Poem

Warning


by Jenny Joseph



WHEN I AM AN OLD WOMAN I SHALL WEAR PURPLE

With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick the flowers in other people's gardens

And learn to spit



You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes



But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.



But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.



Taken from the book

When I Am An Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple

Editd by Sandra Martz

Papier Mache Press--Watsonville, California 1987

A sweet poem

WALKING WITH GRANDMA
I like to walk with grandma,
Her steps are short like mine.
She doesn't say "Now hurry up",
She always takes her time.I
like to walk with grandma,
Her eyes see things like mine do
-Wee pebbles bright, a funny cloud,
Half hidden drops of dew.
Most people have to hurry,
They don't stop and see
I'm glad that God made Grandma.
Unrushed, and young like me.


~Poem by Thena Smith~

I found this poem here:http://oldfashionedsimplyliving.blogspot.com/search?updated-max=2011-05-23T12%3A01%3A00-07%3A00&max-results=10

God and Dog

• http://www.andiesisle.com/GoD_and_DoG.html


• I saw this at Wendy usually wanders and enjoyed it very much. Sweet music and words.

Sunday Poetry

• One Day


• Someday, I'll meet the Maker of the sunset's glow.


• He'll show me how the colors mixed, just so.


• He'll show me, too, the way the rainbow curves And help me make my own (if I've the nerve).


• He'll explain all equations so I will understand And magnify the crevices all across the land.


• Mysteries I cannot fathom will be explained, at last.


• He'll help me see the beauty of the ages past.


• He'll let me look at Jesus heart, 'til


• He knows I understand The way it broke and why He has those nail scars in his hand.


• Then, He'll draw me close beside Him and He'll bring Jesus, too.


• We'll watch the vastness of His whole universe in view.


• One day (it won't be long now), and the dark glass will be clear.


• We'll see our Hope of Ages face to face, so very near.


• He'll touch our faces with those loving nail scarred hands.


• One day, there will be nothing that we cannot understand.


• ~ * ~ If you confess with your mouth, "Jesus is Lord," and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.


• For it is with your heart that you believe and are justified, and it is with your mouth that you confess and are saved." Romans 10:9-11


• As the Scripture says, Anyone who trusts in him will never be put to shame.


• © by Joan Clifton Costner

The cross of Crucifixion

• The cross of Crucifixion.


• Do you decorate your home with crosses?


• Do you wear a cross on your neck or ears?


• Do you think the cross is a beautiful decoration?


• When you look at the cross what do you see?


• A symbol of death?


• A pretty thing?


• Is it just bling?


• When you look at a rope hanging from a tree, a noose for the neck of a thief, what do you see? A pair of earrings?


• When you see a guillotine is it a thing of beauty? Do you want a blingy one to decorate your purse?


• If I carve an electric chair of fine wood would you hang it on your wall?


• I shudder when I see the cross used as a form of decoration or bling. To me its a symbol of death, cruel death, at least a guillotine, rope and electric chair are a quick death. The cross is a form of death that is long and torturous.




• Our savior Jesus survived that cross for three hours. His wrists and feet nailed there with long nails. All the other people crucified were hung with rope. Jesus was beaten beyond recognition, spit upon and nailed to that tree.


• Why is it a thing of beauty to thee?


• When I look upon the empty tomb, that is where the beauty should be. An empty grave, a savior who lives, that is my beauty to see.

The Cross

• The Cross


• The cross, the cross ~


• Where Holy blood, all down, did flow;


• Where people stood on Holy ground And did not know ...


• Where angels gasped and closed their eyes,


• And foolish men, believing, Became wise.


• The cross, the cross ~


• Where Love divine and bitter gall would meet,


• And tears would flow (not for Himself, but me);


• Where even nature wept and trembled through,


• Where darkness fell with force ere night was due.


• The cross, the cross ~


• Where Satan laughed and thought that he had won,


• But Christ knew (when the deed was done)


• It would not be the devil's victory.


• It would be souls that He, Himself, set free.


• The cross, the cross ~


• The ugly plan of men 'to bring most pain'


• Has brought, instead, for us a Heaven's gain;


• The symbol of a horrid death depose and Fill my heart with treasure, Christ well knows. The cross, the cross ~


• The insidious sign now made so beautiful,


• The ultimate loss - ultimate gain,


• The Son of God dead, but alive


• ; Forever more the same!


• I cannot look upon the cross but know There is no measure of the love that flows


• There is no measure of the strength of Blood;


• Oh, Holy blood, sweep o'er me like a flood.


