A Smidge of Nonsense....

A Brief Post…to take the place of the previous.
Out with the old, in with the New.
In with the Butterflies, Out with the Bees….

Snow is crazy…and SO am I…
Family is like a golden…..straight jacket,
I am joking here…..really.
Jocularity, hilarity, and glee, oh my.
See how funny I am?...

Spring inches closer….But I saw the sun today.
That is pretty good.
Who knew you could fold and press,
your own molecules?...

You put your right foot in (the puddle).
You put your right foot out (of the snow bank)
You put your right foot in (the pile),
and you shake it all about…..

You have a ‘running fit’,
and your turn yourself around.
That’s what it’s all about.

Tip of the day:
Never accidentally wash a pair of disposable
big kid ‘pull-ups’
Who knew they put a washing machine full
of gel in one pair?
Seriously.

Accidents happen,
Oh yes, they do.
The question is….
How much love do we allow for
accidents?

The answer is; If we have Christ….
And… after a momentary tantrum,
endless amounts.
The tantrum is optional,
sometimes…
Tonya Willman © 2011

PRETENTIOUS HAIKU

Here is my very own haiku poetry. I tried to remember the rules from high school. It was just too much effort. As a result, these are my own hyper-pompous versions. They appear to be haiku-like, but it is a hollow sham.  So please to enjoy most honorable Tonya haiku….

Haiku.
Just the thought!
Words wanting meaning
but really, Teflon
  Non-stick
 ideas
    that slip
   away.
*

Old sailor
not salty at all
wrenching desire;
sharing is more needful
than breathing.
Now, just for someone
to hear
the sea
*

Doctors move briskly
paper gowns cold and gaping
put my feet where?
Who should have the right to be this intimate?
Not someone with cold hands
and deli sandwich fallout.
Pearls do not go with
stirrups.
*

A house
full of chirping crickets
each longing to hop away,
each trapped in such a tiny box
what will happen?
Where will these music makers
place their songs
into the world?
where?
*

I wish they moved me
haikus, I mean.
Overly ostentatious praises
but you don’t get it either.
Of course I did them
all wrong
I have lost the remote
it was the only cure.
No rules.
*

Brown shoes should always be avoided
with tuxedos.
There is meanness in a plethora of forks.
I am not saying to give up elegance;
Do not embrace the spork…
Yet swans napkins are NOT hats.
Oh TV tray
you are beautiful.
Such utilitarian
glow.
*

HERE’S TO YOUR DREAMS~~

Here’s to the capricious dreams in your head,
to all of the monsters from under your bed.
Here’s to the angels that soar ‘round your ceiling,
and watch over the night no matter the feeling.
Where is that dream place you desire to find?
Ever and always out of reach in your mind.
The phantoms and hallways and pathways and doors,
lead you from forests, to attics, to the squeaking of floors.
Here’s to the dreams that begin so vivid, so real,
and within moments become private theater surreal.
A playground for visions and shadows and receding twilight,
twisting movements and sounds that cavort in the night.
Here’s to landscapes and seascapes, known and unknown,
to parlors and papers and dream winds full-blown.
Here’s to the diaphanous moment when your eyes start to close,
you run from the thorns, but you long for the rose.
Here’s to the uncharted depths of your mind and your soul,
and the clowns and the bards  that seek to console.
Who is the person you become when you sleep?
Does it scare or enlighten, or cause you to weep?
So happy with golden-light shining around you as day,
here for a moment; then flows quickly  away.
Yes, here’s to your dreams, with puzzling roads and tenuous things,
and here’s to the grace that God’s daylight brings.
                       Tonya L. Willman ©2010

The Maker of the Universe. ~Phil Keaggy~

I know that I always write my own pieces, but I had to share this poem. It was printed in J. Vernon McGee’s book; entitled “Who is God?” But he is not the author of the poem. These are lyrics by a writer named Phil Keaggy.

The Maker of the universe,
 as man, for man, was made a curse.
The claims of law which He had made,
unto the uttermost He paid.
His holy fingers made the bough
which grew the thorns that crowned His brow.
The nails that pierced His hands were mined
in secret places He designed.
He made the forest whence there sprung
the tree on which His body hung.
He died upon a cross of wood
yet made the hill on which it stood.
The sky that darkened o’er His head,
by Him above the earth was spread.
The sun that hid Him from God’s face,
by His decree was poised in space.
The spear that spilled His precious blood
was tempered in the fires of God.
The grave in which His form was laid
was hewn in rocks His hands had made.
The throne on which He now appears
was His from everlasting years.
But a new glory crowns His brow,
and every knee to Him shall bow.

 ~~~Phil Keaggy~~~

Days of Leaves

I want to chase that cloud and that bright star.
I want the days back,
but they fly away like leaves
swirl away from the trees in the autumn winds.
And who ever knows it in their youth?
Who ever reasons it out in time?
Was there ever a youth that wise,
who knew to love the day soley for what it was,
to live in that moment as though it were a ray of sunlight?
Why does the knowing always work backwards?
~~

Tonya Willman ©2010

The delicious unknown

A fat little baby sat on a chair,

his mother had posed him in the garden, fair.

The sun shone bright on his curls so sweet,

dimpled hands clasped, and crossed little feet.

His precious sailor’s suit so bright.

His angel’s smile a ray of light.

A sepia moment frozen in time,

found at a shop for scarcely more than a dime.

Who was the man he'd then grew to become,

a captain of souls or a wretch in the slum?

These aged photos I find of strangers to me,

give me hope when I think of who they could be.

All of life is cause and effect, so they say,

so Then who they became shapes lives to this day.

Who knows, when I study that sweet little face,

if somehow through his history, even I have seen grace.

For good or for bad, he fascinates me……

That beautiful child on his mother’s knee.

Tonya Willman ©2010

Unknown~But Lovely

I read

In a book

Where a man called

Christ

Went about doing good

It is very disconcerting

To me

That I am so easily

Satisfied

With just…

Going about

     Author Unknown~~

     I love this poem. It reminds me, as I tromp along through each day, that He has given me a very specific purpose. May I NEVER forget it!