I have taken down the original draft of this story as it has been posted in a revised version as “A Misunderstanding with my Guardian Angel over the Meaning of Super-Power” by Macrina Magazine. Note on the background of my writing of this story: In preparation for our Thanksgiving get-together this year, my mother-in-law askedContinue reading “My Accidental Day with Super Power”
Pair of poems by Emily Dickinson. Who has not found the heaven below Will fail of it above. God’s residence is next to mine, His furniture is love. AND Who has not found the Heaven–below– Will fail it above– For Angels rent the House next ours, Wherever we remove–
Poem by by Emily Dickinson. THE RETURN. Though I get home how late, how late! So I get home, ‘t will compensate. Better will be the ecstasy That they have done expecting me, When, night descending, dumb and dark, They hear my unexpected knock. Transporting must the moment be, Brewed from decades of agony! ToContinue reading “Brewed from decades of agony”
Poem by Emily Dickinson. A BOOK He ate and drank the precious words, His spirit grew robust; He knew no more that he was poor, Nor that his frame was dust. He danced along the dingy days, And this bequest of wings Was but a book. What liberty A loosened spirit brings!
Poem by Emily Dickinson. I died for beauty, but was scarce Adjusted in the tomb, When one who died for truth was lain In an adjoining room. He questioned softly why I failed? “For beauty,” I replied. “And I for truth, — the two are one; We brethren are,” he said. And so, as kinsmenContinue reading “He questioned softly why I failed”
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself, Its infinite realms contain Its past, enlightened to perceive New periods of pain. Poem by Emily Dickinson.
I took my Power in my Hand— And went against the World— ‘Twas not so much as David—had— But I—was twice as bold— I aimed my Pebble—but Myself Was all the one that fell— Was it Goliath—was too large— Or was myself—too small? Poem by Emily Dickinson.
Essential Oils—are wrung— The Attar from the Rose Be not expressed by Suns—alone— It is the gift of Screws— The General Rose—decay— But this—in Lady’s Drawer Make Summer—When the Lady lie In Ceaseless Rosemary— Poem by Emily Dickinson