Poems

Believing what we see (intricate nets of mind played out), the eye casts indiscriminately; retrieves from ebb and flow a leaping superfluity of forms kaleidoscoping brilliance. Understanding what he saw (his thought free of entanglements), the Nazarene drew Simon Peter, Andrew, James, and John—from nets hauled empty, night's toil to shallows jettisoned— with surety of "Follow me!" Faith's blessed are they who have not seen, yet intuit a turning: "Fishers," their Master said, "of men.

Sweeter than the mountain air That freely, freely blows. Sweeter than the fragrance where Woodland flower grows.

nowhere in the endless space of now was ever greater more significant-momentous Happening!!! than this very one— hushed-quiet as the tiniest violet       (secret) (clustered)      (one-ly) warmed with purest sunrayed light—         shadyed by only the strongest Rock—                  nurturehood complete                           with water crystling cold and cherished                                    in a dewdropshapen cup— so treasure-after-tresure seense     of stronger loving sureness will grow with ceaseless keep-on-growing til      s  t  r  e  t  c  h  e  s    f  o  r  t  h a vista wonderous full, with overflowing grandexpansive nonedges and every cornered nook of nongrow disappears completely      overWHELMED by a never-ending field                  of lets!violets!violets!violets!violets!violets!violets!violets!violets!viol Adrianne Mead Tindall.

How often do I really break through the dream? I challenge timidly, dreading its collapse. I seek answers to questions within its own thin limits.

Start from perfection, as of now. Not one day, in the dim uncertain future.

I cannot be deceived. Unconsciousness and trance do not exist in Mind.

The lamb of God cannot be left like this small one vulnerable in its innocence to fang or claw or the murderous elements of a harsh place. Harmless, it is not preyed upon.

In the Father's love no competition. No elbowing for first position.

the hours dim and the light is gone; a brilliance lost for another day. tomorrow, maybe some white butterfly might cross my path, glittering perhaps.

You will not find this timeless news On front-page headline, Or in brash commercials Heralded by fanfare And the clash of cymbals. Sheer sound alone cannot communicate The impact of an angel thought.