Poems

Where is our native land? O wanderer, O refugee, O mourner, shall we never understand? What we all long for so despairingly Has always been, and ever is, at hand. Our rightful place is here today To claim, which none can take away.

Waves crash against the rocky shore, Spray soars, shines, quivers in the sun, The gulls swoop, glide, veer. I contemplate expanse of sea on every side.

More than begging beseeching imploring, prayer is acknowledging praising adoring. More than stillness listening confiding, prayer is trusting yielding abiding.

All out in the open now— so clear the failure to stifle rebellious gnashing wail of injured pride railing against situation's injustice— those words, "I hate .

From all around a clear-cut call. Who sends a message for my ear? "O trust, and I will give you all.

God spoke to me today— Not in words Audible to human ear, But through bestowal of conviction That He is Love And ever here. God spoke to me today— Not in loud voice Outshouting error's din, But through unfolding of awareness That He is Soul, Which knows no sin.

Stand up —and fight for right. (It's just; I must) Stand by —and still the shrill of will.

I don't know all it means that You are Love. Although I pray with gratitude each day that in Your radiance I may learn and grow.

For it is God which worketh in you both to will and to do of his good pleasure. (Philippians 2:13) Morning.

you multiply a dream the product is always nothing. Accumulations of illusion have no real potential.