Still God of the night…

Life is easy, when you’re up on the mountain

And you’ve got peace of mind, like you’ve never known

But things change, when you’re down in the valley

Don’t lose faith, for you’re never alone

For the God on the mountain, is the God in the valley

When things go wrong, He’ll make them right

And the God of the good times
Is still God in the bad times

The God of the day is still God in the night

We talk of faith way up on the mountain

Talk comes so easy when life’s at its best

Now down in the valleys, of trials and temptations

That’s where your faith, is really put to the test

For the God on the mountain is the God in the valley

When things go wrong, He’ll make them right

And the God of the good times
Is still God in the bad times

The God of the day, is still God in the night
The God of the day, is still God in the night

– Linda Randle –

And the land had rest from war


My Gardener is enthusiastic.

He kills all the weeds in my garden,
Sweating conviction,

In purple droplets,
Muscles wet,

In the midday sun, he
Slaughters them,

My perfect weeds I spent so long cultivating,


And whites ones,
Jewish and Muslim,


Now the name of Hebron formerly was Kiriath-arba.
(Arba  was the greatest man among the Anakim.)
And the land had rest from war, 


My gardener has turned into a terrorist, and
My weeds are no longer safe.

-Joshua 14:15-

Photo – Gay Israel on Pininterest

-short evocative poetry-

Said the Joker to the Thief


Don’t make fun of the flower arranger, Ikebana
Is self – discipline, a

Nip here, a
Snip there, and

With fullness of time, and
Passage through life,

Done with the flash of a scissor,

Bone handles,

Scissor flash snip, all gone
Extra weight, things un-needed, flash

If you stop,

To think about,

You frighten yourself cold,
Frosty, frigid, cold lock-down, too afraid

To make a wrong move, stop –

Don’t laugh at the flower arranger, Ikebana
Is worth learning;

Moving through life with less.

Photo – Ikebana – Wikipedia

-short evocative poetry-

Home – Race in India

The idea of home is so complicated to me; home isn’t here
people look at me like I am from somewhere else.
Where is home?

Writing became an expression of my discomfort
a language
an arrangement of unbroken rage
writing poetry to question
Poetry to reclaim my identity and to be

My body is yellow, white, brown and black
Is it my skin that betrays or is it my face?
I am still looking for an answer!

You tell me
How do I respond without making you angry and uncomfortable?
How do I wear a mask that doesn’t even fit me!

Do you feel my pain?
Why can’t you, my fellow Indians respond for me?
I want all of you to speak for us.

What are words if they aren’t realized?
And realization is a distant dream
A dream to be an Indian
and here I am living despite it all
with a language that comforts me
in a language that sounds familiar.

I write to all the younger version of me, you are

Even the colour of my dreams scream
my blood is Indian
my bones are solid Indian
so, I am writing!
I am protesting as I write
I am protesting about being an outsider in my own land.

But, why am I still looking
for something that will define me?
I can’t find my belonging here.
You will often catch me and many of us
searching for it
In the books and in passports
with resilience.

(Written by Ngurang Reena)


short poetry, words move, human promises


Yellow and gold and,

Never make a promise.
You cannot keep them.

Never say I’ll keep a secret, you

You’re human.

Have loving thoughts for yourself,
And for others,

Practice loving deeds for yourself,
And for others,

Lilac spider,
Purple sunrise,

Effervescent stone,

Love wherever,

You can.

-♦Photo – John Foot-♦

-short, evocative poetry-



They shot the cheese cake.

High heels,


Village people,
Purple tortoises


The light of day,

The road,

Single lane,

Pools reflecting torch-light,
Forest in sillouette,

Trees in moonlight,

Going home now,
Finished now,

Homeward bound.

For Betty Valdez-Ogembo

♦♦*photo* – self♦♦

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