Daily Post Prompt: Island

LIGHTHOUSE WITH FOGThe fog’s especially heavy tonight. I can’t see three feet past the door, so I guess it’s a good time to stay inside and write this letter. The lighthouse on the island has sounded the foghorn every two minutes for hours now.

I haven’t been back to the island since that night. In some ways, I wish I had moved away when you did. I’m sure it’s a lot easier on you not having to look out across the water and see that island every day. I know the spot is overgrown now, but I can still pick it out as clearly as if we’d left a marker. And hearing that blasted horn blow every time the fog moves in really gets on my nerves.

Tonight it’s as thick out there as it was the night we buried him. I often wonder what would have happened if the fog had lifted in time for someone to see us digging the grave. But, of course, that wasn’t likely to happen. Once the dratted stuff moves in, it clings to us like a shroud for hours on end.

I wish you were sitting here with me, sharing a bottle of our favorite whiskey. I hate being alone with my thoughts. I’m always chilled and shaky when there’s fog. It feels as if something’s choking me. I wonder if that’s how he felt as we tightened that rope around his neck until he stopped breathing. I know if I could hear your voice now, you’d tell me to stop being so fanciful.

I wish you were here with me. I hate fog.


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Cinquain On the Brain

Courtesy of Jon at pdphoto.org. (Edited for post)
Courtesy of Jon at pdphoto.org. (Edited for post)


Black storm clouds roll.
Wind-driv’n waves hurled at land.
But high on knoll, sentry stands firm:



You call,
And, servant like,
I run to do your wish.
‘Twill always be, and all I ask:
Your kiss.



Please take
My hand in yours.
It’s warm and strong and sure,
And when you hold mine tight, I’m not



Public domain image from www.public-domain-image.com
I want to be a wild thing,
But I don’t think I know how.
I want to be a wild thing —
Maybe just not right now.

I want to be a wild thing,
And my reputation blow;
I want to be a wild thing,
But I’m such a timid soul.

I want to be a wild thing,
To throw caution to the wind;
I want to be a wild thing,
Want to shock all of my friends.

I want to be a wild thing,
In wild living take my part,
But I can’t fly like wild things
‘Cause I’m chicken in my heart.

I want to be a wild thing,
But this longing’s bound so tight.
The wildest thing I’ll do is
Claim this poem’s copyright.

(Okay, I know this is a repeat of a poem written a couple years ago, but it just caught my attention again today, so I decided to enjoy it again. Hope you do too.)



Does God REALLY Care About You?

TERRY'S TINY PURPLE STRIPThe God who took the time and effort to put so much beauty into such a tiny flower is the God who cares about every little part of you and your life.

“Therefore, humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God … casting the whole of your care on Him, for He cares for you affectionately and cares about you watchfully.”  (Amp.)

By the way, did you notice God’s definition of the word “humble”?
So many people seem to think that to be humble means  to look down on ourselves and consider ourselves worthless subjects who deserve all the problems we’re facing — to say of ourselves that we’re not worthy for God to help us.  However, God says true humility is the understanding that we cannot fix our own problems, but that we have a Father who loves us so much that He wants to fix all of them for us. So true humility gladly and with great thanksgiving, turns every problem, care, and anxiety over to Him — fully expecting Him to deliver us.