poem
To where I call this world, my home.
Because I know that you are true,
I'm right here waiting just for you.
You'll bring the words with brand new rhyme
And I shall pen them down, in time.

A poet waits on the winds of time for inspiration.

The Written Word By Definition

The written word,
Always defining history
And re-defining
The past, present and the future,
Ever effacing,
Or erasing the history of the past.
Evolving in time,
Revolving like doors
That never cease to open and close.
Always building new pages
Compiling greater books,
With other written words
That suddenly appear
Forming volumes of the written word,
Like new mountain ridges.
Written words diminoing,
As if violently erupting
From dormant volcanoes,
Spewing forth hot ashes
Like molten lava,
Streaming down the mountain side,
Across the seemingly barren earth,
Into the empty waters of time;
The blank and empty pages of life,
Ever waiting to be filled.
Emerging from supposed non-existence
That is merely preexistence,
Into reality's world of being,
The written word,
Always creating
Or re-creating,
While standing the test of time;
A new generation of written words,
By definition.

How does one define the written word other than by definition?

  

Writing: When I Write

When I write from my heart,
There is passion, purity of thought and love.

When I write from my mind,
There are words, copious, empty, unfeeling words,
Totally devoid of soul.

When I write from my heart,
I am inspired.
I cannot put my pen down,
Until that which has been given to me has been written
In whatever format it has been received.

When I write from my mind,
Nothing flows freely;
I have no compulsion to write.
What I write has no meaning or significance.
It is merely word upon word.

When I write from my heart,
It has value to me, even if not to anyone else.

When I write from my mind,
It is like marching mile after mile,
Going nowhere, doing nothing, with no purpose in mind.

When I write from my heart,
It holds promise, a future, a light, a life to behold.

When I write from my mind,
It is like a blank slate of nothingness.
"Is this a tabula rasa?" I wonder.

When I write from my heart,
There is a quickening, an innate desire to reach that next horizon,
Beyond some goal or desire; to take one step more.

When I write from my mind,
It is as if there is a wall, no doorway,
Not even a window to go through.

When I write from my heart,
There is a stirring, a gentle release,
A flowing river of thought upon thought,
So vast that it cannot be contained.

When I write from my mind,
I see nothing; a void waiting, needing to be filled
From the depths of my heart, when I write.

Writing from the heart has no void.

Flowers: Phalaenopsis Orchids

Phalaenopsis, so you say?
The orchid blossom of the day.
In South America, they bloom;
Now, even in my living room.
There, perched on trees, they blossom too;
If one would graft them, yes, that too.
The roots grow down, like fish worms green;
The blossom stems, a reddish sheen.
The broad, green leaves will sometimes fall,
But blossom one and blossoms all,
They linger on, months at a time.
So beautiful, it seems they shine
The flowers open wide and stay,
Unless they're moved in some odd way
And then the next day, they'll be gone;
They wilt so quickly by the dawn.
The leaves come in triangular.
No wet feet for this blossom star.
And seed pods hidden in the deep,
Until they're dried, remain asleep.
A window east, a curtain sheer
And water once a week, no fear.
Just fertilize once in a while
And watch that orchid beauty smile!

The secret of growing phalaenopsis orchids.

The Light at the End of the Tunnel: What Light is This?

What light is this along the way
That shines upon the path of day?

So brilliant does this true light shine,
I see it is predestined, mine.

A light that opens tunnel deep,
Awakens darkness from its sleep.

A light that penetrates as truth;
Reveals itself, a final proof.

A light with mercy in its wake,
That holds compassion; life at stake.

So pure and perfect is this light;
Joy to behold, its wonder bright.

A light that bursts each shadow dark
And touches life; leaves not a mark.

A light so blinding, but so sweet,
It nurtures life; makes it complete.

A light with rainbow colors pure;
Holds promise of a future sure.

What is this light, I still must ask?
It's love refined with one sole task.

Love is the light at the end of the tunnel.

Nature's Way: The Galloping Winds

The galloping winds across the sky,
Were piling up clouds, so thick and high

And swirling around as storm clouds do,
They soon covered o'er the sky, so blue.

Huge banks of black clouds built to the west;
Thunder and lightning allowed no rest.

See there's a strike; the sparks how they flew.
A forest alight, the fire grew.

The elk and deer bolted, fleeing fire;
A stumbling bear came out of the mire.

