A candle loses nothing by lighting another candle ~Erin Majors
How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.
--Henry David Thoreau
Don't judge each day by the harvest you reap, but by the seeds you plant.
--Robert Louis Stevenson
With this special page of my site....I hope that it is one that will uplift and inspire, and may each poem cause you to pause and ponder. It is my intention to represent here all sides of faith and spirituality, for it is my belief that no one faith is definitive and all faiths, or lack of faith, is one and the same. Also I include as inspiration those deeply personal poems written by individuals that speak of their personal trials or beliefs ... on death, patriotism, family, race, history, etc .....
Finally, thank you to all the wonderful poets I have met online for your open arms and open hearts.
Much love,
jeanne
Poets on this page Tom Watson, ReasonRhymer, Beverly Mathis-Swanson and myself........... I will be adding more....
Above: My grandpa (left) pictured the day he became a U.S. citizen ... Below: My dad at eighteen (1942) before being shipped out and the last red poppy he gave me
Please visit my blog "Old Glory Parade" dedicated to our Armed Forces serving at home and abroad.
Click on image of flags. 
My Father’s Portrait ... poem by jeannerene
I am painting a picture of my father.
My eyes, in halting glances and meditation
cross over the field of photograph to canvas.
~Each stroke filled with the color of flesh
moves with scrutiny over the cloth,
to bring heart to this still lifeless copy.
My hand turns with deliberate intent,
to render the passion of his laughter,
trembling strokes welling his eyes with love;
brushing the assurance of his kiss upon my cheek.
How do you sketch a father’s love?
What hue captures the resurrection of his words?
I can not see through my tears to frame
this portrait sealed in the very soul
of who I am or will ever be.
I want only to place my lips upon this painted cheek
and become one of its colors.
To be once again blended into his being,
pulling at his arm,
at any hour of skipping rope,
or sitting across the table pushing politics -
~Simply just to take back time
and have my father walk from these rubbings.
Which color lays bare a daughter’s sorrow?
Copywrite jeannerene
***
His Picture Perfect ... poem by jeannerene
Now if I was a photographer,
A flash of life catcher,
I would have taken a bundle of wonder shots.
Close up captures,
Zoom in and out raptures
In high resolution
Of His high inspiration.
Rainy day babes
In pure innocent manifestation,
All hand-in-precious hand,
Came crossing my path
Making perfect my thought-tossed day.
Came crossing my path
This bright sassy caravan,
Yellow, minty green, lavender
Pink and baby blue slickers
Parading down stormy weather sidewalks.
Little city trippers,
Stomping rubber ducky boots,
Curious wide-eyes
Peaking out of matching pastel caps.
A pint-sized rainbow of giggles and awe
Bearing testimony to the miracles of the world.
And if I was a photographer,
I would have stopped my day
In the middle of this photo flash fortune,
Framing picture after picture
Of His rainy-day delight.
Children as honest as God’s nature,
God’s nature reigning
From season to season,
And I would have been humbled to display
His handy work on my wall.......
Copywrite jeannerene
River Walk . . . . . . . by Tom Watson
The other day as I took my walk
By the river where I once played,
I heard the birds sing, and the frogs start to talk;
Each in their own way asking why I no longer stayed.
My pace slowed, hearing their queries,
And a lump of sadness caught in my throat..
I slowed, trying to think of a way to tell my story
And then, I sat at the bank, on my coat.
The birds' sad song drew me out...
While the frogs gentle voices insistently begged.
I knew the river was laughing, along with the trout,
Knowing I would lose the fight...they had me pegged.
I started slowly, controlling my emotions
To tell of youths fleeting moment in life
And suddenly the birds and frogs stopped their commotion
The river even flowed with a silence you could cut with a knife.
I told that when I was young, it is true,
I often would walk and play along these shores
Whistling, and even croaking back to each of you
My greatest gift, then, was the one of yours.
You gave me a world of music and song.
You gave me the mystery of a sound from everywhere;
And the river carried me on trips so long,
That, now, my imagination could never reach there.
But I have grown and found a new view,
And another world, of steel and asphalt road
Where your music and chatter are long past and through
And the river only grumbles, carrying our freights load.
My story said, I sadly lowered my head,
Expecting now the silence of the music to grow,
And the jabbering chatting of the frogs to remain dead,
And the river stoically continue its moving flow...
