Window Of Time: Early Morning. A Poem

Like a sash it opens just enough

to let the mist saunter down and in.


This morning breaks and the valley

receives its due covering.


A hovering of this evanescent spirit,

spread in and though the crowd.


Diverse fog splitters rising toward

the heavens, trees reaching for the sky.


I wish I were 200 feet tall.

I would kick the midget clouds


and brush my open palms

along the crown of oaks.


I would lay in the meadow

and make fog angels.


I would summon as much childhood

imagination as I could and play a while.



And I wonder if God would be sitting on a bench, watching, smiling at the childlike freedom.

Mercy Morning; Fresh Light

Caps of cumulus grab the first light

and float like golden vanilla scoops.

Blue grey fitted sheets crawl

beneath the infusion of pastels.

The sun brush strokes a new day.


When I close my eyes the leaves,

combed with cooler breezes,

mimic waves from Lake Michigan.

The blue noise settles my soul

and I receive this gift of Another.




“Through the Lord’s mercies we are not consumed,

because His compassions fail not.

They are new every morning;

Great is Your faithfulness.

‘The Lord is my portion,’ says my soul,

‘Therefore I hope in Him!’”

Lamentations 3:22-24 The New King James Bible





Sunday Rest

The sun yawned it’s roundness.

The cardinals sung unto the Lord,

and the stars faded into the brighter blues.

Another dark night of the soul receded.


She lies sipping on air

and rolls ice chips with her tongue.

A foot tapping and arm twitch

under linen veneer.


She, in her bed,

can’t even get up on the wrong side.

But she whispers sweet everythings

in our ears.


She sleeps in pieces

and heavenly peace will come.

Time stutters and mumbles

while we circle her.


The waiting room cools

as the mourning star moves over.

Evening vespers settle in

and we tuck her in again.



For My Mother.


© Gerald Allen Barrett and parentheticallyspeakingin3d, 2012.