• © 2006 by Joan Clifton Costner

Cheyenne- Author unknown

"Watch out! You nearly broad sided that car!" My father yelled at me. "Can't you do anything right?"

Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't prepared for another battle.

"I saw the car, Dad . Please don't yell at me when I'm driving.."

My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really
felt.

Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back. At home I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts....dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil. What could I do about him?

Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon . He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions, and had placed often.

The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his
prowess.

The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a
heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him outside
alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased
him about his advancing age, or when he couldn't do something he had
done as a younger man.

Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An
ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing.

At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived. But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor's orders.

Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and
insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped
altogether. Dad was left alone.

My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small
farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him
adjust.

Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed
nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became
frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and argue.

Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The
clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad 's troubled mind.

But the months wore on and God was silent. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it.

The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered in vain.

Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, "I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article.."

I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at
a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic
depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog.

I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a
questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of
disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each
contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one but rejected one after the other for various reasons too big, too small, too much hair.

As I neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner
struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down. It
was a pointer, one of the dog world's aristocrats. But this was a
caricature of the breed.

Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hip bones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly.

I pointed to the dog. "Can you tell me about him?"

The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement. "He's a funny
one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought
him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. That was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow."

He gestured helplessly.

As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. "You mean you're
going to kill him?"

"Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't have room for
every unclaimed dog."

I looked at the pointer again.. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision.
"I'll take him," I said.

I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached
the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch... "Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I said excitedly.

Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If I had wanted a dog I
would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen
than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it" Dad waved his arm
scornfully and turned back toward the house.

Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples. "You'd better get used to him, Dad . He's staying!"

Dad ignored me. "Did you hear me, Dad ?" I screamed.

At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his
eyes narrowed and blazing with hate. We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He
wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly,
carefully, he raised his paw..

Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion
replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then Dad
was on his knees hugging the animal.

It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the
pointer Cheyenne ...

Together he and Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at is feet.

Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years..
Dad's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne 's cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night.

I woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my father's room. Dad lay in
his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime
during the night.

Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad 's bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.

The morning of Dad 's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had changed his life.

And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. "Do not neglect to show
hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels
without knowing it."

"I've often thanked God for sending that angel," he said.

For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not
seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right
article...

Cheyenne 's unexpected appearance at the animal shelter. . ..his calm
acceptance and complete devotion to my father. . and the proximity of
their deaths. And suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all.

Life is too short for drama or petty things, so laugh hard, love truly
and forgive quickly. Live While You Are Alive. Forgive now those who
made you cry. You might not get a second time.

And if you don't send this to at least 4 people ---nobody cares? But do
share this with someone. Lost time can never be found.

God answers our prayers in His time........not ours.

Something to think about by Tracy Bunker

American Woman;
Weakened by Power


I have a good friend. This friend asked me to come over and help her butcher a troublesome rooster. She had never butchered anything or watched an animal be butchered. She is very squeamish about these things, and was unable to watch some portions of the butchering. She helped me when I needed an extra hand, but seemed a bit distressed about the whole affair.


I was pondering all this awhile later and decided I was angry. Not at my friend, no, I like her very much. I had decided I was angry at the society for stealing from women. For while the feminist movement portrayed women as a fragile creature and called for us to gain the courage to stand up, be strong, and do things that we couldn't before, all it did was weaken us. Now we can sit at Congress and be governors and maybe even be President, but we can no longer butcher a chicken. We cannot gut a pig because we think that is gross. We cannot ( or will not ) clean a chicken house or muck out a horse stall. We can't make cheese or bread or candles, weave fullcloth, braid baskets, grow gardens or even educate our children. We rely on a faulty system to feed our families and shape our children's minds while we are away running companies, fighting wars and leading countries.


But if you ask us, our chests swell with pride and we say we are free, strong, and powerful. But it is still not enough. Say, why can't we play football? We have fooled ourselves into thinking the feminist movement has done so much for us, made us strong and independent. In all truth, it has made us slaves. We have sold and lost all that was admirable about the classic American June Cleaver. We disdainfully think of how our mothers and grandmothers slaved away and they couldn't even vote! What these women don't realize is that the very things they despise about the pioneer woman were her virtues. And, really, if any early nineteenth century woman saw us today, she would have to laugh at how very soft and helpless we are.


So why are we surprised when we find out the food we feed our children contains so many body destroying substances such as corn syrup, MSG, aspartame, aluminum, and so many others? Could we expect much more?