But...stillness changed to singing in the trees,
And the frogs' baritones turned deeper,
While the river laughed even more, greatly pleased,
As the fish jumped gleefully from the foaming water.
I knew then, that my human ways
Meant nothing to the songs of the birds.
Nor do the frogs chatter insistently all of their days
For me, for I am not the one by whom they want to be heard.
Of course the river always knew this,
For each time I took my riverbank walk,
These sounds seemed to give my soul a kiss,
And the river, swayed knowingly, each time I talked.
Copywrite Tom Watson 2004
***
You Breathed on Me . . . . . . . by Tom Watson
I took a walk today.
And You breathed on me....
The path was rock strewn along the way.
I stepped around and over them true to my course
True to the path You set my way..
The path was golden lit; and I knew its source.
Along the sides, a garden green and fresh
As any known followed; a gift from its source.
You breathed on me....
The Sun rose warm and pleasant to the flesh
And I knew you touched me through my tears
And your song made chills crawl along my flesh.
Along the path I dropped my fears, my years,
My sinful ways; with no power over my life story,
All have fallen, left outside eternity's years.
You breathed on me..
Full of power without force
You breathed on me..
While I praised you along the way.
You breathed on me..
Whispering forgiveness in my ears...
You breathed on me..
Giving me need and reason to pray.
At the path's end, facing Your glory,
I fell to my knees, tears flowing free.
Finally set to forever give You all glory.
For today,
You breathed on me.
Copywrite Tom Watson 2004
I’d paint them with kindness, we’d live on greener grass.
With a pallet full of color, a magic wand for a brush,
I’d paint a new honor-- that gives the spine a rush.
I’d mold it as a game, we’d all be kids and play.
With skills of a master and the tools of the trade,
I’d sculpt men of beauty, there’d be no masquerade.
I’d wave up a symphony-- we‘d skip to the promise land.
With drummings of fury, drowning out screams for war,
Angels strumming violins-- leading strings-- to heaven’s door.
I’d write sweet poetry-- igniting man’s heart aflame.
With a pen full of wonder, epiphanies to employ,
play would be our living art-- life our wondrous joy.
I’d imagine a nation, being led from the heart.
With a cardboard rocket, we’d be streaking sky bound,
star dusting this old world-- Our new-- Merry-Go-Round.
To simply love and find the strength of forgiveness, to remember goodwill toward all and to always hear the laughter makes each day the blessing it is meant to be. ~jeannerene~
From the seat of my soul
From the same nexus inherent
Bestowed upon me by the seed of the Almighty
~ Is to rise from my sanctum
To speak in my miraculous tongue
And take hold of my magnificence
~ Simply to comprehend
To feel
To know
Even if. . . for just the blink of an eye
The Glory that is ~
Audio of Yep, There's Cowboys in Heaven lyrics by Beverly Mathis-Swanson
Note #1/Mother ... upon being ... poem by jeannerene
This boy-man
my son
new to me
freckles and bare-feet carried away
on a soft soothing wind
I stand in my memory
lost in the white sheet billow
of old clothes lines
and distant sounds come up from the creek
I face the rush of tomorrow
of time catching up to destiny
and I bow
I bend
I seed once more
listening to the rub of cricket
lost in an unfamiliar melody
.jeannerené 06.08
My humanity is bound up in yours, for we can only be human together. ~ Desmond Tutu
Prayer Upon the Shore of Lake Tabeau ... poem by jeannerene
A 'flutterbye' advertising
shameless orange-tipped wings,
darted round and teased the camera eye,
snubbed my paparazzi performance
in a sassy flitter and whirl round
And with audacious self-assurance
it swept up from moss ground
to put down upon an obtrusive arm,
paralyzing the appendage,
doping my insomnious sense
in seductive
accidental prayer,
wing to wing veneration
unfold and release the crowning unto the world
I want my adoration
to be
as the red dressed Manzanita
artless disciple
with screwed limbs lifted high
in boastful supplication
conspicuous devotion
to the heavens absolute
above
this mountain steeple
and as sure as the butterfly
who defies capture
within any perimeter
I set free
"all things unto you"
jeanne rené 8.05
You were born together, and together you shall be for evermore....but let there be spaces in your togetherness. And let the winds of the heavens dance between you. -~Kahlil Gibran
Written for, and read at Amorette's and Matt's wedding ....
