A Whole Flock to be Thankful For!

Eternal Thanksgiving—a poem by Alana Solomon.

I’m not just thankful for all I have, but all that I have not.

My boundaries, they hem me in, but wolves are not my lot.

The quiet and the solitude that others could not bear,

a stream of sweet communion with my Lord is what I share.

He guides my thoughts from worthless chatter

to heavenly goals that really matter.

For still much longer He bids me stay

and promises to guide each day,

that at the end I’d sit again and see all He provided then.

He is the Shepherd of my soul.

My heart, it’s hurts, He heals, makes whole.

Because He knows me inside out,

It’s best I trust without a doubt.

He knows what’s good for me much more

than I could dream or scheme, I’m sure.

Content I’ll be in sun and shade, in storms He let and those I’ve made,

The chilly rain, the snow and such, they drown my tears but warm His touch.

When fog rolls in and I can’t see, the path quite clear in front of me,

He holds me tight and bids me stroll

at peace with Him who’s in control.

The Master of the earth and sky,

my guide in life and when I die,

He’ll escort me to heaven’s throne,

the place I’ve dwelt secure, His own.

“None other Lamb, None other Name” will I place trust or even claim.

He is my goal, I will proclaim, for His great power and His fame.

In this small pasture in which I dwell, I look to Him whom I know well,

and point all others who seem confused, in pain or shame or fear they tell,

to One who’s there, His Name I’ll share, able and true to others too.

You doubt His Presence real and fair? Cry out to Him, cry out, I dare!

He will reveal Himself to you, He gave His Word, it’s clear, it’s true!

Go seek and find and find you will, the only hope, the One who’s real.

Follow the One who calls your name; He enters in, you’re not the same.

He welcomes you into His fold, and pours His blessings countless told.

He went before and made a way through death’s grim valley, that dark day.

He brands you His, precious and rare, and saves you from the pit, the snare.

We’ll be with Him forever pure in His eternal pasture sure.

Praise be to Jesus, Shepherd & King,

Thanksgiving eternal from saints He’ll bring.

written by Alana Solomon Copyright 2012. All Rights Reserved. Use by permission only. Call Alana USA 910 232 5427. Email: whatfaux@aol.com

A scavenger named Diligence.

Banded Bandit painted by Alana Solomon. Copyright 2012. All Rights Reserved. Call Alana USA 910 232 5427. Email: whatfaux@aol.com

Banded Bandit painted by Alana Solomon. Copyright 2012. All Rights Reserved. Call Alana USA 910 232 5427. Email: whatfaux@aol.com

A Scavenger Named Diligence—A poem by Alana Solomon

That sneaky ole gal behind the trash can,

doing what only a bandit can.

She sniffs and sifts and keeps an eye out

for any who’d follow his own keen snout.

Her ring-tailed plume follows close behind

as she visits with hopes of a succulent find.

Her inky black mask secures anonymity

all through the night and all through the city.

With lightening-quick paws she fingers and draws

remains of the day up to her jaws:

melon rinds, clementines, yoke drippings, greasy chitlins,

peach stones, chicken bones, an apple core, need I say more?

She shuffles along in her thick fur stole

with long street shadows, a lonely soul.

Is she off to the ballet or perhaps the shows?

Unseen in shadows she comes and goes,

to Blackwater Cafe perhaps, who knows?

Where does she live? Where does she sleep?

When the hustle and bustle begin on the street?

Down by the icehouse on the deep Cape Fear,

in the limey-green marshes surrounding the pier,

to the old live oak, the muddy path leads,

whose hollow is dry and packed full of leaves.

She’s off with a scurry; I thought “what’s the hurry?”

till silver light streamed by the livery surrey.

The morning hour creeps, in with a haze,

as summer sun floats while blue moon fades.

Her name is Diligence tufted in grays;

I’ll see her again after faithful days.

Her Maker is glorified by her meaningless task,

finding she’s consistent behind her mask.

Night after night she emerges once more

to the alley she comes for the trashcan pour.

Her Owner supplies all she needs for her life

while she’s wild and free and free from strife.

written by Alana Solomon Copyright 2012. All Rights Reserved. Use by permission only. Call Alana USA 910 232 5427. Email: whatfaux@aol.com

Copyright 2012. All Rights Reserved. Call Alana: USA 910 232 5427. Email: whatfaux@aol.com

Copyright 2012. All Rights Reserved. Call Alana: USA 910 232 5427. Email: whatfaux@aol.com