A seagull white, was caught in a twirl
Of smoke's black rage whose strength did soon hurl

A young, black crow right into its path;
Collision course in the fire's wrath.

The sky unleashed its quick fury too;
The rain pelted down drenching all through.

The winds blew high and the winds blew low;
With such damage fierce, it soon would show.

It seems there's no end to nature's mirth,
As out of it all, there came new birth.

Seeds sprouting up with new blossoms all;
A miracle as new trees grew tall.

The galloping winds are here to stay,
Still playing their role in nature's way.

Nature's way of dealing with galloping winds.

Destiny: One Star; Our Destiny Assured

One star, a glow across the sky,
A virgin birth, a human cry.

"Our destiny?" man mocked and railed
And to the cross, our Savior nailed.

"Mock on, oh world, for you'll ne'er find
The truth in time, in deed, or mind,

As those who knew Him, did believe
And blessings true, they did receive.

A risen Savior some did see,
Confirming sure our destiny."

As time goes on and shadows pale,
To grasp on life, there's those who fail,

Though risen to the heav'ns above,
Our Lord, our Savior, Christ as Love.

"Eternal life?" the final cry,
While death takes o'er and man does die.

Our destiny is not denied,
With Jesus standing by our side.

Our destiny assured, you'll know.
One star, across the sky, a glow.

With Jesus, our destiny is assured.

Baby Boomers: For the Boomers, it is Spring

Boomers busting out all over,
All over the valleys and the hills.

Some are really, really smart,
Doing poetry and art,

Playing music, writing too,
All the things they love to do,

But of course, there's those who say,
Life is work and not all play,

But I'm sitting in my chair,
With my tv over there.

Boomers busting out all over,
All over the valleys and the hills;

But my family was too poor.
There was something did occur.

Out of school, I had to stay.
Me? I've always had poor pay.

Do you think this is a zoo?
What am I supposed to do?

Did I really hear just that?
Was that you? That's where you're at?

Boomers busting out all over,
All over the valleys and the hills.

If you are a boomer too,
Do what e'er you want to do.

Nothing ever is too late.
Take a class or make a date.

Find a path. Go for a ride.
Keep your loved ones by your side.

You can do it all right now;
Ask and God will show you how.

Boomers busting out all over,
All over the valleys and the hills.

You're beyond the boom and bust.
Now its time to bite the dust.

Yes, you can do something good
And you know you really should.

Just stop blaming dear, old dad;
That would really make him sad.

Now it's time to do your part.
Don't you think it's time to start?

Boomers busting out all over,
All over the valleys and the hills.

Can you hear the anthems ring?
For the boomers, it is spring!

Are you a baby boomer?

Love Unfulfilled: Of Unrequited Love

Of unrequited love, what must be said?
It's not as if that kind of love is dead,
And unrequited love for some will be,
The only kind of love they'll ever see.

The unrequited lover stands apart,
Although that love, lies deep within his heart.
To others, it may seem that none exists;
While some will say, it's there, but one resists.

A higher plane of love can set one free,
The kind of love that's in eternity,
Untouched by worldly wanton and desire,
Its passion holds fore'er a purer fire.

The lovers seem to know a passion true
And oft' for them the perfect thing to do
Is love the other lover perfectly,
But meanwhile, set that perfect lover free.

The lover is a lover to the end,
But to the world appears to be more friend;
The unrequited love will never die,
As unrequited lovers cannot lie.

For truth is love in unrequited love,
And love is truth with hope from up above.
The unrequited lover does no harm
Or anything to cause the world alarm.

It is enough to love, love at its best
And then let Love As God, do all the rest.
"I have no love but Love," they both will say
And love each other perfectly, each day.

The unrequited lover, one will find
Exceptionally good, so sweet and kind.
And marvel at the lovers, yes, one will
E'er sense the perfect peace that bides there still,

The calm serene, the joy, the perfect pose.
"I guess they're lovers?" "Do you thus suppose?"
And one may never really know for sure
While unrequited lovers stand secure.

Awaken unrequited love and find
A melody, so sweet, it does remind
The unrequited lover's melody, 
The quest for love, so perfect, blessed and free.

Why meddle in a love that is so sure?
What can be gained by taunting friends secure?
So let the unrequited lovers find
That unrequited love can ever bind.

How can you explain unrequited love?

