380. Flowers are the alphabet of angels, whereby they write on the hills and fields mysterious truths. ~Benjamin Franklin

Sacred Touches

Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power mightier
to reach the soul, in thought’s hushed hour,
than yours, ye Lilies! chosen thus and graced!
~Mrs. Felicia D. Hemans


Lilies, beautiful lilies, I adore them! And I feel sure they’ve written “mysterious truths” on many a hill and field since they’ve been cultivated for thousands and thousands of years. Lilies were the holy flower of the ancient Assyrians, and there’s an ancient legend that says the lily sprang up from the tears Eve shed as she left the Garden of Eden. It has also been written that the lily-of-the-valley grew up from the tears shed by Mary over the death of her son, Jesus, the Messiah. The word lily in French is lis and the fleur-de-lis may be a stylized representation of a lily. However there’s been much controversy and debate about whether the stylized flower is a lily…

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381. Every artist dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures. ~Henry Ward Beecher

Sacred Touches

Painting is poetry
that is seen rather than felt,
and poetry is painting
that is felt rather than seen.
~Leonardo da Vinci



Blue for the eyes that loved my calm sky,
green for the soft grass we slept on,
white for the lilies we picked,
yellow for small daises,
purple for sunsets,
red for wild lips,
pink for skin,
rose for
~by Andrew Crisci

Creativity is a phenomenon whereby something new and valuable is created. And no matter whether it be by painting, sculpture, architecture, music, writing (poetry, prose, drama), performing arts (theater or dance), film making, photography, or printmaking, the maker of whatever inspired the creative endeavor, has felt, experienced, and/or seen things so moving that the urge to give life to artistic expressions has erupted in his/her very soul. Why?  Because inherent in each of our souls is Yahweh’s creative abilities since we are…

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383. Each day comes bearing its own gifts. Untie the ribbons. ~Ruth Ann Schabacker

Sacred Touches

Pleasure is spread through the earth
In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
~William Wordsworth

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My Aunt Johnnie worked for a shoe company, and so my sisters and I nearly always got shoes from her on our birthdays and at Christmas. But because a shoe box is so recognizable, and she, like me, hated being predictable, she put things other than shoes in the shoe boxes and the shoes in more unlikely boxes. As a result we had no idea what her gifts were until the day came to untie the ribbons and open them up. However, as Aunt Johnnie was a good and generous woman of means, we knew, even before we opened them, that we’d love and be grateful for whatever the gifts were.

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Scripture tells us that “this is the day the Lord has made” and then implores us to “rejoice and be glad…

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Caressing Voices

Sarah Doughty

“Do you know you how it feels to hear
your voice? It’s like a caress over my skin.”

Have I ever told you how mesmerizing it is to hear your voice? How it feels? The smooth, melodic tone that sounds like a caress over my skin. The way your mouth moves with every elongated syllable. Or maybe it’s the way your eyes hold steady with mine. And I can’t bring myself to look away. Maybe it’s the way you see me, as if you can read my thoughts by the expression on my face. Or, maybe I just fell for you without recognizing it. Either way, I’m yours.

© Sarah Doughty

I’m yours for
the rest of my life.

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The Complex Equation

Confab With Me

This is for humor, for all my maths lover or maybe not 😀

Copyright © Shantanu Baruah

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Shantanu Baruah and ckonfab.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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Sorrow ~ A Poem By Walt Page, The Tennessee Poet

Walt's Writings

His sorrow creeps in
Like an unwelcome memory
Sorrow and guilt
Become brothers in arms
Regrets overwhelm him
When sleep doesn’t come
They don’t ring his doorbell
Or knock on his door
They just creep on in
Through the cracks in his floor
So he writes about his sorrow
His regrets, guilt and pain
Writing poetry always helps him
Become alive once again

~The Tennessee Poet~
©Walt Page 2019 All Rights Reserved

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