Heart of Whimsy !

 Enthroned upon my easy chair The cat purrs softly, he's content The scene beyond the pane advanced Season's palette all but spent Yet branches loiter cloaked in hue Preparing hibernation soon To be enrobed in glittered ice Beneath a nascent moon The dusk of Sol's celestial ride casts shadow on Earth's industry As mother soothes her child in song Fall perseveres relentlessly And I within my cradle rock as season's gifts waft from the hearth How many more will He allow? before that scene is winter's shroud.

At dawn I rise where shadows flee, The Sun unveils eternity. At dusk I bow as embers fade, The night descends in silent shade. I count no hours, I keep no creed, But follow where the heavens lead. Each rising flame, a whispered vow, Each setting glow, a sacred bow. O Light that crowns the waking sky, O Dark that folds the world nearby, Between your realms I keep my post— Watcher at the Threshold’s ghost. Day to night and night to day, The turning wheel will never stray. And I, who mark its endless flow, Am bound to all I see and know.

I’ve walked through decades, felt the world evolve, Seen borders shift and towers rise and fall. Though time keeps posing riddles I can’t solve, I still can hear the conscience of it all. They say I’m dated—out of step, behind— But I have read the past and seen it burn. The world’s not kind, but I have trained my mind To judge the tides and know which winds to turn. I love this land, though leaders make me ache, Their bluster staining all we claim to be. Still, in the youth, I feel the earth awake— Their future’s flame might finally set us free. I’m not yet done; I’ve still a voice to lend. God willing, I will fight until the end.

I  walk in the garden I know not why I simply awoke here beneath the sky The flowers are silent yet vivid with hue A bee hums through blossoms Leaves shimmer with dew Birdsong in chorus heralds stilled joy and, for one fleeting moment, I relive a boy

  I would not ask for riches. I would not ask for glory, nor power, nor answers to the riddles of stars. But let me see them again. Let me reach through the veil and find my mother’s voice, the light in my father’s eyes, the warmth of friends I buried too soon. And when I go, let those I leave behind walk toward me one day on a road that does not end.

Life must be lived. You can read about it, talk about it, sing about it— but to know life and understand, you must feel every joy and sorrow, every pleasure and pain, love and loss. Life isn’t easy. What value ever comes from ease? The scars of life are earned. Life must be lived to be known.

(Reverently, of Course) I often speak with God, and I don’t mince my words. Not out of pride, but because I figure He already knows the words I won’t say— and those are the ones that matter most. I don’t bring Him polished hymns, or prayers pre-approved by polite society. I bring Him my gut, my gravel, my questions scraped raw on the edge of the world. I’ve asked Him why evil sleeps in silken sheets and children cry out in gutters. I’ve asked Him where He was when faith was used like a whip. I’ve asked Him what kind of gardener plants a tree He knows will be bitten. And still, He listens. Not like a judge with a gavel, but like a Father who remembers when I was stardust and silence and the sigh before breath. I don’t fear Him— I revere Him. And that’s why I speak plain. Because if I can’t tell the truth to the One who is Truth, then what is faith but a cage lined with scripture? No— I speak, and He answers in wind, in waiting, in the thunder behind my ribs that says: “Speak again. I’m ...

  They say, “Don’t ask,” as if my questions wound Him— as if the Infinite cannot bear my finite, trembling why. But He walks with me in the garden of my wondering, where each question blooms like a wildflower in morning light. I do not fear His silence, nor the thunder of His voice— for whether He answers, or only holds my gaze, He knows my heart. When I ask of Eden, of evil, of pain— when I wonder if love was ever enough— He does not flinch. He shaped my seeking. He taught me to long. And even in doubt, He knows my heart. Not all fires are rebellion. Some flames refine. And if I carry kindling, it is only to see the face of I Am more clearly. So let them accuse me of stepping past the line— but He walks beside me still, unafraid of my questions. He knows. And that is enough.