Time: Time Travels

A streetlight glows faintly in the window.
Through the mist of almost morning,
Casting an eerie glow around the room.
A small, black picture frame
Hanging on the wall,
At the foot of the bed says,
"Husbands love your wives;
Wives honor your husbands;
Children obey your parents in the Lord."
A raging fever,
Sleep that does not last,
Moments of conscious awareness. 
Square letters suddenly appear in the frame.
Words.
A gold circle covers the words,
Rests momentarily,
Then seems to rise up.
It has sharp edges 
Like gold bricks.
Something is pulling it forward.
The gold circle breaks away,
Separating itself,
Even while it clings to the words.
The circle of gold breaks free,
Except for a single thread,
That remains attached to the words.
The circle twists forming a figure eight,
Infinity.
The yellow thread of gold
Moving on
Beyond infinity,
Traveling at the speed of light.
An unbroken thread
Piercing,
Penetrating.
Time.
Enters,
Leaves,
Returns to the place from whence it came.
We think
We travel through time;
Time travels through us.

Time travels.

Rainbow Love: A Double Rainbow

A profusion of pastels,
Unheralded,
Dramatic presentation at mid-day;
A dynamic display of brilliant colors,
Astounding to behold;
Words evade even me.
A prismatic effect beyond comprehension,
Altitudinal artistry,
A stroke of the artist's brush,
The overpowering majesty of performance
Awakening new hopes and dreams;
A promise to be kept.
Brilliance beyond comparison;
A momentary illusion.
The reality of symmetry, unbroken in time,
An extension of simplicity's perfection;
Conceptual perception,
Magnificent bows with arches,
The mist of the moment encompassed in light.
To my utter delight;
A contrast of gray splendor transitioning
From one shade to another;
Pure gold
Bouncing off the green grass;
Four pots of gold;
Simultaneous awareness;
Rainbow love,
Are you there for me?

For whom does a double rainbow appear? 

Greeting Card Themes: Love

Love,
I'll put my hand in yours,
And if you don't let go,
We'll be together
Forever.

Love is the most important greeting card theme in the world. 

Fame: Wealth and Fame

Wealth,
A momentary gust;
It's gone,
But love will linger
On and on,
And fame,
It fades
By night and day,
While love
Is ever here
To stay. 
Seek love,
Not wealth 
Or fame.

Choose one or the other, or choose love.

Love's Creation: The Sculptor

The sculptor kneads his softened clay
As if expecting it will stay
Right where his fingers say it should
And then he whispers, "It is good."

With tender, gnarled, arthritic hands,
The clay performs at his commands.
He fashions forth a gentle face
As if to show the human race

That humankind created dear
Need not its maker, ever fear
And with his thumbs, he forms the nose
And lips as gentle as a rose,

With eyelids closed, as if in sleep;
Perhaps somehow, in time to peep.
A mouth appears as fingers seek
The voice that causes man to speak

A forehead kindled, wrinkled? No.
The cheekbones too, begin to show.
A chin appears. It's dimpled too.
The sculptor knows just what to do.

A drop of water smooths the brow
While yet creating peace somehow.
What is this mystery revealed?
A test in time, that's somehow sealed

Until eternity will show
The breath of life, how it does flow. 
The sculptor smiles as he makes hair
And puts an eyebrow over where

It has to be, as if he knows
That somehow all his effort shows
His work will never be in vain.
There is no trace of toil or pain

And somehow there is love that seals
The truth in time, the sculptor feels
That's flowing from his loving hands,
Like water sifting through the sands.

The feelings of a sculptor expressed.

Actions versus words: Love Compels

Love compels
Humankind to action,
Even in the face of adversity.
Love graciously exceeds
Every human expectation thereof 
In unanticipated
And unexpected ways.
Love remains a complex whole,
A totality,
That cannot be fragmented
Or divided in two.
Love gives freely,
Openly and honestly,
Rather than taking
In some devious manner.
Love has vast integrity
And amazing credibility,
As truth envelops
The whole of love
Ultimately leading to freedom.
Love shows life in its fullness,
At its very best
Erasing its agony.
Love has complete perfection
Contained within
Its mysterious realm
Of random beauty.
Love graces,
Adorns with humility,
Beautifies the human face,
With uniqueness unknown
By source. 
Love exceeds, excels,
And succeeds.
Love allows room for laughter
And allows human beings to laugh
First at themselves,
Their own foibles and passions,
Rather than ridiculing others.
Love hold true to its identity
Extending far beyond
The scope of humankind's words
And imperfect understanding of what
Love compels
Humankind to do
In terms of action.

