quiltersmuse.com Blog

This poem of religious sentiment was sent to us by Barbara A. Beyer.

When the pieces of our lives are torn apart and lying in shreds, we are brought to our knees, as we seek solutions from a higher power than ourselves. Thanks for sending this, Barbara.

HEAVEN’S QUILT

Pieces of my life are lying there,
Some torn to shreds while others suffer wear.
Scattered by the changes, across the fields of time …
Designs and colors differ;
… Making them uniquely mine.

Then Jesus came… picking up the best;
Sewing them together, discarding all the rest.
A new life pieced together with golden threads of love;
… A new quilt of comfort designed by God above.
Comfort me … come Holy Spirit breathe within.
Wash with your love … make me whole again.
All the glory and the praise belong to Thee …
Wrap me in your love and comfort, Holy Trinity.

written by Barbara A. Beyer (c) 1995

photo by James Cummings

The Fallen Tree

an original poem by Patricia Cummings, written on October 25, 2009

The fallen tree in stillness lies,
green moss now grown upon it.
Once it stood, a mighty force,
with forest all around it.

A home to birds, and chipmunks, too,
both breakers of the silence,
And when it fell, in raging storm,
no human soul was present.

Alas, be like the stalwart tree.
Give forth your beauty while you can!
Nurture those who under your shade,
will find all the good that God has made.

Our sojourn here is never long.
We are not allowed to linger.
We grow too sure, and live our days,
but roaring winds are calling.

And what is left, the earth reclaims
and holds it to its bosom,
but grants new life, sprung from the old,
As that’s the way of Nature.

Copyright 2009. Patricia Cummings, Concord, New Hampshire.

“How Are You?”

a poem by Patricia Cummings, Sept. 24, 2009

A simple question – “How are you?” -
Do we really want to know?
“Fine, thank you,” – that will do
and will avoid recited woes.

The older we become
with ease we do succumb
to complain away the live long day
all the ailments we can portray.

“My head it aches; my heart it breaks;
My knees don’t work; I’ll go beserk.
My legs are stiff, I’ve lost my grip,
Hanging on by a thread; I’ll take to my bed.

“How are you?” “Doing fine,
knitting booties, making chimes,
singing songs no one will hear,
Hoping for a better year.”

“How are you?” Who wants to know?
Do you care? Life’s a bear!
“How are you?” “I’m just dandy,
but please keep the Kleenex handy!”

Life’s a play that’s never the same.
The rules keep changing in the middle of the game,
We hurry here and hasten there,
seemingly, without a care.

The question comes, “How are you?”
We pause and ponder what is true,
Then, lying, go along our way.
“I am fine. How are you?”

Related file: Seventeenth Century Nun’s Prayer

Anyone with any sense knows that things are not always as they appear at face value. That is the reason that good poetry can be interpreted in many different ways, not just one way. Unlike many other circumstances in our lives, the written word is subject to the interpretation of the reader. Two people can look at a piece of writing and come away with two very different impressions. Is one person right and the other wrong? No, perhaps they are both right, because they have sifted information through their brains, using previously learned constructs, and agents of language (words) to interpret what someone else has written.

Today, I had an interesting exchange over a Spanish translation. As much as we might try, it is impossible to get into the brain of the perpetrator of a piece of writing, and know, for sure, what his intent was when writing a poem. This scenario is made more difficult when dealing with a foreign language. I know how I would interpret any words in Spanish, and I can explain to you my informed reasons behind my opinions. However, ultimately, the importance of a poem or a song is what they mean, after being sieved through the brain of the consumer.

I have always wished that I could play piano, and I can, to a limited extent, by just extrapolating the notes that comprise chords that I know on the guitar. I can read some musical notes but not with proficiency. I’ve always wanted to really play piano well, something that I have not pursued as I don’t have the patience and never have had enough. I was kind of “ruined” in that regard, from the age of 5 when I was forced to take lessons from a music teacher who was my aunt and very proficient at what she did, but who had little patience for me. I guess we had little patience for each other!

However, some of the songs I sing would be better accompanied on the piano, or with a better back-up. Tonight, I recorded another Spanish song that I learned in Spain: “Solamente Una Vez.” It’s not my best shot. I have not practiced it. I just picked up my guitar and played it, as is the case most of the time. It’s a pretty song, but I prefer Andrea Boccelli’s version of the same song to my own. He has a file on YouTube with it.

Those are my random thoughts for the day. I have not picked up any quilting for two days now and would like to get back to my project. Jim was refinishing the wood floor in the bathroom, so my life is somewhat disturbed, at the moment, with furniture in other rooms. Life around here is never dull, and so … we keep on keeping on. I guess the day I quit keeping on, you won’t be reading this blog. Charming thought, eh?

Patricia Cummings
Quilter’s Muse Publications

Bob Rotruck’s poetry can be read on the poetry pages of our website. Here is a poem he sent last week. We are awaiting word that his new book about his 20 year career in the Navy is ready for sale. He hopes that he will be able to report this good news in October. Having previewed the book, I’m so happy that his dream is coming true. ~Pat~

Bee on Rhododendron, photo by James Cummings

The Garden

I’ve often thought of my grandmother’s garden,
How the earth stayed soft and would never harden.
The pounds of veggies she harvested there
And that black garden dirt she did take care.
In early Spring my grandfather did spread,
Stuff from the other end of a horses head.
He mixed it in where the earth worms grow,
In full preparation for my grandmother to sow.
And soon as the soil was dry from the Winter,
A private contract she and God would enter.
Into the ground I will plant these seeds,
Grow from Your soil what will meet our needs.
And we will give thanks for the work You have done,
But we’ll take some of the credit for it isn’t all fun.
Days will go by and suddenly we’ll see,
Little green sprouts of the first garden pea.
A radish top will pop its pale green head,
She knew all was well she had nothing to dread.
Now see the first inch of a delicate carrot top,
God was doing His magic and would not stop.
Lima beans, pole beans, string beans too,
So many different plants reaching sky blue.
Darkness on the horizon and sounds of thunder,
Liquid gold on the garden will cause such wonder.
Overnight it will seem tomatoes turn red,
The entire garden is growing on the old homestead.
With harvest around the corner, we must get ready,
The garden will produce goodies straight and steady.
Before you know it, the first Fall frost,
All of the garden green is so quickly lost.
So many veggies sit asleep in Ball jars,
And the garden sits waiting under the stars.
A blanket of pure white covers it now,
It’s resting a bit in elegant style.
The garden is such a wonderful thing
I can hardly wait until next Spring.
ROTRUCK – ‘94