Beautiful Fabric

As children we make tenuous connections friendships based on a glance from a friendly face.

Giving trust wholeheartedly, willing to kiss and hug one another with no reserve.

How shortly this lasts as other desires come into our little hearts, to have more than the other, to be stronger, or smarter. So kids pinch and they pull, surprised when their little friendships are hurt.

and how deep that hurt can be, innocent hearts, trusting hearts, hearts that thrummed together in friendship can be easily broken.

Hopefully we learn respect.

How innocent is the interest of childish desires. Desires awakening in the breast of young girls, and young boys.

Holding hands, trusting, claiming each other, how short lived is this little bond. As young hearts, growing still, bump up against each other, mixed with the messages that they have received from the adult world around them.

This adulthood bond, what does it mean? Holding hands, a kiss on the lips, a look, laying in bed?

Awakening children reach out to each other, hiding in the van by the house to touch lips together and wonder at the meaning of the sparks that fly.

Holding each other close, as they lay in the grass, Edens bed, innocent still.

and innocently hurt each other as well. There is so much more to understand than children know.

As they grow, so does the curiosity. So does the intensity of the flame, they test this flame, to find that it can burn. That with the give and take between them that immaturity can mean more take than give and intense encounters can leave a heart broken and empty.

As adults we find that there are threads, they reach between two separate hearts connecting each to the other. These threads are formed by the trust that is given, one heart to another. Hearts that have faced the reality of imperfection, hearts that know each other.

These threads are woven each time we choose each other, woven and made stronger with the experiences that we share. Forming a fabric, creating something beautiful to wrap new little babies in. Forming a fabric to insulate each other from the harshness of continual judgement, the judgement of the world.

With the trust comes true inhibition. The flames formed from intertwined hearts can be strong and beautiful.

That is, unless... you break a little thread here or there, little hurts, little disrespects. Little things that tell me that I am not all that you dreamed of.

Little words said, mistrust, abuse, judgement of the other.

Pulling away, snipping at, cutting at the threads you believe bind you. Not willing to give your trust, not believing in the theory of intertwined hearts. Never reaching that climax, because of dissatisfaction.

and it hurts, it really does.

I believe in the theory of intertwined hearts. I have woven beautiful fabric, and I have sipped at threads. Then I have sewn them again, and refused to let the threads be cut, they sometimes are cut. I have felt that hurt.

It is hard to trust.

Yet, weaving beautiful fabric together is worth it.

My First View of a Western Prairie

This is an example of the beautiful poetry of Eliza R. Snow a Mormon Pioneer authoress. She wrote quite a few pieces of poetry, several of which were turned into songs (one of my favorites is "Oh My Father," a very touching piece).

My First View of a Western Prairie
by Eliza R. Snow

The loveliness of Nature always did
Delight me. In the days of childhood, when
My young light heart, in all the buoyancy
Of its own bright imagination's spell,
Beat in accordant consonance to all
For which it cherish'd an affinity,
The summer glory of the landscape rous'd
Within my breast a princely feeling.
Time's Obliterating strokes cannot erase
The impulse, with my being interwove;
And oftentimes, in the fond ecstacy
Of youth's effervescence, I've gaz'd
Upon the richly variegated fields,
Which most emphatically spoke the praise
Of Nature, and the Cultivator's skill.

But when I heard the western trav'ller paint
The splendid beauties of the far-off West;
Where Nature's pastures, rich and amply broad,
Waving in full abundance, seem to mock
The agriculturists of eastern soil;
I grew incredulous that Nature's dress
Should be so rich, and so domestic, and
So beautiful, without the touch of Art;
And thought the picture fancifully wrought.

Yet, in the process of revolving scenes,
I left the place of childhood and of youth;
And as I journey'd t'ward the setting sun,
As if awaking from a nightly dream,
Into a scenery grand and strangely new,
I almost thought myself transported back
Upon the retrograding wheel of time,
To days and scenes when Greece presided o'er
The destinies of earth; and when she shone
Like her ador'd Apollo; without one
Tall rival in the field of Literature;
And fancied then myself as standing on
That towering mount of truly classic fame
That overlooks the rich, the fertile, and
The far-extended vales of Crissa: or
That in some wild poetic spell, of deep
Unconscious recklessness, I'd stray'd afar
Upon the flowing plains of Marathon.
But soon reflection's potent wand dispell'd
The false illusion, and I realiz'd That I was not inhaling foreign air,
Or moving in a scene emblazon'd with
The classic legends of antiquity.
O, no: the scenery around was not Enchantment.
'Twas the bright original Of those fair images and ideal forms,
Which fancy's pencil is so prompt to sketch.
Instead of treading on Ionian fields,
I stood upon Columbian soil, and in
The rich and fertile state of Illinois.

Amaz'd, I view'd until my optic nerve
Grew dull and giddy with the frenzy of
The innocent delight; and I exclaim'd,
With Sheba's queen, "One half had not been told."

But then my thought--can I describe my thoughts?
No: for description's liveliest powers grow lame,
Whenever put upon the chase of things
Of non-existence; and my thoughts had all,
Like liquid matter, melted down, and had
Become, as with a secret touch, absorb'd
In the one all-engrossing feeling of
Deep admiration, vivid and intense.
And my imagination too, for once
Acknowledg'd its own imbecility,
And cower'd down as if to hide away;
For all its powers had been too cold and dull,
Too tame and too domestic far, to draw
A parallel with the bold grandeur, and
The native beauty, of the "Western World!"

Bloggy Awards

I have been so blessed through the friendships I have made through blogging. Catherine is one of those good friends that I have met through this medium an dI am so greatful to have met her. She is one of the most thoughtful and creative people I have met and has been a big support to me.

