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Poem: "In 'His' Time"

by Jayne Ishere, Copyright 2004

Joyful season upon my heart,
When He called me to His fold!
Such was my rapture that I Set forth immediately to share The glory of His
Great Truth.
Surely others would want to envelope This wonderful vision as I;
With ravenous soul and grasping arms!

In zest, my feet purposed to lead others
To the avenues of rest afforded me.
But heavy-lidded eyes refused
To focus on this ancient path.
Bitter hearts encompassed
Self-pity and remorse of life;
Like weightless anchors.

Should I feel weak and pathetic
For the caring of their souls?
Nay, my head is not heavy.
Mine eyes will look upwards
To Jesus, whose bruised feet
Have tread this worn, tattered earth;
Seeking souls.

Yeah, so it is that I
Am taught compassion,
Patience, suffering, and love;
Of such magnitude which I
Would have never known, Unless He called me to His side.
My heart warms.

I too, was once lost, dirty and blind.
Yet, through His mercy and longsuffering,
Was found and cleansed;
Was given purposeful vision.
My light is not put out,
Nor my feet made to waver;
I am strengthened.

He is the keeper of my soul.
I will trust in His care, Knowing that in "His" time, He will raise their
dormant spirits
To be one with His.
I will continue my journey
With joy of heart!

Jayne Ishere PICTURE and BIOGRAPHY of

Jayne Ishere

BIOGRAPHY: Jayne loves the medium of poetry to express her spiritual journey in Christ. She is married, with two children and currently resides in Tennessee. Her desire is that her poetry will encourage others to seek out Christ for themselves. Jayne finds her solace in HIS infinite security and love. She feels that nothing is more important in life than establishing our relationship with Christ.

Email Jayne Ishere

Poem: "Salt Of The Earth"

Copyright 2004 by Dr. Linda L. Bielowski, Ph.D

To be swinging on the porch swing, swaying

up-and-back, up-and-back, in swooshing syncopation

with pa’s wheezing breaths on a twice baked Iowa day,

during a dry cough drought, in a season of living by

a single word and a simple handshake. Swinging and

holding a carpenter’s calloused palm, powdered in sawdust and

salt of the earth. Tempted by promises of rainbow cones,

cool watermelon picnics, and pitchers of frosty Kool-Aid smiles.

Soaking in the wisdom of windmills and weathervanes, the

Revelation of a heaven so bright it fills the belly with brilliant

birthstones. Measuring the thirsty corn crop against the ideal of knee-high

in July, while teasing thunder beings who bounce on

cumulonimbus trampolines, pa whispers and teaches me

to pray for rain.

By Linda L. Bielowski, Ph.D.

Dr. Linda L. Bielowski, Ph.D PICTURE and BIOGRAPHY of

Dr. Linda L. Bielowski, Ph.D.

The author is a practicing psychotherapist, board certified pastoral counselor, and university English instructor, who refocused on her writing after facilitating a spirituality group and participating in a poetry exhibit at the prestigious University of Chicago Hospitals. Her work has appeared in numerous journals, magazines, and anthologies including the following: Poetry Magazine, Ariga, Wilmington Blues, Muse Apprentice Guild, Enfuse, Eintouist, Poetism, Poetic Hours, Verses, SpaceBreather, SubtleTea, Unarmed, Pure Christians, A flippant Way, Listening to the Birth of Crystals, Promise, Subjective Substance, Conspire; among others. Dr. Bielowski has published a first collection of poetry in a chapbook Spirit Echoes and has received a contract from PublishAmerica for her second anthology Contemplative Persona, scheduled for release in 2004. She was recently named “New Talent” by Little Treasures/Soul Comfort and as a finalist in the FirstWriter poetry competition. In her leisure time, the author chases three feline muses: Sedgwick. Joshua, and Sara.

Threee poems by Jayne Ishere, Copyright 2003

"The Great Landscape"

Even a blade of grass,
Green and growing,
The soft cushion for the weary traveler;
A bed of grass to nestle sheep.
Such is our life in the Master's plan.
Together we stand to nourish,
To compliment and care for one another;
This heavenly body are we.
Let us hold fast our roots in Him
Who can sustain and bless;
Who can send spring rains into our lives,
To spur the growth.

