God Bless the Poets with Yellow Birds, Purple Flowers and The Double Rainbows …
Transformation
By Anne Twitchell, SFO
Knocked from our horse,
blindness undone,
Errors of the past confronted.
Sorrow, regret;
alas, past no way undone.
Conversion experienced;
character changed.
From persecutor to zealot,
From egoism to concern,
From self to others,
to those in need.
Service the immediate goal;
Heaven on earth the dividend.
Jesus
By Joan Gallagher, SFO
When I look into your eyes,
I can see my entire world
unfolding.
The Glory of Your love
energizes my entire being.
Thoughts of You stir my heart
to feel it’s deepest passions.
The Glory of Your Love will
live forever in my soul.
The joy of being near You
causes life to rise
from the deepest recesses
of my inmost self.
My spirit speaketh
from its depths,
Do not fear your love,
but live in gracious
receptivity
to have day-to-day unfolding
more and more loves
Most wondrous gift
bespeaking,
Finding true love
waiting at your door.
Do not destroy your love,
but tenderly nurture all that is
In loving moment glimmer
kisses of the soul.
I will be your Love forever.
Weeds Growing On the
Roof
By Vinal Van Benthem
Daily Bread
By Richard Hurzeler SFO
There are weeds
growing on the roof.
Planted by the wind –
watered by the rain –
called into being
by God’s own hand –
looking to no man
to tend them.
Sturdy harbinger of spring,
Sentinels of summer.
Bountiful harvest for birds
In asphalt desert.
Food and shelter for insects
Buffeted by city winds.
Grasping at life
Through tar paper cracks.
There are weeds
Growing on the roof!
His Holy Hour a continuing
battle to fend off sleep
A baffling call to see beyond
the White Disk—so hard to
focus.
He prays with beads,
words, texts;
mind struggles
in a forest of doubts,
distractions as fatigue pelts his
weary eyes like waves of dust,
he threads
through a taxing watch.
Meanwhile at work, his wife,
numbed by repetitive tasks,
gossipy neighbors,
remembers when
he said: I love you
and feels a surge of power.
All because of prayer.
Compass of the Heart:
Earth
Yoked
By Richard Hurzeler SFO
By Gregory Davis, SFO
I listen to the birds sing
to the wind blow
to the small animals laugh.
I wake up to rosy dawns
feel the warmth of the sun
all day long
and go to sleep
under rusty dusks.
I smell the fresh grass
of the fields;
I taste the perfume
of the celestial night
facing the whitest star;
I am blessed
by the touch of raindrops
that wash
and nourish me.
I store these memories
inside of my petals
so that I can give them to one
of God’s children: My real
beauty is inside, not outside.
22
In Church she aches—
cold and alone.
Some people greet her—
Stranger.
It's push and pull,
hello and goodbye.
When everyone leaves,
she freezes in solitude.
In the dark void
she murmurs,
"God."
A light casts its beam
on the large cross
with tortured,
gnarled body.
Slowly the warmth
of Grace
seeps
into her soul.