Winter Musings

Winter Muses

Seeming to totter on the edge of an abyss, the solitary cabin hangs on the edge of the overlook as the cold winter fog rolls in over the mountains and up the valley floor.  The distant peaks suddenly appear as floating islands in the misty distance, with their craggy ridges poking up through the clouds and the rain that soak the valley.


Suddenly, even the cabin below disappeared from my sight as the mist rolled in.  The mountain peaks struggled to keep their heads above the encroaching storm, but slowly gave in to the freezing rain and sleet that came with the white mist.

As the storm rolled on through, suddenly a ray of sunshine broke through and the valley could once again be seen through the thinning clouds as the mist rose and nestled around the peaks and mountains tops.
Even though no white feathery snow flakes were left behind, the earth was once again refreshed with nature's milk and the aquifers replenished for the coming year.   

Beneath the Veil

Beneath the Veil of snow in winter

Beneath the bloom of flower in spring.

The decay of age the stench of misery

Rises from the wood and hills between.

House and fern,

tree and flower,

Stalk of blackberry and

June’s wild rose bower.

Lost amongst this thorn and thistle

Wrapped in the vine behind the hedge.

Leaning against the Hickory trunk

In the yard a garden with a few  last year’s veg.

Out the windows small stark faces

Peek from behind tattered torn curtains

Large doe eyes, wistful with hope

Shy smiles escape, and disappear, uncertain.

Not a shack, not a shed

Just a house, very old it is said.

Belonged to some great grand-sire , long since past

Who knew how to build a house to last.

Three trucks in the yard, of various vintage.

Two cars- one works, and one -----.

A stack of tires, and a motor on blocks of unknown lineage.

None of them licensed, hope they will run.

Hope of a job has long since gone past.

The factory closed down

And the mill is locked up fast.

Work don’t happen, not in this town.

But look at their faces ---

Those five little children.

They are so filled with joy,

 with love clean and simple.

They don’t know they are poor

They don’t know they do without

They have family who love them

Isn’t that what life is about?

Their plight is desperate

Their needs are great

But they have something we’re missing.

Maybe we need to find out  what it is

 before it is too late.

SERMONS WE SEE

Sermons We See

By Edgar A. Guest

I’d rather see a sermon than to hear one any day;

I’d rather one should walk with me than merely tell the way.

The eye’s a better pupil and more willing than the ear;

Fine council is confusing, but example’s always clear;

And the best of all the preachers are the men who live their creeds,

For to see good put in action is what everybody needs.

I soon can learn to do it if you’ll let me see it done;

I can watch your hands in action, but your tongue too fast may run.

And the lecture you deliver may be very wise and true;

But I’d rather get my lessons by observing what you do.

For I might misunderstand you and the high advice you give,

But there’s no misunderstanding how you act and how you live.

When I see a deed of kindness, I am eager to be kind.

When a weaker brother stumbles and a strong man stays behind

Just to see if he can help him, then the wish grows strong in me,

To become as big and thoughtful as I know that I can be.

And all the travelers can witness that the best of guides today

Is not the one who tells you, but the one who shows the way.

One good man teaches many, men believe what they behold;

One deed of kindness noticed is worth forty that are told.

Who stands with men of honor learns to hold his honor dear,

For right living speaks a language which to everyone is clear.

Though an able speaker charms me with his eloquence, I say,

I’d rather see a sermon than to hear one, any day.

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