Let us not be found striving under
The tangled bushes of the world,
Where we serve no purpose.
At times we may be cut back,
But it is only to enhance our beauty.
For without the Master's care,
We would become wild and unfruitful;
Attracting even enemies to hide among us.
May our lives continue to grow season after season;
Even under the lightning of His correction,
Knowing that it will only enhance
The true color of His spirit within.

Let us trust our Great Caretaker
To plant us where He will.
Let us be ready to serve the purpose
He has in mind for us;
Whether it is to give of ourselves to feed others,
Or to provide comfort or stand tall and be beautiful;
A product of His keeping, that we may be anointment
For the eye who might also be searching
For a place in the landscape of His kingdom.

"Give Him the Key"

Give Him the key to that room in your heart.
The secret room that is dusty and dark.
You won't expect He'll want to come in,
With gloomy passage and stairway dim.
He'll throw open the windows
And let in the light;
Revealing cobwebs and all the unright.
You'll stand in the doorway,
Ashamed, yet relieved;
Finally to Him, you've relinquished the key.
Your troubles and worries He'll sort and sift;
Then you'll know peace and your spirit will lift.


Should I die on the other side;
Deny that He carried me thru the tide?
Softly placing my feet on the rock;
The pedestal, that He lifts me upon.
My ankle bones at best are weak;
Oh, that I had His brassen feet.
Solidly leading me safely home;
Not straying, my heart no more to roam.
Praying for strength not of mine own;
Though I'm unworthy, His grace to loan.
I want to flourish in His love,
Filling this vessel from above.
Rendered useful, humble, and true;
Clothed in His Spirit, with joy anew.
Living a life, loaned of His breath;
That I may rest peaceful, even in death.

Jayne Ishere PICTURE and BIOGRAPHY of

Jayne Ishere

BIOGRAPHY: Jayne loves the medium of poetry to express her spiritual journey in Christ. She is married, with two children and currently resides in Tennessee. Her desire is that her poetry will encourage others to seek out Christ for themselves. Jayne finds her solace in HIS infinite security and love. She feels that nothing is more important in life than establishing our relationship with Christ.

Email Jayne Ishere

Three new Poems by Chris Roe,

Copyright 2003

"The Painter"

With each stroke of the brush,
At each glance,
A new horizon is within my sight.
As the light from a clear sky,
Pierces the stream,
Then rises like a diamond
And floats from my view,
I am captured
Upon the surface water.

As the canvass
Becomes more complete,
As more power, more knowledge,
More understanding,
Continues to colour my world,
The painter shows a genius
I can no longer ignore.

In these valleys and glens,
Beside rivers and streams,
Below snow capped mountains,
Where eagles caress the air,
I have walked with the wise man,
The master of serene beauty,
The musician of my soul,
The prince of light,
Colours of the universe,
Upon the canvass of life.

"Eternal Journey"

As the crimson flame of life,
Breaks slowly
Above the horizon,
The white frosted meadows,
With trees and hedgerows
Of sculptured ice,
Speak loudly
Of your presence.

Once more
Upon this journey,
As another day begins,
Without effort
Or intrusion,
Through the peace and tranquillity
Of your silent voice,
The moment becomes eternal
And the journey,
Begins again.

"The Ploughman"

This ear of wheat,
These grains of rice,
Are the physical foundations
Upon which you exist.

When all else is lost,
When all else is destroyed,
Remember the ploughman,
For whom you had so little regard.

Remember who laid these foundations
That you easily destroyed.
Remember, if you can,
How little you valued such skills,
How little you valued
Your own existence.

Remember, if you can,
The ploughman.

Kind regards,
Chris Roe.

Brother Dave found this quote to share:

"Work with the soil is not a curse; rather is it the highest blessing to all who are thus permitted to enjoy the most human of all human activities."


