Musings
All work on this page © by Chase John'son
REFLECTIONS
June 1970
When was I young ?
When did I love, love?
What have I learned ?
How hard it is to really love, other than myself
Or what I consider mine: my family, my children, you.
When did I dream of perfection in all things?
Now!
NURTURING
June 1970
Today I trimmed the roses.
How well they have grown.
They were planted just this spring.
With just a little care, what beauty they have shown!
Brilliant red and yet so tender.
So very plentiful they have been; as if to say,
"Thank you, for the kindness you have lent."
Hours and hours of warmth they have repaid,
for these few minutes I gave.
Their warmth was not just for me, but for anyone to see.
What beauty would blossom from a lonely soul,
if given just a bit of loving
care ?
AWAKENING
July 1970
When we were young, you and I, I loved you.
It was more than your walk, your hair, or the way
you laughed or cried.
It was the way you said you care.
Children loved you, because you loved.
I loved you, because, I could see you cared.
Yet, I did not love you; because, I did not know you.
There was that afternoon when we were alone together,
for the first time.
Really alone, and free to be ourselves at last.
My second birth! No words can tell ever,
how great the change in you seemed to be;
more tender, more understanding, more gentle.
Only now do I see that the change was in me,
as the empty part of me began to fill.
At last I became a whole person;
ready to grow.
INFINITY BOUND
MAY 1971
Oh God ! When have I denied you?
Denied you; because, I have defined you.
Defined you with a finite mind; You who are infinite.
Thus I have refused you; where ever you exceed
the boundaries of my concepts.
Open my senses to the Glory of your presence,
where I fail to perceive.
We live only in relation ship to our knowledge of You.
How dead we are!
Stopping by the Grass on a Snowy
Evening
or
(Whose grass this is I think
I know)
February 1966
Oh little blades of grass so green,
Why do you grow on winter's scene?
Spring is the time for life anew.
Do not come 'til it beckons you.
Though kites may right oe'r my head
while little birds with breasts of red,
walk about the morning dew,
Spring has not even called for you'
My friends say that the snow of white,
that falls to ground in day or night,
can only be of winter's hue.
Un-grow, until Spring beckons
you.
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