The signs of the end of the age have been here for ever so long, And I have been foretelling what I have sensed in my spirit, I am awed that men are not out in the streets exclaiming at this transition time, And I wonder if the ancient people were aware when Yahshua died That in that moment the entire world changed, Those in Rome and Athens, those in what would be India and England, Even in Jerusalem there were some who did not know… And today as great men pass on to other places and times, There are just as many signs Heralding the end and the beginning, A whole new world, a New Covenant is coming, And though like the disciples we weep at what is ending, We also have sight to rejoice at the beginning, For we will not be like Mary Magdalene going to a tomb to anoint a dead body, And we will not be like Simon Peter returning to his boat to take up former trades, But we await with clear anticipation the surety of Resurrection And the beginning of an Age ...

It was said that all the world’s a stage, But what’s the purpose of the Play If not to show the Love of Christ, The reason that We are alive But what is my role in this expression And can I get a full perspective, Am I a character in the Play Or is there more in vision’s way? I am the person on the stage My life’s full view for some wise sage To take and know Love’s fully beauty As it is expressed in me And who is greater here to know Than the one who’s lived it so, My life shows me just who I AM And the Love with which I made this man Yet I am the author of the Play, I wrote my life to be this way Put every detail, every nuance All the Truth both past and future I am also the audience Observing my life from great distance So I can see the Tapestry, The fullness of the Life I lead As these perspectives come to One I learn the greatest depths of Love And ever-growing, all-increasing, I see the Play is never-ceasing ...

Grief is a delicate balance Between touching a wound just enough To allow Yahweh to heal it And going so far into it That you find yourself weeping in a ball on the floor for weeks on end, Between examining the hurt and the feelings of anger and betrayal And letting bitterness and distrust grow, It is a tightrope I walk daily, And the tiniest things open wounds I didn’t even know were there Until I feel the pus oozing out of this gaping hole in the pit of my heart, Sickened by the feeling of this poison running through my veins, But encouraged that the wound has been lanced And the infection can be cleaned out Progress is painful, And allowing Yahweh to open wounds is frightening, But today I am not on the floor, And maybe that’s enough of a win.

I Am a baby bird, And I feel the eggshell all around me, Cracked and broken in its various layers And there are some holes Through which I can see sunlight, But I cannot see enough of the world outside To know what it will look like, And the only thing that I am sure of Is that it will not look like the world I’ve known Here within this egg, I am half-hatched, Breathing the air of a new dawn, But still covered in some places By the egg’s protection, And I ache because I must be born, Long to be born, And yet to do so I must destroy What little protection I have left, What remnant of the world I’ve always known But I was made for greater things And it is no longer time for me To live within an eggshell, I must hatch and see the world around me, Eat and drink and emerge Blinking into the sunlight, And though I cannot fathom it yet, One day I shall fly , Soar far above the world I’ve always known, So far beyond egghood that I...

Walking through Walmart and seeing the signs, The cards that say “Happy Father’s Day” in blue and silvery letters And the mugs that say “World’s Greatest Dad,” I stop and think Oh, I should… But then I remember that I should not, That this year, for the first time, I don’t need to buy a card That extols the virtue of fatherhood, Or—more likely with my dad— Tells a corny dad-joke that he would totally appreciate Because that’s the kind of humor he had, I don’t have to purchase a fancy tie or a set of power tools Or a silly mug that says “World’s Best Father” which he would never use because he already had more coffee cups than he would need to use in a lifetime I won’t be going to a Father’s Day dinner with all of his favorite foods Or pretending to watch NASCAR with him While I really play on my phone (Because watching a bunch of cars going around a track over and over again is so interesting) And it doesn’t hurt as much as I expected, ...

They come in a myriad of colors, An abundance of forms, And they have countless inhabitants Grey turns to lavender and pink, Which give way to orange, coral, and finally a golden yellow that ushers in a pale blue that is both crisp and soft, cool and comforting Yellow and blue may be joined by wispy white, or iron grey depending upon the day and the season Sometimes the yellow is hidden, maybe for a moment or perhaps for a long time, Covered by charcoal, iron, and ash, And every night the yellow disappears, replaced by inky blackness, with soft pinpricks of dazzling, beautiful white Yet the skies remain the same! Layers of infinity expressed in various ways, And many different being sojourn therein, Some unexpectedly, For we were born without wings And yet thence we fly, Even beyond the clouds Oh how life is like the skies! Infinite layers of Light and nuanced expressions peppered with darkness, but always the same sky, no ...

Hello! I have recently been able to speak at the Fayetteville Public Library and they recorded it on Livestream. There's something about listening to spoken-word poems instead of just reading them, so I'm pasting the link here in case you wanted to listen! <3 Cassondra https://livestream.com/faylib/2ndSunday/videos/172984295