The rain we saw pouring down.
Drops bigger than clouds.
Seeeth thou ever the man in the moon?
Searched as a child with never the boon.
In the crescent? I asked. Harvest, or half?
You see him? They’d say, with a half heart-ed laugh.
For years I squinted at the sphere in the air.
Envisioned him at leisure in his rocking chair.
Or was he standing? Or, walking? Or riding a bike?
Soon gave up looking, still as a tyke.
Years passed quickly, ne’er had I seen.
Throughout my boyhood, on through the teens.
Probably they were jeering, of me making fun.
Or, could they really see him? Guess I’m the only one.
I gave up ever looking, a sight I’d never find.
Rarely looked above me, to the moon I was blind.
Grew to be a man, more important considerations.
Began listening to God —a lonely heart, my only oblation—
I grew much stronger, His love grew my faith.
Looking up to thank Him, and there it was—
His beautiful, love filled face.
From times of Colonial script ─ troubles, of Indian lore ▒ A people then called “driftwood ,” along southern swamps and shores.
Strong enough to fight when pushed─ brave enough to stand. Smart enough to live in peace─for a piece of what was once their land.
They fought one side or the other, in every “New World” war─ vested forthwith, the only gift ─ black-water, and the gift to drift no more.
Stories are endless, and many. Archives of misconstrue… But between the lines of Carolina pines, The Coharie still stand true.
“Coharie Slough” Hand Carved Snake wrapped forked Bass Wood Branch with Dream Catcher… Snake carved from woody river vine, Gator head carved into the Bass limb, and the spear head carved out of Red Cedar. Bass Wood and Cedar stained with Red Oak, for the deeper, darker tones, and the snake stained with Natural. All leather is genuine leather made in Italy, including the wrapping on dream catcher. Comes with faux Eagle feathers, and two dancer bells. ( Inspired by the Coharie Tribe)
Time and Time
Waits For Nonone
Must Still Be
Had A Chill
One September Night.
Granny’s Poultice Rub Took the
Wheezing Away,Though It Was Still an
Eighty Degree Dog Night, With Crops Still In
The Barn. I Needed Rest, But Pa Forewarns. Bank’s
Taking The Farm, If Something Isn’t Soon done… Get Up
He Said! Let’s Take Out This Barn. I Said I Would If I could,
But The Heat Hurts My Head. He Said if Sherman’s Army
Gets Here, We May All Wind Up DEAD ! So I Pulled
Myself Upward, Staggering, I Fell Out Of The Bed.
I Pulled All The Tobacco Out Of the Barn By
Sunup, And Rested Beneath The Old
Appletree. Sherman’s Army Took
Another Path, And When Pa
Came Looking The Only
Things Found Dieing
Were The Tree,
And Me joyceinumass
Paul Willis-2011 GlorymomGeneralSherman
Clumsy, as kittens, Fashioned
when grown it is You they have Smitten
More than lazy full day is written
Awesome prose. I find myself re-reading, and hearing a different cantata. Music from my inner self, watching me listening to another, instead of being led by the directive rudder… Which leaves me angling wangle, only to discover…The inner meaning, that someone writes from their song.
Sing pretty butterfly…sing Cindy sing
For a wonderful friend, and beautiful soul, Cindy Taylor
© – 2010 [tweetmeme source=”sonsothunder” only_single=false]
Special thanks to Mirella McCraken, and Jamie Dedes.
Well it was on the third day when Ananias touched me, I could finally see again, and oh what a light.
I could feel the wind blowing, though all the walls were battened down, heard the sound of fluttering wings go by.
It was such a strange feeling, looking back, how blind I’ve been, could only see when my Lord covered my eyes.
Oh my God, Stephen, what have I done, I should have run and just taken my own life.
(interlude)> But … oh,… oh,… Damascus road.
I could not stop preaching, Jesus is the son of God, and His Glory on Damascus road I saw.
I could feel their anger growing, my words had them confused, to avoid the wrath of rabbinical Jews, they lowered me down a wall.
He has shown me great suffering, and what I must lose, should I choose, His precious name and beckoning call.
I said my Lord, you know it’s true, I will do anything for you, lay down my life, as you died for us all.
Cause, I was Born, Again…on Damascus road…
Chorus> ( And I thank God for you Timothy, and Luke for staying behind with me, Tim please come and visit me, before they end my life. And please bring my manuscripts, on the parchments that I wrote, and…oh by the way…bring my coat? For Winter Is Nigh…
Acoustic gets heavy :> Electric Jams:> stanza 3> Now the Copper-Smith was ruthless, but Nero was a beast, A Small Still Voice said, they’re coming down the hall…
First they took my chains loose,then they beat my head till my soul was bruised, and rammed me into my own blood stained wall.
I don’t recall seeing a judge, I guess Satan still had a villainous grudge,
when they swung the sword that took my head…..off… ( Apregio ) Orchestra!!! ..~~~~~^609ISWK E_____——–@^@
(Wisper) but I just stared into heaven above, saw the Glory of God, and the Angels above… and heard Stephen’s sweet voice…say
..Welcome Home Paul… ( take it home boys….Jam)
You wonder sometimes why no one ever shows;
You’ve created such wonders, a place for them all to go.
Hard to imagine, what else they expect to find out there;
When you’ve given all they’ll ever need, in one place for all of them to share.
There’s devotional time, insight, forums and news;
Yet the flock remains scattered, as words in a library, among books too numerous to choose.
There’s creation, drama, action and love;
sea shores, mountain tops , even fire from above.
There’s conquest, chivalry, sermons and prayer;
Yet, still I am alone it seems, for in my quiet time, I alone am there.
Now, this may seem selfish, to those of you reading;
But, fear not, and do not think that it is just I pleading.
For this is not a letter from me to intrigue you;
But from my own daily forgetfulness to spend time with God;
These are the words that I hear, Softly, lovingly: My son, ? ” Where are you” ?
Oh, how sweet the words of Burgon,
on a city of refuge, said once more to be;
Walls glistening as Cabernet Franc,
Words of antiquity, yet fresh as Chianti;
Hearing quenches the thirst of the mind,
Saying more than ones eyes can see;
Petra to my eyes, sweet Valpolicello,
And to my ears Burgon, as to my lips;
the best of sweet Burgundies.