Take you down
From that pedestal
To colour
Smother
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Category Archives: Devotions
Cottage kind
Kindness never hurt
Anybody
Gently restoring
Original appeal
Is blood, sweat, tears
Only to keep her
For so many years
The one who loved her
So dearly whispers
Please never fall
In love again
Memoriam
I dedicate my writings
Dear Fanny Cochrane Smith
I lived upon her land
Learned what gratitude is
It healed my very wounded
Heart, spirit, mind
So I wish to return
To all of her kind
~written on kunanyi lutruwita / Mt Wellington Tasmania
Wishing well
Wishing to tell
How much in love
Yet only throwing
Coins in the well
Gladly renounce
All my fortune
Silver words
Sinking down
Only reflection
Shines up to me
Love sinks heavy
Sentimentality
Surface waves hold
Endless sky above
Opening
Always holding
Our heart
Open for love
Grow Big
Lying motionless for weeks
Eyes tracing fleur de lis
The peeling paper of grief
Lit by dappled window
We hauled ourselves o’er river
Up valley, down street
A fortress of relief
Where the sun streams in
Letterbox dropped all over
Exhaustive help depletes
Children playing down the creek
Treated from top to feet
The wardrobe grew expansive
The widening face to greet
In the mirror of my memory
My morning stranger meet
A thickening of walls and doors
A latch that won’t fool many
The welcome mat rolled up and out
For neighbours warm and friendly
The distance and the silence grew
A universe between them
Majestic prose still flows in space
Though gracious few receive it
The stranger in the mirror
Grows accustomed to the stare
Our eyes meet and smile
A sweet surrendered air
Hiding in plain sight
My former figure forgets
Politely nod and carry along
The new friend in our midst
New and aged silver and brave
Though some might say contrary
The glimmer in her eye reveals
The joy in giving Glory
Featured Image: Photo by Hello I’m Nik on Unsplash
Giving Plea
We may lay and rise to meet
Expel desire to compete
Friends and strangers’ hearth for feet
Tread the path discreet
Fruit borne plentiful and sweet
Eyes of silence wide asleep
Pierce the mocking vine deceit
Thistle blister seat
Longing not for pride or place
Passion forbade saving face
Hope in holy open space
Gentle saving grace
Poem and Featured Image of Ellendale, Tasmania by Lisa J. Haynes (C) 2018
Image of ruins near Ross, Tasmania – Mercury Newspaper.
Proclaim Freedom
Fear of what might happen if you leave
Is no good reason to remain
Brokenhearted,
May you have the freedom to proclaim
The Spirit of the Sovereign LORD is on me because the LORD has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners,
to proclaim the year of the LORD’s favour and the day of vengeance of our God, to comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve in Zion
— to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.
They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the LORD for the display of his splendour. – Isaiah 61:1-3
Nothing but the Blood
I gave away my feathers to a wounded bird, mid-flight
She fondled in her fingers and gazed at colours bright.
Both of us now cold, I wandered down the pale pink hall
Warmed by hands and hearts – reciting heaven, gold, gems and all.
With bravery I wore a cross-shaped medal I didn’t earn
A signed and sealed commission of men has joined the funeral burn.
Though many think the flow of blood is death, despair and strife
I know for sure it’s freedom from guilt and our eternal life.
The darkness that I wear will not do for wedding ball
Patiently, I changed the feathers for a pure white shawl.
Here Freedom lies
Image
I’d lost the people I loved. In the midst of the daily decisions and jaw-clenching nightly invocation, all the notable ones were scarce and silent. Anger, sadness, and pain rolled around my vital organs and stuttered my speech meditating on thoughts of misdeeds and words misspoken that persisted in my mind. Here lies life, the new day begets another. This solemn song is sung in chorus in palliative waiting rooms, tall stories forgotten and oft-loved ones replaced by diagnostic faces – with wry, stale smiles. A hand lies upon them, hemmed in front and behind, an eye for an ego, release in freedom lie.
Count the stars of heaven 