Fog has dressed the world in shades of grey,

Gold-touched leaves still, unmoving.

The hydrangeas, weary of standing erect now bow their heads to the ground while one lone cricket scrapes its song slowly.

Pause now.  Reflect.

Heart and breath quiet, enveloped by the stillness.

Not yet the storms of winter, the whirling wind-torn branches and swirling snow.

Not yet the cocoon life shut within protecting walls.

For now, the grey stillness of a world closed in.


Sounds of the Heavens

I wrote this some time ago without Christmas in mind, 
but believe it is appropriate for the season.




Sounds of the heavens

Wave across eternity

And emptiness of space –

Vibrations of steady beat

Pulsating in time,

Light slowed in pace

To hum from spheres

Across years.


Now a baby’s cries

Move through walls and hearts to sing,

Vibrations set up

From light to light

Where once no sound was.


Welcome, child.  Do you know

Your voice is a small refection

Of the sound of the eternal cosmos?


Do you know you are in the Image,

Sound and all, of the Living Word?

Cry out, oh child, and join

The Music of the spheres,

Life to everlasting Life.



Better To Be

Truth spoken in a few well-chosen words. Love this.


Don’t wish that you were just like me
Because you know it’s true:
You’ll never be a better me
Nor I a better you.

Though you can try your very best,
You’ll lose yourself this way,
So look inside instead of out
And find the words to say,

I can always be a better me
And you a better you,
And that’s the way it’s meant to be –
Ourselves we grow into.  Copyright 2013 © Sonya Annita Song

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Music on the Wind

Some of the most brilliant of God’s gems are hidden from public view; they are seldom found scattered around in the dust like old bottle caps or discarded beer cans, today’s equivalent of pottery shards at an archaeological dig. One of those almost hidden ones is Eddie Askew

Eddie’s life work has been with The Leprosy Mission in India, an assignment to put stars in most anyone’s crown. What has endeared him to me is another facet of that gem: his creative side which includes writing, poetry and art. Close to one million of his little meditations and books are in print, with the proceeds going to the support of the Mission, and yet few Christians, and fewer still of the secular world know anything about the man.

His meditations are not wordy, but see truth and beauty intertwined. A man of gentle spirit, he paints as well with brush and watercolor as with words. Some meditations are followed by interspersed poems which enlarge on the topic and penetrate soul barriers to go straight to the heart.

Here is a sample taken from “Music on the Wind,” a series of meditations on the life of David. Following a short discussion of Saul’s armor as being a hindrance to David he penned this:

You are on the edge, Lord, of my world,
not in the centre as you should be.
I’d like you there with me,
but I’m not ready yet
to open up and let you in.
Your foot is in the door,
that’s fine.
I feel I’m in control,
can open it, or close it
as I choose.
But more than that seems dangerous.
I build defences.
Stay close-bound
inside a hard defensive shell
of spurious security.
And lobster-like,
close carapaced within my fear,
wave warning claws
against your loving hands.

Not only you, Lord,
distanced by my doubt,
I hide from others too.
Show only what I think they want to see
and grudgingly at that.
Can’t find the openness
to share the truth with them.

And when I change direction,
look inside,
it’s me I’m hiding from as well.

Lord, keep on knocking,
and let the probing fingers of your love
open the door a little more.
There’s just a chance,
one day,
I’ll really let you in
and find the will
to show myself to you,
to them and even to myself
just as I am.
Accept the freedom that you give
to be myself
and build on it with you.

Some of his works are available at Alibris

The Squirrel

The Squirrel


Above the splatter of the
fountain, a continual ‘soosh’ of wind is moving the leaves.  I wonder, is there any wind song if there are
no leaves to dance?


Restless, restless, the oak
branches, the pine across the way – at times the wind sound crescendos and as
quickly softens to a whisper.  Low
pillows of gray white clouds pass by steadily, ships at sky-sea.


A squirrel hops up to a
comfortable perch on a fence post – the last post before the space where fence
section was removed this winter.  Munching
on his dinner, he shows no alarm.  How
can he know, as I do, that the hawks are back and will soon be feeding their
young with tasty squirrel meat?


A furry finial, he waits
motionless now.  Does he wonder why the
gap in the fence?  Why his “highway” has
an eighteen foot interruption?


It had to be removed, you
see, for the machinery, tree removal machinery, to have access to the yard next
door.  Men came and hammered down the
fence.  Men with ropes and tackle and
chain saws.  It is their business, taking
down fences in order to take down trees.


The largest oak of all is
gone now.  Home to squirrel and communion
of birds, it is gone.  The four foot wide
stump which remains would be a far wider place to eat his dinner, wide enough
to sprawl in comfort.  But he never goes
there.  It is the fence post he prefers.


Did he cry as I did when his
home came down?


Men with saws, hawks with
claws, they all are part of squirrel’s life.
Hazards are everywhere.  So he
eats, and rests, and listens to the leaves dancing with the wind.



I wrote this last June while still in mourning over the deliberate removal of a large oak tree in what had been my back yard before I built my new home next door.