What does love compel humankind to do other than act?

Eternity: Love's Eternal Horizon

Love's eternal horizon,
Infinitely extended in time;
Unknowable in mystery,
Miraculously enduring, 
Wondrously inspiring; 
Majestic in beauty,
Fathomless in depth,
Yet ever tender to touch.
Spectacular in wonder and awe,
Complex beyond comprehension,
Inherently diverse in structure,
The epiphany of divine artistry,
Displaying itself with potency;
Gigantic in sheer magnitude,
Astounding to perceive,
Fully encompassed in reality.
Splendid in authenticity,
Fragmented in dispersion;
Projected into humanity's future,
Rejected by humankind’s frown;
Stunning in beauteous splendor,
Revealing in a small child's eyes
The possibility of eternity
Coupled with the simplicity of love.

Such is the nature of love's eternal horizon.

Birth of our Savior: Angels in the Snow

The silent night of Christmas;
Lights powdered with sparkling stardust
Partly hidden by piercing icicles
Glimmering ever so softly

In the stark, cold reality
Of winter's darkest night.
Brilliant northern lights
Dancing for joy in the sky,
Hovering tenuously over
A peaceful nativity scene
Displayed for all to see,
Its total and utter silence
Directed by absent angels.
Their gentle wings displaying
Imagery still imprinted
In the soft, white snow
By a small child's boot prints, 
Manifesting as angels having been
Ushered to and fro.
The Christ child adored,
The trust of innocence enduring;
The joy of a miraculous birth
Re-awakening the mystical,
Eternal hope of humankind,
The manifestation of divine love
Spectacular to behold
In its profound revelation.

Angels in the snow made my children reveal an angelic presence.

Flight of the Butterfly: Slivers of Memory

Slivers of memory

Flitting through time

Like miniature, white butterflies

Bursting out of cocoons;

Taking flight

In total abstraction,

They fly,

Momentarily,

Disappearing on the wind

Only to return later,

Further enhanced

And newly mystified;

"What doorway

Will this new butterfly enter?"

The man ponders silently;

Still seated in reality's cold chair,

He reaches out his crippled hand

To catch each tiny butterfly

That quickly flits on by,

Ones that only he can only see

In his mind's eye;

Maybe he knows

That he can never catch them

In the fading windows of time,

But he can still enjoy them

Right to the last,

And he does.

He smiles.

"See my butterflies?"

He asks his absent partner.

He waits,

But no one answers.

There is no one there.

He is all alone,

With his slivers of memory

Flitting through time

Like miniature butterflies.

Slivers of memory with old age, can still bring joy.

Goodbye Kisses: The Poem I Did Not Write

Goodbye kisses, there's some who'll say,
A final word, for one's last day.
(This is a poem I did not write;
It has not disappeared from sight.

You'll look for it; won't find it there;
It's not been written in despair.)
There's many ways to say goodbye
And poetry is one to try.

The bottom line, one I must state;
Prevent confusion at some date.
I never really say goodbye,
Though others do and oft will cry.

The word goodbye is often heard.
There's final closure in that word.
The Word itself will never close.
Beyond that word; do you suppose

That coupled with some mystery,
There's a hello that some can see?
So when you go to bid goodbye,
Remember that there's God on high.

Eternity is ever there,
With all for whom there's love and care.
Love's end is never in goodbye
As those who live, shall never die.

Their spirits live forever more;
Eternity has one more door.
The doors that open, close o'er time,
Like one more poem that's penned in rhyme.

(This is the poem I did not write,
At least it seems, until tonight.)
Goodbye kisses, just save them too,
For the hello, that's there for you.

Goodbye is not always forever.

Hope: The Darkest Day

The darkest day is one in which

There are no poor; there are no rich.

It's one of economic woes,

But in some way, do you suppose

That black is black, and white is white

And all that's good is truly right?

As jugglers of both life and death;

There's those who live and those who's breath

Is somehow taken, but in greed?

Desire opposed to basic need?

"The world is hungry," some will cry;

There's some who'll live, while others die,

But ever watching from above,

Is God who lives, our God as Love.

The darkest day, when man calls out;

His fear is what it's all about.

"I'll touch their lives and heal their fear;

There's hope for all who shed a tear."

What waits on mankind's darkest day?

The light of hope for all who pray.

There is always hope.