Occasionally, things will incessantly nag at me that seemingly don’t make any sense. But whoever said Soul and Spirit were supposed to make sense? So usually, after some time, I just do it and it’s only after doing it that I have the epiphany of realization.

Such is the case with the poem I wrote a few weeks ago entitled Gleaning Soul. The idea kept nagging at me that it was really two poems in one and I needed to split them. So today, I sat down to do that and Perfect Time and At The Pike are what resulted. I hope you enjoy them!

Perfect Time

In my life, I have a part.
I have to start.

Laurels can be cushy,
But really they are pushy.
I think they guide me,
But, in truth, they chide me.

Are laurels of false making?
I think they are not for my taking.
Façade says I made them, though!
I want credit for the whole tow!

Who am I to make such demands,
When really they are of God’s hands?

My laurels are not mine.
They belong to God
Who gave me life
In His perfect time!

At The Pike

My soul—of God—will not strike.
It is humble.
It will wait ‘till it’s called to the pike.

The pike—where I run out of steam—
And God comes into clean!

Here—at the pike—is where my Soul gleans!

On the one hand, it is surprising to me when I look here and see my last post was over 5 months ago, but when I am really honest about it, it’s not surprising at all. The start- up of a new business is all the fuel this workaholic needs to be off and running, neglecting people that are important, all the while thinking someday I will get back to them.

I know in my heart “someday” never comes, but I still do it anyway, I suppose because I take life for granted and assume because I had a yesterday, I will have a tomorrow, too. It’s no wonder that I often feel off balance. I am usually straddled between yesterday or tomorrow, but very rarely in today.

Today, I am really disgusted with my workaholic habits. And it is usually in times of pain that poetic words come spilling out of me. This is what came out today. I hope it reminds you of what’s really important in your life!

Gleaning Soul

In my life, I have a part.
I have to start.

Laurels can be cushy,
But really they are pushy.
I think they guide me,
But, in truth, they chide me.

Are laurels of false making?
I think they are not for my taking.
Façade says I made them, though!
I want credit for the whole tow!

Who am I to make such demands,
When really they are of God’s hands?

My laurels are not mine.
They belong to God
Who gave me life
In His perfect time!

My soul—of God—will not strike.
It is humble.
It will wait ‘till it’s called to the pike.

The pike—where I run out of steam—
And God comes in to clean!
Here—at the pike—is where my Soul gleans!

This is a poem I was inspired to write for a friend grieving the loss of her mother.

Here in This Cloak

Is it clarity you seek?
You ask why.
Is it peace?
You think, “How could I lie,
Here in this cloak?
I feel so heavy with coat.”

“GOD, please bring me serenity.
I think I just might die.”

My child, serenity is always nearby
Through your eyes, you cannot always see.
But I know you just want to Be.

So I send for you a window
Through which you can look
When you feel like your serenity
Has been took.

Smell the flower
Bask in the sun
And know that with me,
You have always won.

Well, I thought this poem was only appropriate to post on a blog called Life Wonderments!

I have discovered that feeling my feelings, as archaic as that may sound, is an important part of healing. My feelings about old wounds or past transgressions are not always pleasant, but stuffing them is even more unpleasant and the result certainly isn’t anything worth writing about.

The result of feeling my feelings is that I am left Free to Wonder, not worry.

I hope you enjoy this poem and that it inspires you in just the way you need.

Free to Wonder

Bask in wonder, not worry,
My Child.
Worry is for the meek,
Not Powerful.

Your Power comes through Me,
Nothing else.
Do not fall prey to the worldly ways—
Not long lasting.

My wish for You is to be Free
From burden.
They are unnecessary and stunt
The Tree of Your Life.

Your life is through Me.
Look to Me for Your Direction,
Your Power.
And You will be Free.

My wish for You…
To wonder, not worry.
Be Humble, and Powerful.
Submit, yet Guide.

All of these things You can Be
Through Me.
Wonder in Awe, Amazement.
No worries, just let them Be.

Go, My Child, live Life as You see,
Know it is through Me.
No thanks I require,
Only that You are Free,
To bask in the Light before Me.

Paradox it does seem,
But, no I Promise
It is not.
The Truth it is
As it always was.

When I am feeling particularly uncomfortable in my own skin, I can reflect on this poem.

At the time I wrote it, I was coming to terms with the realization that it was ok to Be Just Me.

Be Just Me

I don’t know how to be just me,
Because I don’t know who I am.

Who I am deludes me
Through a cloud of illusions
That dilute me
From fulfilling my Destiny.

They shield me from the Sunshine,
That which I hold dear.
When I can see the light—
The light of my Destiny;
I feel guided and near.

It is in the darkness
That I feel so lost.
Yet it was from darkness that came light.

Keep on, my precious Soul,
For it is only through Discover
That you can Discard.
And only through Discard
That you can Do.

And when you can Do, my Soul
You can be Free—
Free to be just me.

This was the first poem I ever wrote in my whole life. It was a very strange feeling at first, to feel words coming out of me that I knew were not my own and feeling like I was going to bust at the seams if I didn’t pen them. Quick. Hurry. Get Paper. Demanding little things, they are! Really, though, this description does not do the experience justice, but it is the best I can do with the words I that come to mind right now! I hope you enjoy it!

This World That

As I vacillate from this world to that
You assume this world is of real,
And that is of fantasy.

You see my eyes shift,
You watch my soul leave,
And in a flash
I’m back
Just as you know me in this world.

But really I am most at home in that world.
You don’t know me in that world as you know me in this.

As we grow, I share, you share,
As our souls collide for instances,
Although brief,
You come to know that me—
The real me.

The real me is the me of that world, not this.
But the me of this and that world—that me
Loves you from the depths of both,
The depths of this being, that soul—
Me!