Better as a performance poem rather than printed word. To be read very slowly with a pause after each punctuation mark.… This poem is in not autobiographical, a confessional or a reflection of my life. I just write this stuff, I don't live it. That's not me! Photo from Pexels photo 247918. Pleasure accompanied by …
Reims Cathedral. Photo courtesy of France Tourism. Well, that's another month and indeed a whole year done and dusted. What a month it has been, what a year it has been, what a year it is going to be. Bring on 2025. We started the month in France, Reims to be exact. Click on the …
Just for the record, that's not me! - Picture produced by Ai. Last year, they say, is history. The new year, is just a mystery. No So, as we ponder what’s in store Before we open New Year’s door, Reflect on what we’ve done. First, last year's resolutions Our world changing revolution Was set last …
Reblogged from Jez Taylor. Reflections from the Book of Exodus Exodus is one of those books that doesn’t get a lot of airtime in churches; the passages that do are the stories of Moses’ birth, his escape, the plagues, Passover, crossing the Red Sea, and the golden calf. That already seems a lot, and plenty …
The hush descends, the revelry has ceased, A quiet pause, a moment of release. The Christmas lights, though fading, are still aglow, Casting a soft haze, a peaceful, gentle flow. The days drift by, a languid, lazy pace, A time for rest, a time to find one’s place. The year recedes, its memories take hold, …
Continue reading The nowhere time between Christmas and New Year – A Poem
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Church tradition from the earliest days of Christianity has ascribed these letters to John, commonly believed to be the apostle John—one of Jesus’ chosen twelve, the son of Zebedee, and “the disciple whom Jesus loved” of John’s gospel. But there’s a problem. Neither the text of the gospel nor that of the letters bears John’s …
The wind whispers secrets, a chilling refrain, Of leaves turning crimson, then falling like rain. The sun, a pale ghost, hangs low in the sky, As nature prepares for a long, silent sigh. The world, once vibrant, now cloaked in a shroud, Of snow covered branches, where shadows crowd. A stillness descends, a peaceful embrace, …
Here’s a light-hearted poem about a nativity play that went slightly wrong: In a sleepy little village, on a cold December night, The children gathered nervously, their costumes snug and tight. The stage was set, the lights were low, the parents packed the pews, For the yearly nativity, an event they wouldn’t choose. ... Little …
