Monday, November 20, 2017

Waiting for the Storm to Pass

Waiting for the Storm to Pass

For the storm to pass
In quietness

Such is the way
Of the troubled mind
It’s simply
A matter of time

Out of gear, disengaged
The ignition switch is off
Yet overheated
The psyche motor still runs

Sputtering, Popping
Eventually the motor will die

Like the summer thunderstorm
No end in sight

Then giving way
To cool clean air
And clear
Open blue skies

Wednesday, November 1, 2017

A Simple Prayer

A Simple Prayer

Synapses firing
Scintillating gray matter
Behind these aging wide eyes
Awakening in innocent naïve wonder

Lead me, oh Lion of Judah
In sack cloth, ashes, and tears I pray
The love of me is growing cold
Like a sheep, I am helplessly going astray

Heal me in the depths of me
Defeat my stubborn arrogance and pride
Where, in my vulnerable broken humanness
I do in error, reside

Strengthen me
To know, far beyond strife
And to drink deeply, together with my friends
Of the precious miracle, of the Water of Life

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Thursday, October 5, 2017

Spiritual (Christian) Poems

The Peace that Captures my Will - We have great hope

An Old Mans Prayer - It's never too late

Who Does He Think He Is? - He was rejected by some

The Wounded Soul - Accepted in the beloved

Home - Beyond the City Gate - Not club membership

The Hand of the Nazarene - A Poem of trust

In The Village Market Square - Peace through broken surrender

Mr. Smith Modern Narrative Poem with a Christian message

The "Old Man" A poem about our struggle with our own humanity

Ozzie Poem with a Christian messsge with audio-video narration by Marlon Katsigazi

Waiting for The Storm to Pass - Sometimes you just need to hang in there

The Locket - Short Poem about a lost soul, Christian

Growing Old - Poem of Surrender

A Simple Prayer

Wednesday, October 4, 2017

Short Stories

That Beautiful Hippie Girl Suspense,romanceaction

Young Dezzie - Before she bacame "That Beautiful Hippie Girl"

The Lady in the Towel - very short - a heart warmer

The Disappearance of Uncle Bill  Ep 1


The Boardinghouse Episode 1- Macabre

Mary, John and the Tramp - Episode 2 of "The Boardinghouse"

The Laboratory -  A science fiction adventure. 3rd Boardinghouse episode

The Hallway - An eventful late night journey down a boardinghouse hallway.

The Art of the Pot Roast - A Fantacy

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Thursday, August 31, 2017

The Mystery of the Bean

The Mystery of the Bean

What could her “Magic” even do for the humble string bean?
But Who can fathom the skill of the Zen master?
What will she do
With that bean of a greenish hue?

It's not simply ingredients
and timing you know.
It's being one with the bean
and of mysteries unseen.

She needs no spoon
or fork to sample.
And what is that scent
with which it is laced?

I'll soon be at the table
A sniff, a taste.
Then whisked away
to a glorious, delightful unknown place.

Only Tracy the Zen Master has seen,
through the hidden window
into the mystery,
that is the bean.

Robert Palmer 11/2/2017

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Wednesday, August 23, 2017

Growing Old

Growing Old

Like ice in a tray
With the tray broken away
In the warmth of the sun

Trust it must
In the source of the warmth
As it loses
It's old rigid form

This is madness!
Cries the cube
As it drips from the table
And runs down the leg across the floor

My identity is in Question!
My future Unseen!
Yet somehow
I’m more me, than before!

But wait, there's more!
I’ve seeped into the fire
A wisp of vapor
What will come of me now?

Up through the chimney
Drifting through tall trees
Caught in an updraft
Carried away in the breeze

Will I fall as rain?
Then into the ground?
Or end up
In the depths of the blue?

Lord take all
Of the ice in my tray
And melt me all together
Unto you

Robert Palmer 9/15/17

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Friday, August 11, 2017

The Locket

The Locket

Walking away
From the light at night
And the warmth of a friend
I’ve lost my way home

Maybe I'll see someone
Someone who knows me
Cold, empty
I’ve lost my way home

Can you help me?
I've lost my way home!

No one there
Shadows in the night
I’ve lost my way home

A locket with a picture
Someone I should know
Can’t see who it is
But I miss them so

But wait
Look again!
The picture in my locket
Is Christ, my friend!

I’ll keep that locket
Not locked in my pocket
But open

I’ve found my way home!

Robert Palmer 8/11/17

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Thursday, August 3, 2017

The "Old Man"

The Old Man

The old me, nothing has changed -
to close for comfort, nothing has changed.

A natural fit, like an old ragged glove.
a seamless transition, nothing has changed.

The way I used to be, slipping right in
where am I? Has nothing changed?

But thanks to The Master, I need only turn away
and back to The Shepard, nothing has changed.

