• Randi

Sink or Swim

Underneath my skin, itching to get out; A hazardous reaction is climbing to mount.

The heaviness grows, the flooding of water; Consuming the senses like a captive martyr.

Clearing the mind, a perilous task; Entangled webs spread, contagious and fast.

The scent suffocates, leaving me grasping; Failing the memory, understanding lapsing.

Seeking for peace with earnest devotion, Uneasiness leaps forth inflicting commotion.

The heart unsure, it grows even harder, Searching for warmth yet getting father.

What’s to be done with approaching floods? Sink or swim, but regaining what was.


Recently my husband’s cousin passed away, and I stumbled across a beautiful poem written by an unknown author. But it continues my somber theme so I thought I would share it with you.

The Weaving

My life is but a weaving, between my God and me; I do not chose the colors, He worketh steadily. Oft times He weaveth sorrow, and I in foolish pride Forget He sees the upper, and I the under side. Not til the loom is silent, and shuttles cease to fly Will God unroll the canvas and explain the reason why The dark threads are as needful in the skillful Weaver’s hand As threads of gold and silver in the pattern He has planned.