Of course it should make sense when we look at the current teenage generation and a shudder runs down or spine. What will happen to us when these kids run everything? If the pregnant, drinking, smoking, foul mouthed, depressed, brain dead young woman we see every time we go to Walmart had had the womanly influence she needed that her mother could have provided, maybe she would be a very different, happier person. If her mother had not just raised her and actually trained her, maybe things would be a bit different. Maybe. We should not be startled when a small child asks us where milk comes from or if eggs come from trees. It's not cute, it is disturbing. Women are largely responsible for our new generation of confused youth.


If we talk to our grandmothers they may tell us of a time when we knew exactly what went into our children's minds and mouths because we were there, raising them in the honor and admonition of the Lord. We fed them from the wholesome bounties of our home grown gardens. We taught our daughters and passed on skills and wisdom. We raised our sons to be men. We loved our husbands and worked to make our houses homes. We fought a more important war on the home front. We fought a war in our children's minds, in our youth's hearts. We barred the way of Satan's inevitable tries to corrupt our children, the next generation. We were strong, and we did our God-given duties. What could be more admirable?

But we nervously laugh and say we are glad that age is over.
" Just think of doing all that work from dawn till dusk. All that slaving and sweating? And for what?"


Titus 2: 4 & 5 " That they may teach the young women to be sober, to love their husbands, to love their children; To be discreet, chaste, keepers at home, good, obedient to their own husbands, that the Word of God be not blasphemed."

We should do it because it is our duty. We should do it for the Honor and Glory of the Lord.

A worthy cause to say the very least.

Blessings to you and yours.

Tracy Bunker

This was written by the 17 year old daughter of Michael Bunker. You can read her blog here:http://processdriven.blogspot.com/

Laundry Day (Hip-Hip Hooray!) by my friend Yolanda

Laundry Day (Hip-Hip Hooray!)

“Laundry Day” is said with ease,
But I am moved to differ.
Because of e-lec-tri-ci-ty
Our joints are getting stiffer.

“What can we do?” My heart doth cry,
Are we all doomed to suffer?
With all our faculties awry
Because of power’s buffer..

Between us and the need for work?
We sit and use our thumbs,
For texting, email and the like.
We’re turning into bums.

“No! No!” I cry, it cannot be!
We need lots more activity!
Get up, get out, oh see it there?
There’s swaying clothing in the air!

The sun is out, it’s warm, it’s free!
I’m moved to tears..how can it be
This simple labor I have found
Is possible the whole year round?

My limbs and joints quite happily
Engage in this activity.
I reminisce and contemplate
Beloved Earth’s eventual fate.

If we are very circumspect,
And treat Her with devout respect,
Our grandchildren will join the throng
Of happy launderers who prolong

Their own lives, and the lives of friends.
We will accomplish the good ends
Of clean air, land and water too.
I think this is what we must do!

The Broken Harp

In the corner of the basement

Stood a cobweb-covered harp -

Broken now and so forsaken,

There it stood back in the dark.

No one in the little village

Could repair the harp again -

And you'd never guess the music

Or the places it had been.



Came a ragged man a beggin'

For a place out of the cold;

He was bent and slightly limpin'

He was lookin' frail and old.

So the houseman gave permission -

He could sleep upon the floor

Of the basement where was kept

The harp with melody no more.



Soon the house was filled with music!

'Twas as sweet as angels bring.

And the household came a-runnin'

Just to see the vibrant strings!

Dusted now, it stood in beauty,

Every web was cleared away;

And the ragged man was singing

Very softly as he played.



In his song he told the story

How he'd made that harp when new;

Since he'd made its first beginning

Fixing wasn't hard to do.

And, dear friend, if you are needing

Just a touch from God above...

Just remember Who has made you.....

He can "fix" you with His love.



He can fill the empty corners

Of your heart with song anew;

He can take each day and make

A special melody for you!

He can fix the broken pieces

Better even than before -

And open wide the storehouse

Of His blessing evermore!



Joan Clifton Costner

copyright

http://underhiswings0.tripod.com

Holy Blood

Holy Blood

He walked the way to the garden -
And blood fell in that place;
Bound before the rulers,
His blood streamed down His face.

No mercy, grace or pardon
Was granted to Him, here.
But, God was, then, providing
The price for all the years!

My sins were, there, upon Him;
Blood red, then sparkling white!
My hope in Him, eternal,
Brought Heaven into sight!

How can that bright red blood make white?
I do not understand.
But this I know, we'll never need
Another sacrificial lamb!

He is so very beautiful,
More worthy than any words.
I cannot think of the abyss,
Were His name never heard!

The tomb is but a vacuum,
Drawing earthly souls to Him!
See? The blood has done it's mighty work
And we are cleansed from sin!

~ © 2000 by Joan Clifton Costner ~
http://www.heavenlypoetry.com/

A poem by a friend of mine.

