Furthermore…

The night reflection:

Moonlight on shimmering water

Is no more again.

I hope to cure the world some day if all its harmful fears,
And bring together people now distant beyond tears.
All around the globe are mouths sore in need of food,
And lonely people holding back the smiles and the good.
Leaders keep them docile, instead of guiding on,
And no one knows the purpose of this endless trail we wind.
I thought I knew the answer once, and all the pieces fit:
But just as quickly as it came, I lost the sight of it.
My spirit is a child yet, reluctant that it grow,
And promptings are the most so far it ever has to show.
But strong aggressive voices turn most people off
And spiritual suggestions are best promoted soft.

Is there no answer, no one who cares?
Replace our souls with the things you want
We are only what you say. Say what you want.
Why have we lost what was simple
why have we turned our backs on the truth
to follow that which made us lose ourselves?
Talking is not unlike touching, yet speech is not physical.
My eyes gaze intently, into my desires
yet still, I am distracted by stars.
Autumnal felty hues
the billowed blues of Aegean sea and sky
Tiny white-laced patterns float above terrain of cold.
The clouds loom low to form a shelf for the sun.

I joined the Beautiful Intercessor Group honoring the Blessed Virgin on the Multiply social network today and was pleased to find the following poem about mothers on the home page.

A Mother’s Love

A Mother’s love is something

that no one can explain,

It is made of deep devotion

and of sacrifice and pain,

It is endless and unselfish

and enduring come what may

For nothing can destroy it

or take that love away . . .

It is patient and forgiving

when all others are forsaking,

And it never fails or falters

even though the heart is breaking . . .

It believes beyond believing

when the world around condemns,

And it glows with all the beauty

of the rarest, brightest gems . . .

It is far beyond defining,

it defies all explanation,

And it still remains a secret

like the mysteries of creation . . .

A many splendoured miracle

man can not understand

And another wondrous evidence

of God’s tender guiding hand.

# # #

Study them as they talk and you will notice:

Clerics are honest, but slow.

(Poets are sincere, simple and swift.)

They listen intently, and are, you can tell,

Referring each fact, each happening or word

You tell them or show them in acting

To a plan or a scheme, to the Heaven you might earn,

A Hell which you fear (it’s assumed),

To sin and to shame, to good, bad,

Ethics and love, praise, blame, happiness and hope.

These efforts cost them time.