To The Creator who makes, all things new
turning to, nothing has changed.

Bob bending, in the wind
palm a-blowing, but everything has changed.

Robert Palmer 9/2/17

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Tuesday, August 1, 2017

The Hand of The Nazarene

The Hand of The Nazarene

I surrender, Oh God
Scatter me to the wind
But keep me from unbelief
And sin

Tear down my fences
And I’ll lift my eyes
Free to live
Not hemmed in by fear and lies

But where did I stumble?
I've been here before!
Old fences rebuilt
I’ll build them no more.

To roam familiar pastures
Or explore paths anew
Free at last!
God’s heart, by faith to pursue

The enemy is out there waiting
I’ll meet him, I know
But He who lives in me
Is mightier than my foe

I’d built a wall, all around
With a mural on it’s inside surface
And painting myself, into my picture
Was to me, my life’s purpose

A scary place
Is the world I now see
The wall I’d created
Is gone

I’m called to go out
And seek the lost
In this sadness where neither I
Nor they belong

Hard and cold
Or warm and soft hearted
The choice
Is mine to make

I think on my journey
Through this world
The hand of The Nazarene
I’ll take

Robert Palmer 8/23/17

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Saturday, July 1, 2017

In The Village Market Square

In the Village Market Square

There's peace
In the noise and the clamor
As eyes meet
In silent smiling gaze

Through cool mornings predawn mist
And warming haze of daybreak’s glare
In the village market square

A precious little one
Wandering lost
For mothers ever opened hand

How often are they missed?
With open trusting call
In the chaos here
In the village market square

Can we move the church?
Here to the square?
The windows and doors?

Which is greater
Or light?
And what has love to fear?

Only in broken surrender
Can I truly follow Him here
The Heart and Hand of the Nazarene
Through the village market square

The juggler, the vendor
I’ve been the dark stranger
And I’ve been the child lost

But when sins season faded
In emptiness and sorrow
Love heard my call
And guides me safely home

Unknown no more
In His care
In the village market square

Robert Palmer 10/13/17

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Saturday, January 21, 2017

That Beautiful Hippie Girl

                That Beautiful Hippie Girl

One person stood out. He'd been sitting by the fire for quite a while when he suddenly stood up, turned and began walking with purpose straight toward the window that my face was framed in. I'd turned away hoping to disappear into the safety of darkness, when I felt the grip of someone's hand on my shoulder, sending me into full survival mode. How old? How big? How many? All the information I'd be needing to craft an escape plan as the encounter unfolded. Turning toward my captor, our eyes met. On the exterior, she was a soft, pretty girl.  But who was that large angry looking fellow that had me by the arm? I knew then what my next move would be. "Sir, I'm so hungry," I said. His grip relaxed.

Boxing was my stress relief technique before leaving the Wall Street rat race a few years prior. I was fast, and I knew how to stun someone without really hurting them. Staggering back a few steps wobbly legged, he just sat down. "Perfect!" I thought. I'd be gone and well on my way back to my tree house before he'd gotten his senses back. Yes, tree house. Woodstock had changed all the rules, and I was taking full advantage. On the surface, I was doing fine, stinking rich in fact. But life had lost all of it's luster. Something was missing. So, I abandoned my dry, lifeless existence altogether and took the advice of Timothy Leary, "Tune in, turn on and drop out."

Running, facing backwards for a last glimpse, my eyes found her. She was standing unshaken, hands on her hips, waiting for what she must have known would be my inevitable final look back. Turning back around, I increased the pace to a flat-out run, not realizing that things were about to take a drastic turn as I ran down the path through those cold, empty, moonlit woods.

Slowing now, to a rhythmic trot, each step in perfect sync with my breathing, I geared up for the long run ahead, turning from time to time to check for anyone following. The steam from my breath swirled behind me before disappearing in the chilly night air. I'd always loved connecting with the natural world around me. But when it came to people, it was never long before things simply went to hell in a hand-basket. "So, this girl connection?" I reasoned,” Just some outward projection no doubt, of my own internal psychic mumbo-jumbo. "When I get home," I thought, "I'll put some fresh water in the bong, load a bowl of dried homegrown flower tops, toke up and tune out."

Just then I heard footsteps from behind me, so I sped up, rounded the next bend, ducked behind a tree and waited. She wanted to meet me, and I was letting her pass by. As I stepped out onto the path, she stopped, turned, walked up and stood directly in front of me, and inches away, placed her hands on my head and began passionately calling out, tears streaming, to her God on my behalf. She then lifted her hands from my head, stepped around my dumbfounded, statue like form, and walked away.

There was no sleeping for me that night. All I could do was relive again and again, the warmth of her voice, and the tenderness of her breath against by my face. I had to see that girl again, that beautiful hippie girl.