These awards are good ways to recognize our friendships and share a few of our favorite bloggers with others.

Blogging Brings Us Closer Award- From Catherine

“This award recognizes connections and friendships that come about through blogging.” I pass on to…

1. June at 70 Plus and Still Kicking, her narratives of life in Australia are well done and informative. She is an excellent story teller (soon to be published...). :D

2. Star at Star-Forever-Young. She is weaving excellent stories that bring to life history, mystery and even current happenings. She is also a charming story teller (I particularly like her story about bunnies).

3. Nara at In Search of a Greener Tomorrow. Who's excellent photography brings India to life for his readers. Plus he cares about the environment... what other reasons could there be? Oh yeah he's a fun friend to have!! A funny guy. :D

4. OverUnder AKA The U at Any Way I Have To: U is a unique guy, really thoughtful. I have just discovered his blog and find his thoughts on the world to be helpful and mind expanding. He has so much to offer to all of us looking to find our way.

5. Sarah at Dancing With The Waves of The Sea. Artfully done poetry!!She is skilled in so many ways, combining visual art with written art that blows me away with the development of thought.

Dreams and Rainbows

DREAMS AND RAINBOWS
by R. Wayne Porter

Have you ever seen the birth of a dream
do they arrive on some gentle wind
Or perhaps they are cast by a storm in the night
how does the spark in one's life begin

Dreams are the fire in life's short endeavor
they give meaning and purpose to each
Although some are fulfilled by a fortunate few
for most, they stay just out of reach

Are rainbows a sign created by nature
to display the beauty of dreams
Or is it a message in marvelous colors
that our lives are wonderful things

So treasure your dream and keep its fire burning
for rainclouds and fog always lift
don't get discouraged when you feel downhearted
Think Rainbows
Remember that life is a gift

Wind

The Wind

Forcefully the wind blows through the trees
picking up stray things in its way.

Swirling them about in a spiral, up, up
and sometimes at me, but not often.

Then it is deceptively calm.

I walk away from my home,
but come back again,

to protect it.

The wind rises and ebbs,
rises and ebbs.

When will it stop?

I am holding my heart.

But the wind is ruthless
it takes it along,

In the whirlwind.

Then it is gone,
and I feel alone.

Why do I miss it,
when it blows everything about me?

I have no control...

with the wind.

More Thoughts on Wind

Why does the wind like me so much?

It seems to call me always,
seems to embrace me.

Why does it seem to need me,
calling my name, circling about,
desperate to keep me here?

Yet leaves me alone when I need a nice breeze,
when I need to hear the conversation that it carries.

Where is the warm breeze?

Happily playing elsewhere, talking to others.

I am left, alone,
waiting for when it will return.

The wind comes with many moods,
sometimes it seems to enjoy laughing through the hills.

Sometimes the wind plays with the tree sprites, and
sometimes they run away, afraid of all that blowing.

The wind is a part of me,
yet it dosen't recognize that I want the sun to shine?

I would talk to it, but my spirit speaks in gentle breezes.
Harsh blowing is difficult to deal with.

I know I am shutting it out,
I am trying to keep things from blowing about,
I am trying to capture some happiness and warmth.

Why does the wind do this to me?

Why...

why

why

It is calm now,
the wind has been calm.

Will it blow again?

Can I learn to live with the wind?

Hunger (revised)

(This was inspired by Charles Dickens "A Tale of Two Cities)


New faces, new places, they travel each day, searching for redemption, revival, anything.

They have left the land of no hope, for that city upon a hill, they have left, they have left with a will.

yet the hunger it lay in the streets, yes the hunger lay in the streets.

Onward citizens, onward, search for the elusive medal, nugget, hope, hope!

Faces of gaunt children, and balding men, hair receding hope retreating.

Down at the bank, down at the store, there is hunger

hunger in the streets, yes hunger.

Then a cry, faint in its beginning, faint, who would have guessed the ignominy that they suffer, as their hopes fail them.

Stark reality, freedoms tossed as they do what they must to survive.

Ho then congressman!

Ho then tax man!

We have no bread to tax, take pity!

They lay, corpses in their chairs, their lives have ceased as they stare out the window, glossy eyed.

Who will give them breath again? Breathe, sigh, their children cry,

On you we rely!

Yet words and tears fall on deaf ears, silent fears, wasted years.

Yearning rising, yearning boom, fought for and paid on the backs of laborers,

barons searching, searching for newer and better.

Yet striving they fought

Onward and upward bless this house,

stretch forth and cry, enemies of my heart,

I will fight for the freedom of singing in the streets!

Many generations have passed, they knew and took for granted upward progression,

Ignominy they thought could never last, all deserve 15 min. of fame, so they say.

Nameless faceless masses stand
crying hallelujah let us live!

But

How do you carry, the waters of life, when they are slowly leaking away? Your shelter was built, your life was planned, yet now you have no place to stay.

You wander in hunger, for heaven to send, redemption for what you have done, your fears, your tears and all of the years, you have worked and you've bled on the throne.

The throne of deception, the throne of desire, you added more to it and your hopes they rose higher. So you worked and you planned and all of your dreams, they were dashed in the sand on the streets,

hunger lay, yes the hunger lay there

Hearts have stilled with the news,

In the streets there is a hunger, a preponderance of insanity as lies are told and swallowed, we are told there is nothing to fear.

No one has listened, to what was said between the lines, who knows what the silence means.

A presence is felt the grim reaper himself, Charon awaits, gratified.

With each stone that falls from the foundation, unheeded, each step in the sand an illusion. You grasp for something, grasping, grasping...

and the children they cry in the streets, yes the children they cry in the streets.