The Chest of Hope (Friday’s free for All)

IT’S JUST A SMALL BROWN wicker basket, not built to hold much –

and a bit tattered from over handling.
It’s beautiful warm browns have dulled and faded with age on the outside –

but inside the natural luster still shines.

It’s top is held in place by make-do leather ties because the first woody hasps were worn in two –

and now dangle loosely, without purpose.

What hands made the airy coffer? I wonder as I stroke the thin smooth fibers.
Was it one as handsome as the tight weaves frayed by time?

Though dust has long since claimed his finger prints – I know that he was a weaver; I imagine that he was a dream weaver…
Diligently intertwining each cane thread with my hopes in mind…

A place to store my breathing dreams so that they could be kept safe and close at hand, amassed in a beautiful fibrous reminder.
A quaint little chest of hope I will one day hand down to a child, a grandchild or perhaps even a great grandchild –
when I have used up its contents.

When I have taken the dusty lid off one last time and felt deep into the corners to make certain I haven’t left any ideas untouched…
I imagine when I offer it up to him (or her) they will look at me like I’m crazy (and I may well be) then they’ll tear the lid off, expecting to find a treasure of sorts before saying with disappointment,

“It’s just an empty old basket.”

It is then I will share with them the wishes and ideas that were stored and later born of that basket.

How they were kept safe till I could see them come to fruition.
And one more time I will imagine the handsome dark skinned man who meticulously weaved the wonderful piece…
a place to store my dreams because dreams need room to breathe.

Then I will show them how to place their own aspirations into the old auburn chest with caution to keep them safe, to nurture their hopes and give them time to mature. And if my last wish were to come true I will see them realize the birth of their visions.

*I adore woven baskets and this bit of prose was inspired by one of my favorites.

The Chest of Hope was taken from Getting me Back

A Little More Time

Hi y’all 🙋🏼‍♀️

My apologies for not blogging more but I have seriously been busy. I’m talking BiZZy!

We are just getting the house back to normal after February’s winter storm, Uri. I’m not sure why it’s (unofficially) referred to as Uri? 🧐

I did a web search and unless I overlooked a reasonable definition-I found nothing that applied to the ice storm. Feel free to educate me.

Anywho we are getting back to normal. Haller-lu-ya!!

[doing the happy dance]

So before I get busy this morning getting the yard and pond back in shape I will leave you with a #TBT.

A Little More Time was written in 1980 something, originally published in Pose Prose & Poems in 1998 and republished in the 2017 poetic memoir called Getting Me Back

A Little More Time

There’s an eagle out there soaring And my best friend is out whoring

Turning tricks of any kind

Doing anything to make a dime God forgive her for the crime

All she needs is a little more time.

On the roof three stories high

A junky cries and begs to die

Ain’t had a fix in several days Swears he can’t go on this way

Across the street a church bell chimes

Grant us please a little more time.

An old man sick and dying

Alone with no one crying

He grieves for all the pain he’s caused

For all the people that he’s lost

Outside the window painted mimes All rushing for a little more time

A woman labors down the hall

Her anguish echoes through the wall

But soon a laughter takes its place When she looks upon the baby’s face

For a moment all is sublime

As we are given a little more time

Getting Me Back ( #NPM )

Getting Me Back

Tissue thin, transparent bits and pieces by the millions I gave to you…

To be received, to be tended

or to be rendered useless as you deemed fit

old inhabitants of terra firma.

Slivers of my soul….

What did you do with these pieces of me?

Where are the misplaced microscopic stars of my spirit, where are they laid?

Did they dissolve beneath a soft autumn rain?

Or burn in the heat of a cruel summer day?

Were they consumed by the dust mites of fate?

Giving me away was easy….

Getting me back seems nearly impossible.

I saw a fleck of glitter this morning,

caught in an abandoned web of time.

I retrieved it ever so carefully, pulling away the tiny choking strands; polishing it in the palm of my hand till it shone bright like a minuscule star… exploding…

and I recognized it as the twinkle I once saw

in a smiling photo of me.

*The poem Getting Me Back lent its name (and guidance) in the memoir styled book of poetry. It also lured me back from the land of “bat shit crazy” 😉

Getting Me Back is available at most bookstores

As If #NPM

As If

As if your shoulder

brushing against my breast

in a crowded room

meant anything to me…

As if your smile

would thaw my frosty heart…

As if your constant assurance

could overcome my cynicism…

As if the invisible boulevard

would never rise up and beckon.

The street lamp

glows in the bleached mist

only three floors below us.

I blow streams of smoke

into the black night and hum

to the drone of the unseen road.

Be steel my bleating heart!

Be quiet! Be silent, hard steel.

As if wearing your tee-shirt made us lovers.

From Getting Me Back (The Voices Within)

Fearless ( Pondering & #NPM )

I thought a lot about yesterday’s post; about the disciples and about believing and courage. And I remembered a poem written decades ago.

I do not claim to be bold and my beliefs have (more than once) been shaken.

I am not holy, hell I am not even considered a good Christian by many standards. I do not attend “church” nor belong to any denomination. I try to do as I should but y’all I sin every day. Every day! But don’t worry, me and The Lord have a relationship. We’re good. 👌🏼

I think I have always aspired to be a soldier, a Christian soldier and the poem written decades ago made me remember that.

Remember April is National Poetry Month.

Poem from Getting me Back (The Voices Within)

I Believe in Miracles

I suppose there’s no better time to spread the “good” news than on Easter. For many Christians, Easter is the biggest holiday of them all and for good reason. It is celebrated as the day Jesus rose from the dead.

