One year after   9 comments

DSCF0925

  Nature reclaims what

the flood took away last year.

This weeping willow’s

branches bow with due respect

to trees lost last September

______________

Joyce E. Johnson (2014)

 Footnotes: This week marks a year for our state when devastating floods from days of unrelenting hard rains and raging high rivers destroyed much of our front range; parks, roads, homes, businesses, even parts of the Interstate highway. It took lives too. Our local newspapers have run stories on surviving families and people who have forged on and begun the rebuilding of their lives and homes again with a strong commitment and determination that is born from tragedy leaving scars and wounds in ways that devastate lives and livelihood. There are other posts on this story in my archives under the Big Thompson River Flood.  And also  here

A nostalgic yesteryear of bygone days   5 comments

 

A BNSF train passes through Loveland, Colorado

A BNSF train passes through Loveland, Colorado

 

This is my posted submission for the Daily Post Writing Challenge http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_writing_challenge/editing-challenge/

The loud whistle sounds, first long and lingering, then short staccato bursts that pronounce their arrival, momentarily breaking the monotonous silence. Vehicles lined up behind the blinking red lights and barrier arms. Traffic came to a halt, when the rumbling wheels rolled through.  BNSF (Burlington Northern Santa Fe) and the Rio Grand faithfully kept to scheduled runs through quiet country towns. They were as predictable as old Western television reruns.

I could be lulled to sleep at night with train whistles and their endless line of cars making its slow, sluggish way across wide open prairies, their tracks crisscrossing fields of wheat and corn before climbing their way up over the foothills, through the Rocky Mountains until finally disappearing out of sight, out of hearing range, but not out of mind. When we went to visit my grandparents in a another small town they lived so close to the tracks behind their house we could feel their little house rattle and vibrate during the night when trains came through. And still, I slept.

I loved watching trains, loved hearing the whistles, and loved taking trips on trains as I got older, some harrowing, some nostalgic like yesteryear. Trains are an icon to the past, but thankfully today they still rumble through town, stop traffic and sound their warning system when approaching.

Today, I live in a different town, close to the tracks here as well. And each night around 10:00 p.m. when I hear the train coming I listen for the long shrill whistle to announce itself. And still, I sleep.   :)

_________________

Joyce E. Johnson (2014)

 

 

Living Water   5 comments

Boyd Lake, Loveland, Colorado

Boyd Lake, Loveland, Colorado

‘He who drinks from the

pool of living water will

never thirst again’

 

A woman came to a well to draw water when she came upon a man, a stranger weary from a long day who asked if he could have a drink.  She inquired as to why he had no vessel to use for water. But, he replied if she knew who he was she would not have asked why, but instead would have asked for the, Living Water. He was not a mere stranger, but one who knew everything there was to know about her and could read her life like a book. He was not a psychic, fortune-teller, spy or stalker.

She soon realized that it was Jesus she was speaking to, the Son of God who spoke with the authority and knowledge of His father in heaven. When he asked her to go share this news with her husband she replied, “But, sir I have no husband.”

He said, “Yes, that is true, for you have had five husbands, but the one you live with now is not your husband.”

She wanted to hurry home to share her news about the man who knew all their was about her and offered her the gift of Living Water. She only needed to believe and trust in Him.

____________

Footnotes: I love this story because it tells about the caring, loving, compassionate Savior who makes that gift available to everyone, whatever their background or ethnicity, if they will only believe in Him. This is a true story, and can be found in the New Testament Bible in John, chapter 4. The above haiku poem is just my own paraphrased interpretation of the gift of Living Water. 

Joyce E. Johnson (2014)

Ancient Family History   11 comments

Below is my submission for this week’s Daily Post Writing Challenge Full Tanka

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_writing_challenge/full-tanka/ 

 

I pulled from the box

old photos; dour faces

staring back at me;

There is not one, a smile; but

just their sad look that graces

 

our new family

seeking ancient history;

For all they will have

is what is left to pass on

in this box of old faces

 

so I pulled it out

and began with my long search

looking for good clues

but learned it was not to be

so easy once I started

 

so I shoved it all

back into the dusty box

where they all remain

together even this day

sealed inside their box coffin

_______________

Footnotes on the above Tanka poems. This story poem is true fiction in the literal sense as I actually have over 30 years of successful family genealogy on my paternal grandfather’s German family from Russia with boxes full of not just photos of ancestors but piles and stacks of documents and many other resources used throughout the years as well as membership into one of the leading German Russian genealogy organizations. So, even though this story is fiction, my own family is not, and has a long heritage of Germans from Russia.

Joyce E. Johnson (2014)


Farewell Sweet Summer   2 comments

Originally posted on REFLECTIONS:

Autumn leaves

Autumn leaves; this photo is one I took a year ago at the peak of Autumn.

Farewell sweet summer

nights, when a crickets’ chorus

sings to dark, cool skies

and lulls my slumbering eyes.

When through my window, a breeze

turns to early dew

and blooms shiver in the morn,

and the rising sun

brings a cold brisk autumn chill.

With the change of season comes

colorful array

of trees that shed their bright coats

now red, amber, gold,

and the harvest’s bounty grown

in abundance on the ground

gathered up and sold

to town markets all around

with baskets full of

ripe cornucopia found.

Farewell to sweet summer’s end.

___________________

Joyce E. Johnson (2014)

View original

Posted August 31, 2014 by Joyce Johnson in My Writings

Farewell Sweet Summer   6 comments

Autumn leaves

Autumn leaves; this photo is one I took a year ago at the peak of Autumn.

 

Farewell sweet summer

nights, when a crickets’ chorus

sings to dark, cool skies

and lulls my slumbering eyes.

When through my window, a breeze

 

turns to early dew

and blooms shiver in the morn,

and the rising sun

brings a cold brisk autumn chill.

With the change of season comes

 

colorful array

of trees that shed their bright coats

now red, amber, gold,

and the harvest’s bounty grown

in abundance on the ground

 

gathered up and sold

to town markets all around

with baskets full of

ripe cornucopia found.

Farewell to sweet summer’s end.

___________________

Joyce E. Johnson (2014)

 

Somewhere over the meadow-land   6 comments

The below post is fiction and my submitted entry for the http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_writing_challenge/build-your-own/

The photo is provided by Cheri Lucas Rowlands

 

I was uncertain where I was, but just kept going. Across the meadow, to where I didn’t know. Would anyone care about the “crazy lunatic  woman” who talked to the. “invisible man.” in her room, pleading his help to get out?

It’d been so long since I’d driven a car, then losing control after it swerved from the road hitting the tree. The car I stole from the entrance drive after running from the room while they did some, “psychological analysis evaluation”. Whatever that was. But, I had to get out of that insane place. Or, is it me that is insane? They all think I am.

Hitting my head hard against the dash. Shattered glass everywhere. The awful sound, the loud beeping noise coming from somewhere. Oh, yes, the asylum’s security alert system that went off.

My head hurts. It still bleeds from the gash where glass shards landed from the impact.

I’m so weary from running, and so weak. My blood is leaving tracks across the meadow as I stumble through thick bramble brush.

I hear him calling out my name, “Sarah… Sarah, I am here. You are free.”

________________

Joyce E. Johnson (2014)

 

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