Elephant Rocks State Park Haiku

Pink elephant rocks

Shoulder the old mountain top

Stop enjoy the view

chiseled here the names

Master stone masons

Granite memories

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Morning Fog


Morning Fog

Morning fog—
my mind drifts with the wisps
mist swirls, wafts across once green fields
rises indolently over a slow-moving river
yields like my wandering thoughts
to the day’s brighter sunlight
piercing now
through the ground-hugging clouds.
Time to move on

c. Darlene Moore Berg September 2018

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Communion Poem

Communion Poem

The smallest morsel dipped in wine
savor the taste, roll it ‘round the tongue
a remembrance for past and current time
until one day the Savior comes—

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Wistful


Wistful

Wisteria draped across my dreams last night
Its bright colors fading now in morning light
from periwinkle blues to misty white

I drift, walking underneath a laden arbor
thick with intertwining vines
a scent of heaven climbs, permeates the air
petals blizzard snow into my hair
I can see myself lingering there

Like anywhere I envision in my mind:
a place, a hope, a span of time
to cope with this aging life, a slower pace
Trimming back encumbrances, pruning with care
to let the beauty, grace of life
Be shared

c. Darlene Moore Berg 2018

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Second Cup

A second cup of tea to steep reality

The first one drained with departing dreams

And so it ever seems

Unanchored minutes, hours

Sipping wisdom from words

Sweet nectar stirred into the heart and mind

Waiting to be absorbed

Distill, assimilate, simmer

Psalms, poems, couplets, rhymes

The sun may flare its own set time

I drink slowly, savor mine

c. Darlene Moore Berg

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Dawn

Waiting for the Son to come

We live in the twilight-shadowed earth

His light a flicker in our hearts

We strain our eyes on the horizon

Fix hopes on a Kingdom dawn.

c. Darlene Moore Berg 01/18/2018

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Whiff

Whiff

In the kitchen slicing up cinnamon spiced Amish friendship bread
(I plan to serve with coffee or tea at church in the morning)
a whiff of heavenly feasting tickles my nose, an aroma reaching
to heart and soul.

Uncle John how about a fork-full of your candied yams.
I do not suppose deviled eggs are allowed in paradise.
You take your eating slow, savoring each bite.

Grandma a crumb of your pecan sandies straight from the
cookie jar will hit the spot. I still make your hot butter sauce
but not the suet pudding.

Mom whisk up your chocolate fudge, beaten until
smooth and perfectly creamy. I never learned to make your fried chicken
with milk gravy.

Dad, I miss your sorghum popcorn balls, rolled by powdered sugar’d hands
You whirled the popcorn in the crank popper on the gas stove,
over a hot sizzling flame, shaking it for an even pop.

A kernel of truth. Here we yearn for those who left before us.
What a treat to ponder: I’ll meet with you all some day up yonder
Sitting to supper with the Lamb of God. Save me a seat by and by.

c. Darlene Moore Berg 8/8/2018

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