I know that I have some readers that don’t believe in Jesus, or God for that matter. I, personally, don’t understand how. I could see their doubting the Jesus story. They weren’t there to witness the miracles, the healings, and ultimately the rising from the dead so they call it mythology.

We witness God’s miracles every single day. From the perfect rising of the sun each morning to the trees that produce our oxygen, to the perfect temperatures that humans need to survive. I can’t wrap my arms around the idea that this planet, and all the symbiotic relationships upon and around it, wasn’t through intelligent design.

I tried to deny it was the work of a higher power; a supreme power; an omnipotent. For years I tried to force the square science ideology into the circle of life but it didn’t work.

I’m a simple person. I believe in God. I believe He sent his son to teach people how they should act.; how they should live and love. I believe the “elites” of the day [their version of the deep state swamp] killed him. He was getting a lot of attention, and a lot of people believed in him, so he became a threat to their power and they killed him.
But I also believe he rose from the dead.
I don’t believe that “just because the bible told me so.” Nope. I believe that because of the actions of the disciples and the history of Joseph of Arimathea, among other things. But let’s look at the disciples.
If you remember, when the elites were arresting Jesus, and building their death cross, the disciples tucked and ran. Even ole Peter after he came on so strong and mighty. They denied even knowing Jesus. They were scared to death that the Romans would kill them too just for being followers.
 To them it might have looked like their Jesus turned out to be just another in a long line of so called “Messiah’s”; that maybe He wasn’t their true savior. After all He didn’t eject evil from the world. He didn’t take over Israel and “right all the wrongs.” He didn’t overthrow the Romans and bring peace to the world. Nope, in their eyes maybe he was just another guy, arrested by the Romans, and killed. Whatever their reasons, they were scared.
But then something miraculous happened. Those same Disciples that denied to the authorities that they even knew the guy, went on to preach around the world, even in the face of death. Do you know how they died? (And probably where their newfound courage came from.)
How they died:
 Peter and Paul were martyred in Rome about 66 AD, during the persecution under Emperor Nero. Paul was beheaded. Peter was crucified, upside down at his request, since he did not feel he was worthy to die in the same manner as his Lord.
Andrew went to the “land of the man-eaters,” in what is now the Soviet Union. Christians there claim him as the first to bring the gospel to their land. He also preached in Asia Minor, modern-day Turkey, and in Greece, where he is said to have been crucified.
 Thomas was probably most active in the area east of Syria. Tradition has him preaching as far east as India, where the ancient Marthoma Christians revere him as their founder. They claim that he died there when pierced through with the spears of four soldiers.
Philip possibly had a powerful ministry in Carthage in North Africa and then in Asia Minor, where he converted the wife of a Roman proconsul. In retaliation the proconsul had Philip arrested and cruelly put to death.
 Matthew, the tax collector and writer of a Gospel ministered in Persia and Ethiopia. Some of the oldest reports say he was not martyred, while others say he was stabbed to death in Ethiopia.
 Bartholomew had widespread missionary travels attributed to him by tradition: to India with Thomas, back to Armenia, and also to Ethiopia and Southern Arabia. There are various accounts of how he met his death as a martyr for the gospel, but most center on him being whipped and ultimately crucified.
 James ministered in Syria. The Jewish historian Josephus reported that he was stoned and then clubbed to death.
 Simon the Zealot, so the story goes, ministered in Persia and was killed after refusing to sacrifice to the sun god.
 Matthais, the apostle chosen to replace Judas. Tradition sends him to Syria with Andrew and to death by burning.
 John, the only one of the apostles generally thought to have died a natural death from old age. He was the leader of the church in the Ephesus area and is said to have taken care of Mary the mother of Jesus in his home. During Domitian’s persecution in the middle ’90s, he was exiled to the island of Patmos. There he is credited with writing the last book of the New Testament–the Revelation. An early Latin tradition has him escaping unhurt after being cast into boiling oil at Rome.
 So, what happened to change these common men from being afraid to tell the authorities that they even knew who Jesus was, to being bold enough to be stoned, crucified, beheaded, boiled in oil, speared and for preaching his message??? What happened?
 Well, they saw him rise from the dead. On the day Christ was killed they probably figured they’d been hoodwinked. Maybe they thought Surely if this guy was some son of God, God wouldn’t have allowed him to be nailed to a cross and stabbed in the side. They were surely saddened; maybe they felt swindled and confused?
It could be that despite seeing so many miracles during their time with him, they just couldn’t accept the idea that if he was God’s son, that he could be hung on a cross, humiliated, spit on, stabbed and ultimately killed like some common thief. 
But when they saw Him AFTER he was dead, they became a new person. They didn’t fear the punishment; the stoning’s, or even crucifixion. I believe the only reason for such a remarkable turn around is that they saw him get killed, and then return from the dead.
 That is among the many reasons I believe the resurrection story.
Can you imagine going willingly to your own crucifixion still preaching Jesus, if all you had to do to escape that was deny him. No, I believe they saw something so profound, so life changing that it didn’t matter what happened, they knew where they were going when they died.
Yes, I believe. But I can only hope and pray for that kind of courage for we never know I true convictions and fortitude until we are tried.
*My personal theory is that the crucifixion occurred 14 days after the Spring equinox, on the true Passover making Jesus Christ our sacrificial lamb. And that Easter was adopted (and profaned) from the pagan festivals of Ishtar. Nonetheless I hope hearts are pure when Christians celebrate.
**The research and many words in this post is attributed to Bob Rinear’s efforts.