The Wedding Kiss ... poem by jeannerene
Yesterday
We began with
a smile, turn of the head
a wink of the eye,
a sorrow,
a trust,
a truth,
a kiss . . . a kiss
We began with one fateful step,
on a journey unmeasured,
unrehearsed, and paved
with each intrepid footfall after the next.
We began
with a hope,
with a dance,
with a song
with a rhyme in the words we whispered
into each other’s ear
Is this love? Is this love?
~
Look now, forever into my eyes,
this is love,
as I stand by your side…
as I embrace
today.
See how
my kiss trembles,
waiting upon my lips
seeking to press upon your
blushing cheek.
My kiss humbled,
waiting upon a vow to be spoken,
a troth to be given.
What vow, what words have I to speak of my love?
What words have I to define completely love?
What words I ask
and I answer I have none.
I know no word
I write no definition, no essay,
recite no turn of tongue that can interpret my heart.
But my love
this I do know,
on our wedding day.
I know, my heart moves toward . . .
my heart listens to
the inflection of your laughter.
It runs still, in the direction of the smile given yesterday,
and the smile ready for tomorrow.
Its passion pulsates to the highs and lows
of your dream, as that dream blends
in purposeful harmony with mine.
My heart demands no verse,
no explanations,
except those written in the sweet poetry
of your touch, of your hand placed upon my hand,
of your trust placed within my trust. . .
your faith enfolded within my faith.
My heart knows when
my kiss given,
our dance begins anew,
and breathless with love,
I will inhale and exhale on the promise
of our tomorrow.
jeannerené 04.08
Euphrates' Child .... a poem by jeannerene
Wrapped in the moth-eaten garments of my youth
I slept on the banks of my mother, Euphrates.
Upon her sweet and fruitful bosom I dreamt,
gems of amber grain spilling from out the thresholds
of mud shelters swollen with plenty.
Beneath the sorcery of the heavens
I drifted in my fancy near the savage spit of flame
as it shaped the will of the bronze,
harkening back to the hum of potter's wheel,
I passed in the marketplace.
As my father's light opened above the Tigris
unfolding the day between the two shores,
I stirred, as bleat my brothers and sisters,
they whose warm blanket I had pressed in the dark.
From the softness of their pillow,
I rose to tend, with reverence, the flock that clothed me,
provided my sustenance.
Knowing still, it would come to pass . . . as surely as each year's flood,
that on this day ordained, upon the banks
of Ur to the slaughter, I would walk my sheep,
that mine should eat,
that mine should be cloaked,
and that, for this, I would give thanks
washing my hands in the mouth the rivers.
I thirsted
before I traveled,
and waded into the mother, who offered cool drink;
I threw her water against my cheeks.
Abandoning my flock
I closed my eyes to her sweetness, her caress seducing my meditation.
Her tongue lapped about my ankles,
and I swayed, rippling, her movement intruding upon my senses.
~ I am here, child. Ever here, child,
under your feet. You walk on me with enchanted eyes.
I remain, bottom waters vigilant, muddied with the first and the last.
I spill onto your valley, upon the son, onto the daughter.
The father's light is held fast, child. Held steady
above my constant shores. Even diminished,
I remain, my joy, my grief, washing the bitters of your vengeance.
But, I rejoice in the eternal,
binding your feet to rock, shackled to my bosom.
Virtue will not wend, prudence will not pass beyond my shores.~
Opening my eyes, I was blinded by the embrace of the father
shimmering upon the river's surface.
Newly made, an immortal babe, bound by decree,
I stood upon waters made clear,
and saw cradled in her soft bottom,
the stone to which I was joined.
Ever wakeful,
I have stood the centuries, watching
the river carry the sins of Babylon upon her back.
Weary and sick,
I have covered my nose with a ragged sleeve
at the stench of belly-bloated enemies washed ashore,
spewing from my own stomach their intrusive bile.
I have numbered an endless drift of bone . . . and gold,
book and song, geometry and sheep
half buried in the silt . . .
But I remain, absolute,
my ankles shackled to the depths of the Euphrates,
longing for the resurrection of her kiss.
A phantom of the millennia . . . I await my release. 