Chris Roe

I am 55 years of age and single. I was born in the rural county of Norfolk, England, where I have always lived and worked. Writing has been a hobby for many years, and this is a mixture of Christian, Spiritual and Romantic verse. Much of my inspiration comes from longtime living in the countryside, and being engaged in the agricultural industry.

Some of my creations have been published in small press magazines in the UK. I also have a website on which some of my work, together with artwork by my brother Paul Roe, have been incorporated into a small number of commercial products.

At present, I am working on a small collection of my poetry entitled " In Search Of Silence" and a further set of six greeting cards. Both the cards and poetry collection will include my brother Paul's art. We hope to self-publish the above some time in 2004.

Although life and creation have had some very dark days, the magic of this Light never ceases to amaze me, and continues always to lift my spirits.

kind regards,
Chris Roe

Chris Roe's email

Chris Roe's website Silent Flight Publications

Poem: "Lectio Divina"

Copyright 2003 by Dr. Linda L. Bielowski, Ph.D

Barn swallows and mourning doves swooped

Near the garden

Abundant with snap dragons, rhubarb, and sweet peas

The world felt fresh and good and pure

Against the fervent silence inside a frame farmhouse

A choir of cuckoo and grandfather clocks cooed and chimed a chorus

That resounded through the attic rafters

Aunt Emma moved by the time-weathered window

Wisps of silver curl creeping around her temple

Commemorating faded azure eyes

With wisdom immeasurable

She laughed in alleluias

And rose at first light

To give praise

For another borrowed day

By the dim light of the oil lamp

Her body bent over her leather bound Bible

While her lips moved, mouthing litanies and liturgy

In Low German

Taking rest and refuge

With apostles and prophets

Her constant companions

She called them by name

Resolute in the disposition of her soul

Aunt Emma was forever ready

To meet her maker

Should He call

Living with intentionality

She surpassed all patina of holiness

Knowing no vanity

She wore a humble demeanor

A woman of few words

She ran

From the death rattle

Of fools’ wagging tongues

From washing widowers’ clothes

In her wood ringer washer

To knitting receiving blankets for newborn cherubs

Her every act was contemplative

With the courage of a storm rider

Scaling slate roof tiles

Reaching the top

She fixed a weather vane or lightning rod

And imagined she climbed Jacob’s Ladder

To peek at God’s throne

Her crown in heaven

Her foot on His fallen earth

Aunt Emma understood the sanctification of time

Making the simple sacred

She ascended to a place

Where she lived out her faith in every moment

Holding tenaciously to timeless values

The same yesterday, today, and eternally

She realized

We are not our own destinies and deities

Transfixed and transfigured

She studied the only Book

She ever read

Deep into the dark

Nearing sleep’s shadow

Aunt Emma let down her long, thick braids

Folded her thin hands

And bowed her hallowed head

To bid her God goodnight

Linda L. Bielowski, Ph.D.

Dr. Linda L. Bielowski, Ph.D PICTURE and BIOGRAPHY of

Dr. Linda L. Bielowski, Ph.D.

I am a practicing psychotherapist and board certified pastoral counselor. My work derives from a spiritual foundation, which makes me eternally thankful to God for His gift of words. Recently my first collection of poetry; Spirit Echoes, was published and I am finishing my second: Contemplative Persona. My work has appeared in several magazines and anthologies, including the following: Poetic Hours, Muse Apprentice Guild, Verses, Scars Publications, Ariga, Entouist, SpaceBreather, SubtleTea, Listening to the Birth of Crystals, among others.

Poem: "Reflections on the Season"
by Philip John Germani
Copyright 2003

As the year behind us comes to a close,
It seems to have raced so speedily by.
Anticipation of Christmas grows,
As yet another year draws nigh.

Where did all those hours go?
The holidays are here again!
Slogans abound; bright lights glow.
“Peace on Earth; good will toward men.”

These holidays are hectic times.
It’s easy to miss the Message they bring;
To get caught up in dollars and dimes,
Forgetting the Birth of an Infant King.

This joyous theme is ours to share:
A new beginning for you and me.
This Season’s Message, so precious, so rare,
Is hope for tomorrow, and sets us all free.

