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Passions in Poetry

Digital Passions
Poetry Magazine

Digital Passions #9
published Wednesday, July 18, 2001


Editor's Notes by Karilea Rilling Jungel
Featured Poet - A Selection by Beki Reese
Copyright Infringement by Poet deVine
Talking to Trees - A Poetry Duet
The Language of Silence by Karen A. Hood
The Whispering Tree (Poem) by Linda Bramblett
The Final Word by Poet deVine

* Bonus Features, Poetry & Prose

All About Haiku by Nancy Ness
Haiku and Senryu Selected by Sven/Temptress
Tanka Selected by Marge Tindal
Love Poems Selected by Sven
Poems on Life Selected by Marge Tindal
Spiritual Poetry Selected by Kathleen
Poetry Buffet Selected by Karen A. Hood
Friendship Poems Selected by Lone Wolf
Teen Poetry Selected by Javier Agosto
Going Nuts (Short Story) by Karen A. Hood

Read It All (one big page)

Poems on Life Poetry Buffet


Spiritual Poetry
Selected by Kathleen (aka Irish Rose)

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The Key
by Lone Wolf

The brilliant sunshine begins to fade
As the beach is covered in cool shade
The sky takes on a glowing hue
Of purple, pink, orange, and blue
Swirling together to form
The aftermath of the storm

No one thought they would ever glow
Unified in nature's wondrous show
Before the shelter of the bay
Which is peaceful and calm today
Not a wave is in sight
As daylight gives way to night

I sit in awe of God's great masterpiece
Its beauty grants my soul release
The bonds of sin are freed from me
I turn my life over to thee
Do with me as you will
Take my cup and drink your fill

The shackles that once held my hands
Are vanquished into grains of sand
No longer tormenting my life
I have conquered their awful strife
Banishing them to the past
Where all my worries shall be cast

I walk now proud and tall
Within the sanctuary of these walls
You walk here by my side
No reason left to fear or hide
Total trust is placed in you
For you know what I've been through

You have seen my heart's true tone
Meant for only you alone
Grant me the strength to persevere
Month after month, year after year
In your house I shall dwell
The glory of your deeds I'll tell

Following wherever you lead
Your call I'll always heed
My garment has been purified
Evil's chains have been defied
Heaven is on the distant shore
Through him we receive the key to the door


His Hope Lies Deep in Earth and Heart
by Ellie LeJeune

I've planted the bulbs,
deep in the earth for next spring.
I could feel Springs hope,
though winter is surely near.
So His Hope lies in our hearts.


The Pasture Pond
by Karilea Rilling Jungel (aka Sunshine)

There is the 160, and to the
northwest corner in a sheltered area
lies a small
pond, primarily north and southern laid,
a drainage area succumbing at
the northern end from too much rain,
the furthermost corner of the
dammed area eroding away.

To reach the pond you must go over two
swells of elevated native country,
not hills, just swells,
enough to lift you high at the top to see
360 degrees,
and view the Smoky Hills.
Indian country. Virgin land.
Just you and me.
Once at the pond, we can slide rocks over the
frozen waters, and test the ice with our boots,
give it more weight,
hear a cracking and step back.
Not cold enough to slide across
fear holds us back, we've
never known how really deep the pond
and don't want to find out now.

Wait a moment.

Spring's rains dissolve the iciness of winter
and warmer weather starts the pond to
brewing scum
green, bubbling, warm sun growing
algae, with bobbing eyes of half-morphed
tadpoles blinking, sinking, popping up over
see? Step into the worn ruts
left from last summer's cow's tracings
to the edge of the pond,
kick the sand a
bit with your booted toe, and watch the
red ants swarm. Cattails are beginning,
reeds only.

Wait a moment.

Summer erupts the pond into cattails brown tops
and frogs
and squirrels chittering along the bank,
and turtles
and bugs, water bugs dancing,
skimming the pond's surface
and down the frog's throat.
Now skim small rocks, flat rocks,
make them dance
and plop. Plop. Plop.
A bit of moss clings to the edge of the water
and you walk softly there, to not scare
....croack.... splash, splish, frogs
hear you anyway, and dive, dive safely.

The weeping willow lends a long trunk outward
over the pond, enough to sit on and gaze out
on the shimmering pond's
surface, discerning
eyes of toads, frogs and perhaps a turtle
floating in the middle.
Wishing for a small boat.
Just for the heck of it. Heads disappear. Pop
back up. Croaking.
Chirping. Buzzing.
Look toward the pond's south end,
a blue heron standing.
Still. Silent. Solitary.
Ducks overhead, waiting for us to

Wait a moment.

Rest begins. Water lower, scum gone,
cooler mornings, lazy afternoons of fall
Cattails effervesced into
fuzzy white puffs of seed
waiting for scattering winds.
Shining gold/yellow/red/orange
reflections on blue water
from the cottonwoods, elms,
birch, and hedgetrees. Quiet. A frog, huge now,
croaking deeper, lonely, only the one? No answer.
Cows on the rise,
watching you, waiting for you to leave.

Come with me. You've seen the seasons of the pond.