My heart has scattered,
Little pieces here and there.
First bits were claimed
Before I could name love,
When people were love.
Some parts were left behind
Before I was careful about
Giving them away; foolish girl.
Other pieces placed carefully
One a gift to my husband, then
Here son, here daughter
Take my heart; it is yours.
Their children claimed
My heart, as well, five more
Pieces given away.
I’d feared it was all gone,
But they’ve each given me
Parts of their own hearts.
This beautiful patchwork
Is what I cherish; it’s how I love.
i pray,
Father, forgive me for my sins.
i pray,
Father, thank you for these blessings.
i pray,
Father, let me be my best self today.
i pray,
Father, please protect the ones i love.
i pray,
Father, guide us through these times.
i pray,
Father, my words are inadequate.
i pray,
Father, my tears will say what i cannot.
i pray,
Father, I ask these things in the name of Jesus Christ, your son.
amen.
i found a little troll today
angry as could be
on facebook he attacked
my views
without even knowing me.
i let him spew his venom
calmy held my own
then chained him underneath
his bridge
where all good trolls belong.
Well, I blocked the obnoxious little twerp, which is almost the same thing.
My Monday has been a most unproductive day. Laundry has gone undone, dishes have been ignored. Heck, I haven’t even showered yet! I blame it all on the British Open. Normally it would have been over and done with yesterday, but rain delays messed with the schedule.
The final groups should be finishing their rounds soon, so I might be able to at least shower and make the bed before Studly Doright gets home from work this afternoon. Except, the leaders’ scores are tight and there is a very real danger of a playoff!
Thank goodness Studly is a golfer and won’t think ill of me for watching the Open all day. In fact, he’ll probably high five me.
Walking St. Andrews
on golf’s
most hallowed ground
men strive for the
claret jug
battling nature’s
elements
and unimaginable
pressures.
accompanied by
ghosts of
Bobby Jones and
Tom Morris,
wide-eyed
amateurs and
stone cold
professionals
stride historic
fairways on their
way to cross
Swilcan Burn Bridge
at St. Andrews
hoping finally
to lift
the jug
joining the most
elite of
fraternities.
The Swilcan Burn Bridge is perhaps the most famous of golf icons. One of my favorite winners of the British Open, Nick Faldo poses with the claret jug.
it isn’t easy being red,
white, and blue
sometimes we’re a target
other times we’re ridiculed
and now that we are growing
outside of old constraints
many of our own folks are
lodging new complaints.
they say we’ve wandered,
become too secular
but our founding fathers
were quite particular
refusing even then to
name a national faith
knowing well the tyranny
that lay along that path.
for if we honor only
Christian ideals
on government buildings
and official seals
then how can we expect
those of other creeds
to be willing taxpayers
when we ignore their needs?
Praying for Eyebrowz 