The misty morning,
The sea-salt air,
The flowers blooming,
Without a care.
A fresh beginning,
The day starts new.
Our spirits filling
With purest dew.
The freshness waning
As day grows old.
With faith sustaining,
We must be bold.
When sadness threatens,
When fear seems strong,
The Spirit will come
With fresh’ning song.
[Written during the California drought of 2014 and during the Ferguson, Missouri, riots.]
I dreamed that it was raining
And streets were wet again.
The cars went by
And gave a sigh
As water splashed on them.
I dreamed that it was raining
And children laughed aloud.
With gleeful hoots
Their muddy boots
Through puddles gaily plowed.
I dreamed that it was raining
And clouds burst forth in flood.
Their waters calmed
The violence strong
And peace could now be found.
I dreamed that it was raining
And living water sped
From streamlets high
To rivers dry —
The thirsty land was fed.
I dreamed that it was raining
And black made friends with white.
The past was healed,
Their friendship sealed,
With harmony in sight.
I dreamed that it was raining
Upon the wasted land.
The thirsty earth
Could now give birth
To many seedlings grand.
I dreamed that it was raining
And cleansing tears were shed
O’er mem’ries deep,
I now could sleep,
Could rest upon my bed.
I dreamed that it was raining
And God forgave my sins.
He calmed my fears
And dried my tears,
And I could live again.
Don’t throw it all away …
So you’ve messed up,
You’ve screwed up —
Keep your head up.
Don’t throw it all away …
In your anger, in your pride,
Don’t allow the pain inside
The truth to override.
Don’t throw it all away …
Life’s too precious,
Infectious;
God’s perfecting us.
Don’t throw it all away …
God still loves you,
He’ll protect you;
Don’t listen to what others say.
The backbiters,
The infighters,
The naysayers,
The faith slayers.
Don’t listen to the “no” sayers.
It’s not up to them or you.
Surely God’s word is true.
Don’t believe lies
And don’t compromise.
The fact that He loves you,
The truth that He died for you,
His heart surely burns for you,
You must let Him live in you.
Today I see Your beauty,
An ever-changing sight,
But really just a shadow —
Creation mirrors Your light.
The wonders You have fashioned
Are merely slightest glimpse
Of Your majestic glory,
Your awesome pow’r intense.
The roaring river waters,
The waves that rise and fall,
The quietness of shallows,
The soaring eagle’s call.
But sure Your greatest wonder,
The utmost height of all,
Is how You love Your creatures,
Though oft’ we gravely fall.
The things I thought
Meant quite a lot
Have come to naught.
I’m from another world.
My life is quite absurd,
Except for God’s good Word.
It doesn’t seem to matter.
There’s nothing here to flatter.
I’m only getting fatter.
No feedback nor response,
No nod nor mere nuance,
A muddy ambiance.
This feeling of confusion —
Can it be delusion?
I need a blood transfusion.
Life — beyond my comprehension.
Am I from another dimension?
I give my acquiescence
To those of wiser ways.
Life seems at times nonsensical.
My mindset is impractical.
I go about within a daze
While others, nothing seems to faze.
There’s nothing accidental;
God’s plan sometimes impenetrable.
Yet through it all I see
He has a plan for me.
I must become so small
That it won’t hurt to fall.
So simple I must be,
And humbly I’ll be free.
Can you hear Jesus?
His voice so gently calls.
I hear Him in the crashing waves,
In clear, bright mornings,
In darker days.
Can you hear Jesus calling?
He wants to own your heart.
Can you hear Him in the wind?
The fresh, cool breeze?
The Voice within?
Can I hear Jesus speaking?
Or is my heart too deaf?
Will I turn away from Him,
Let call grow dim, or
Let Him wash away my sin?
Can we hear Jesus speaking?
And let us meet one day,
On other side,
Without our pride —
He patiently abides.
By the Little River,
We laid our burdens down.
All our heavy baggage,
Our sins, our tears, our frowns.
By the Little River,
We heard the seagulls cry,
The seals and the buoy bells,
The foghorns as they sighed.
By the Little River,
The ocean waves did lure
Our hearts into a daydream
To joy intense and sure.
By the Little River,
We will go back once more.
I know that you’ll come with me
Along that peaceful shore.
—– Little River, California, July 22, 2014
Can’t keep the poems back,
The sing-song words,
They roll and turn
Inside my head.
They make me sane,
Help put a frame
‘Round jumbled thoughts
And pensive knots.
They make a fence,
Repel nonsense,
Build peaceful scenes
And help me dream.
The words are strong,
They build a bond.
They help express
Love’s fruitfulness.
clarakatalin 
Camp Freeway
One early morning this summer, I was driving past a freeway on-ramp, and I noticed a camping tent amongst the trees. If I hadn’t known that I was on a freeway, the area looked very much like a campground, with lovely pine trees, but of course without picnic benches, running water, showers, or toilets. But the place did look a lot like a typical California campground.
A few days later, there were two tents. Word was getting around.
But after a few weeks, no more tents. It would be interesting to know the stories of the people involved.
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