The Last Sunset



When the last sunset fades into darkness,

And this troubled world sinks into sleep;

When the last soul is saved and the Master,

Says, "Father, that's all we can reach."



'Twill be like on the cross - "It is finished!"

And all the rejoicing is done

That is given by angels in Heaven

For the salvation of anyone.



No more souls to be saved - it is finished.

No more pleading and no more debate -

So the peace always asked for is silenced

By men who are full of hate.



But the trusting souls gone on to glory

Will live one eternal day,

In the presence and love of the Savior

Prince of Peace who led all the way.



When the last Sunset comes in the evening

Then the morning will break bright and fair.

Jesus our friend and our brother,

Will greet us with His tender care.



When the morning breaks forth and the splendor

Of Heaven is there in full view;

I'll be watching dear brother and sister,

With Jesus...we'll watch for you!



Joan Clifton Costner

copyright

Joan is a Heavenly Inspirations author

To love or not to love

Poem

BEAUTIFUL CHRISTIAN SISTER
By Maya Angelou

'A woman's heart should be so hidden in Christ
That a man should have to seek Him first to find her.

'When I say... 'I am a Christian' I'm not shouting 'I'm clean living,'
I'm whispering 'I was lost, Now I'm found and forgiven.'

When I say... 'I am a Christian' I don't speak of this with pride.
I'm confessing that I stumble and need Christ to be my guide.

When I say... 'I am a Christian' I'm not trying to be strong.
I'm professing that I'm weak and need His strength to carry on.

When I say.. 'I am a Christian' I'm not bragging of success...
I'm admitting I have failed and need God to clean my mess.

When I say.... 'I am a Christian' I'm not claiming to be perfect,
My flaws are far too visible, but God believes I am worth it.

When I say.... 'I am a Christian' I still feel the sting of pain...
I have my share of heartaches, so I call upon His name..

When I say... 'I am a Christian' I'm not holier than thou,
I'm just a simple sinner Who received God's good grace, somehow!

Pretty is as Pretty does... But beautiful is just plain beautiful!

lovely poem

A Prayer for Womanhood
God, give each true good woman
Her own small house to keep,
No heart should ache with longing,
No hurt should go too deep.....
Grant her age-old desire:
A house to love and sweep.
Give her a man beside her,
A kind man, and a true,
And let them work together
And love, a lifetime through,
And let her mother children
As gentle women do.
Give her a shelf for dishes,
And a shining box for bread,
A white cloth for her table,
And a white spread for her bed,
A shaded lamp at nightfall,
And a row of books much read.
God, let her work with laughter,
And let her rest with sleep.
No life can truly offer
A peace more sure and deep....
God, give each true woman
Her own small house to keep
~Grace Noll Crowell~~~~~~~1934~~~~~~

cats in the cradle

A boat docked in a tiny Mexican village.
An American tourist complimented the Mexican fisherman on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took him to catch them.
“Not very long,” answered the Mexican.
“But then, why didn’t you stay out longer and catch more?” asked the American.
The Mexican explained that his small catch was sufficient to meet his needs and those of his family.
The American asked, “But what do you do with the rest of your time?”
“I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, and take a siesta with my wife. In the evenings, I go into the village to see my friends, play the guitar, and sing a few songs…I have a full life.”
The American interrupted,
“I have an MBA from Harvard, and I can help you! You should start by fishing longer every day. You can then sell the extra fish you catch. With the extra revenue, you can buy a bigger boat.”
“And after that?” asked the Mexican.
“With the extra money the larger boat will bring, you can buy a second one and a third one and so on until you have an entire fleet. Instead of selling your fish to a middle man, you can then negotiate directly with the processing plants and maybe even open your own plant. You can then leave this little village and move to Mexico City , Los Angeles , or even New York City! From there you can direct your huge new enterprise.”
“How long would that take?” asked the Mexican.
“Twenty, perhaps twenty-five years,” replied the American.
“And after that?”
“Afterwards? Well my Friend, That’s when it gets really interesting,” answered the American, laughing. “When your business gets really big, you can start selling stocks and make millions!”
“Millions? Really? And after that?” said the Mexican.
“After that you’ll be able to retire, live in a tiny village near the coast, sleep late play with your children catch a few fish, take a siesta with your wife and spend your evenings doing what you like and enjoying your friends.”
And the moral is:
Know where you’re going in life…You may already be there.
(author unknown)

Robert Frost The pasture

I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I sha'n't be gone long.
You come too.
I'm going out to fetch the little calf That's standing by the mother.
It's so young, It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I sha'n't be gone long.
You come too.