Three more Poems by Chris Roe,

Copyright 2003

"Children Of The Son"

Love and peace
Is all we ask,
As children of the Son.
To rest awhile at Eden's gate
Where words and deeds are one.

We ask of you
Not miracles
Nor dreams beyond green hills,
Some time away from hungers reach,
Some food this child may eat.

We ask of you
Not all that is,
No more than you can give,
Enough to see the morning light
Beyond this darkest night.

We ask of you
Not mighty deeds,
Just sowers of the seeds,
Of love that might be born again,
Before this journey's end.

"In Search Of Silence"

Beyond the storm
Where blue sky still cradles
The morning sun.
In the clearing
Where shafts of light
Hold back the shadows
Of the ancient wood.

Beyond conflict and pain,
And the inhumanity of man.
Beyond duty
And this journey
That has seemed so long.

Beyond the history
That has brought me
To this sacred place,
This spiritual sanctuary,
This peace,
This silence,
This love.

"Immortal Spirit"

Beside me once more,
In peaceful silence,
Softer than a feather
Cast adrift upon the breeze,

In memories,
Your spirit,

Chris Roe
Chris Roe

Chris Roe's email

Chris Roe's website Silent Flight Publications

Poem: "The Pocket Watch"

Copyright 2003 by Dr. Linda L. Bielowski, Ph.D

Little boy lost

Listens to big folk

Talk of death and dying

Of myth and mourning

Unspeakable grown-up mysteries and matters

Who shake and rattle his balance

Like screen doors and casement shutters

Waving to a coming storm

A prelude to

This day of awakening

With whispered hopes

Closer to God’s hearing

An hour of covered mirrors and creased trousers

Of starched collars and springy armbands

Snapping like choleric turtles

Against his taut and tender skin

Habit and need

Sinking tiny palms

Into side pockets

Concealed and threadbare in their holiness

He fumbles for lucky charms and sticky toffee

Melted in the wax wrapper of yesterday

Only to feel his lodestone

A ticking golden teddy bear

Its glass moon face

Pockmarked with glistening numbers

For hours and minutes and seconds

Of precious life passing

Out of reach and irretrievable

Missing, fleeting, forever vanished

Like angels lifted to a better place

Beyond the flatlands of human understanding

Radiating magnetic comfort

Like a warm and welcome hand

Leading little boy lost

Through the door of the church

Cradling his papa in a coffin

Like a sleeping pearl in a satin-lined oyster

A pocket watch stilled and stopped

In reverie of destiny divine

Dr. Linda L. Bielowski, Ph.D

Linda Bielowski, Ph.D.

Poem: "Salvation and the Hearing Tree"

Copyright 2003 by Dr. Linda L. Bielowski, Ph.D

Dr. Linda L. Bielowski, Ph.D., writes on her poem:

"For a number of years, I was fortunate to serve as a counselor and supervisor in the Women's Division of Pacific Garden Mission in Chicago. This new poem was inspired by my days and nights at the Old Lighthouse. It is a piece that is very close to my heart. I hope that you enjoy it."


"Salvation and the Hearing Tree"

Four A.M...
I was working in the Women’s Division of Pacific Garden Mission: serving the hungry, swaddling the indigent, sheltering the homeless, and soothing the forgotten. With ambulance siren, plaintive whining and pulsating red warning, the phone’s ringing stirred the stagnant air.

Four A.M…
An entire New Testament away from eight P.M. evening service in the overstuffed auditorium, scented with oil of cheap whiskey and cold sweats; wet socks and weathered skin; rotting feet and regurgitated dreams. Fire and brimstone, heaven and hell, sin and grace, hurled from the pulpit with pounding fists and probing questions---- “ If you die tonight, do you know if you’re going to heaven?” Testimonies of backsliders yearning for redemption, accented by a chorus of “amen” on one accord. Sanctified, syncopated, full Southern Baptist piano chords heralding the altar call with “Just As I Am,” while souls were saved in the prayer room.

