Sailing across the wind at night you can see many things,
Sailing across the Wind at night, you can see an island only known by you,
Sailing across the wind at night you can see many things,
Sailing across the wind at night you can see dimond desserts,
Sailing across the wind at night you can see beautiful things
age= 8-12
A cloud creeps across the sun
the trees rustle
a deer busy grazing pauses
and smells
the birds stop singing
all is quiet
listen
all is still
but wait...
faintly
very distant
rumble
thunder
the deer runs for shelter
the birds perch
the wind blows
faster now
drip
rumble
drip
one by one
the frogs begin their chorus
the rain begins to pour
lightening strikes
thunder rumbles
the wind blows
the storm has come
about the Revolutionary War
The red-coated evil spirits march
In perfect order, aligned to terrorize.
Proud and erect, they march onward,
Believing no soul can halt them.
The sticks of death are prepared,
Ready to fire-all for Her Majesty.
I do not want to die. Who does? I am not a religious poster I am a person, and I have doubt in just about everything. No one lives a day of his or her life without a moment of torturous doubt. So yes, I do not want to die, but that does not make me a sinner. Our own savior did not desire to taste death. Jesus Christ prays earnestly and sweats blood while he awaits his own death, “ Father if you are willing, take this cup away from me. Nevertheless, let your will be done, not mine,” Luke 22:42-43.
Elisabeth, “Aunt” Barb, and I pushed open the heavy, double doors and walked the long, sunlit hall to another set of doors leading to two different wings of the nursing home. The regular workers that we met—nurses, helpers, and caretakers—said a hurried greeting and hustled off to their monthly meeting, leaving us in charge of the elderly residents. I stayed with Aunt Barb’s mom, Grandma Belsley, while Elisabeth and Aunt Barb punched in the secret code and continued into a different part of the low building.
Springtime is maiden fair,
With fair eyed grace and flaxen hair.
She comes upon the wintry monks,
Packing up their musty trunks.
She bids them fly, she wants to cry,
When she looks upon the wintry sky.
She raises up a tapestry fair,
The land has sun, and cool clear air.
Her laughter floods the forest's scene,
The woodlands wear a robe of green.
The meadows burst ablaze with blooms,
Dispelling the winter's hazy glooms.
Every flower, vine, fern and leaf,
Vibrate with a new relief.
Walking through
A German street, the husky smell
Of beer and cigarettes and
Pommes, clinging to the wet air.
Low, thick bubbling
Of conversations
Stirring the sound,
Jumbled with the roar
Of a truck slowly going by,
Carefully winding through the
Small, crowded streets.
A whirlwind wraps around me as I stand here, eyes closed, arms outstretched, a smile on my lips. In worship and praise I stand here in front of an Almighty God. Around me are thousands with eyes closed, arms outstretched, a smile on their lips. The wind blows around us. The rain falls down upon us. The ground stands still beneath us. The sound of a voice can be heard as thousands of saints sing as one.
Like the blades of grass that don’t get drawn individually or the blue brush strokes that melt into the green of shadowed fields on a canvas. Like the faces in cars that pass one before another or the spoken words that disappear in a lake of raindrops – like life; for life is always like itself. For we are always like ourselves. We are like the people we were five months ago, but not the same. What we did maybe 173 days ago somehow figures into the "us" of today, like a finger touching a strand of spider web and making that strand reverberate still 173 days later.
