“I am swimming in an ocean of wonder and grace, jostled and thrilled by the waves of time and circumstance, but steady on course, neither washed ashore nor out to sea.”

If anyone asks, and I’m sure they won’t, that’s attributable to me.

Some would say – contradicting

The topic on which I shall preach -

Judge not -

As if to say

To preach

Is to judge -

Not.

It is

Not.

It is to say,

Shall we say,

To lay

It out

As a buffet or

A main course -

Not to force feed,

But to lead.

So, I shall prepare

With mny usual stare

Into space

And face

My own beams

In hopes

That it will help others

With their specks.

I think it is more than you know
More than you suspect
More than you can part with.
I think it is ebb and flow,
Something you must protect,
That which you must daily start with.

It is – Is it not, your dream?
It is that essence you embrace,
That core of being driving you on.
It is  the radiant, pulsating beam
That neither time nor trouble can erase.
It is what keeps you striving when hope’s gone..

You are a dreamer, fashioned with purpose.
You are a schemer, designed for greatness.
You are a believer, infused with boundless hoping.
Live your dreams surrounded by the circus,
Under the big top with crowds predicting a fate less
Wonderful than what you know as groundless coping.

Reality is what you dream.
Activated by what you do.
Empowered by who you are.
You are far more than what you seem.
Your reach extends beyond your view.
Do it now and you will go far.

God be with you as you dream and do.

Grace calls gently, firmly, stubbornly.

You are not able,

Flesh weak, willing, needy, humbly.

Look in the stable,

A baby wimpers, helpless child of destiny.

He comes to lead us

Tableward, forward, beyond ourselves.

Come

(c) Copyright, 2007, Thomas B. Sims, All rights reserved.

Sudden rush

Face flush

Gushing invisibilities.

Perhaps silence will mute

Trembling

Palpitating

Rhythmic

Pulses

Out of rhythm.

Or not.

Either way,

Frozen in fear

I say nothing

To the thundrous applause

Of they who crouch in the shadows.

Bob was late and Jan was really very tired.

She for fate, and he, for fear of being fired,

Compressed the metal to the waiting floor,

Confessed within to driving sixty-four,

And let it loose midst stress to play the happy fool.

Not in the least obtuse, and yet, they’re both in traffic school.

And by their sides are Mary, Sally, John, and even Jim,

Anticipating scary films and lectures dull, and bleak, and grim,

Lost to opportunity today in commerce and in study,

Cost in dank impunity, fear the teacher is a fuddy duddy.

Tension seeps within collective pores.

Apprehension sleeps, introspective snores,

Fears of hopeless hours of endless pain,

Tears and jeers, nor flowers of potential gain.

Resentment festers for the unjust writ.

Contentment? Jesters only know its bliss.

To wit: We do not wish to be confined;

We do not wish to be maligned.

This never was our blessed choice,

And ever will our muzzled voice

Resist in silence, thus we deem,

The grist of this unholy scheme,

To take our money, time, and pride

From home and honey off our hide.

Beyond it all we only hope

Instructor may not be a dope.

And if ’tis true that there is life

Beyond this brew of toil and strife,

We’ll do our best to make the most,

And through it all to make this boast:

Although the task was far from cool,

We made the best of traffic school.

copyright 1994, Thomas B. Sims

Elected

And

Deleted

DEATH BY ELECTION

Eating

And

Drinking

DEAD!