Four A.M...
A neon Star of Bethlehem hangs from the Old Lighthouse, spreading the Good News----“Christ Died For Our Sins—Jesus Saves” across State Street, becoming a porch light for those lost in the urban wilderness. In my ears, I hear the refrain “At the cross, at the cross, where I first saw the light,” mingled with the noise of newspaper trucks barking for day laborers on the curb. Overcome by God’s fullness, my eyes fill with grateful tears, as I ponder how I could be so blessed and chosen to partake of this calling.

Four A.M…
And the phone for “Unshackled” calls is still ringing, shrill and soprano. I hear a female voice tightening with hoarseness, phlegm in the throat, nicotine tar in the lungs. Speaking from a single room in the transient Hotel Chelsea, the caller is trapped inside a stock-still ship, anchored in a wine bottle to endure the vagaries of a Wild Irish Rose sea. Her family left long ago, waving over their shoulders, rigid backs turned along the shoreline of blame. They were arranged as a Stonehenge of damning their wife’s, mother’s, daughter’s drifting and dredging Dante’s Underworld; while feeding on the vine of Sodom, with its enticing fruit that when plucked, dissolves into smoke and ashes.

Four A.M…
She tells me that she is okay----really. Outside her window stands one fig tree, a tree that listens to her when she is drunk or sober in every season. Offering assurance yesterday, today, and always, the woman’s tree is her mustard seed in nature’s locket and her guidepost in life’s maze. Looking from my office window, while the el* screeches on its trestle and precarious curve, turning night into day----I strain to see the stiff branches of a lone tree reach skyward to shake the hand of renewal.

* note by Brother Dave: "el" is "elevated train"; these run in Chicago.
"EL" is also an Old Testament word, meaning: "mighty", "Almighty", "GOD"

Dr. Linda L. Bielowski, Ph.D

Linda Bielowski, Ph.D.

Three Poems by Chris Roe,

Copyright 2003

Sentinel of Conscience

From the first prayers
And dreams of my journey,
A silent voice
Has stood sentinel
Within my soul.
No answers given,
No miracles offered,
No blinding light
To penetrate the darkness.
No dogma or creed,
No sectarian vision,
Only silent prayer,
Through times of joy and pain.
This silent voice,
This sentinel of conscience;
Has been my shadow,
Has shared my life,
Has given reason enough
To continue my journey,
Through the darkness
And on into the light.


Keeper of the morning light,
Guardian of the flame,
White knight of my soul.
Given at the beginning,
As a last defense,
At the center of life.
Never beaten or destroyed,
Never taken or confined,
Never traded or lost,
And shared only
For love.


Shafts of light
Through cathedral windows;
Dappled shade upon the leaves
Beneath my feet;
Bird's song
In the branches above.
In the distance,
Hind and fawn
Cross the forest track.
The sweet fragrance of autumn
Fills the misty air.
A gentle breeze,
Moving colors
To the forest floor.
So precious,
Such beauty;
So hard to find
Such peaceful sanctuary.


Copyright 2003 by Jennifer Pillinger

As the tide is rushing in,
And you're hurting deep within,
And the ice is freezing through your heart;
The pain is tearing you apart.

You want to run,
You want to fly,
Into the setting sun,
The orange sky.
You want to be lifted high, lifted up;
But time is going by, time's nearly up.

The Fire, the Fire
That once burned deep within:
You're frozen, you're frozen;
Your soul is wearing thin.

Every single day,
Time, it slips away.
To the shadows of the past,
Your heart still screams;
You hurt in your dreams,
You know that you won't last.

The Fire, the Fire,
Can melt the ice within.
You're frozen, you're frozen;
You're slipping far from Him.

On a cloudless night a full moon glows,
But inside you fight and no one knows.
Oh, the waves'll break
On a silver shore;
But your voice we'll hear
Never more.

The Fire, the Fire,
Can melt the ice within.
You're frozen, you're frozen;
You're slipping far from Him.

Oh turn away,
Turn around;
Pray and know
That you'll be found.

The Fire, the Fire,
Will melt the ice within.
The Fire, Your Fire,
Burns again from, and within, Him.

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