Your story does not stand alone.
it is interwoven
with the stories of countless others,
affected by and affecting
the lives of persons you love
and persons you do not even know.
It is, furthermore, a page
in the book of the entire universe.
Name it as such
and dare to claim as your own,
that bigger story.© 2018 Dennis Ference
I’m going to Illinois
to see God. Oh, I know
God is right here.
I know that as well as
I know my own name.
But sometimes I need
to have my vision refreshed,
my memory restored.
So I will look into the eyes
of my grandchildren
this weekend–the wonder,
the joy, the promise, the light–
and I will see God.There is no other place
to meet God but here,
no other time but now.
I know that. Still,
sometimes we all need
to be refreshed.© 2014 Dennis Ference
How many times
would I say to them,
“I love you”?
How many times? I wonder
as I lie awake tonight.
Hundreds of times,
thousands, as often as
spring rains thrum the earth?
How many times?If it would protect them
from all harm; if it would help
them honor themselves
to the end; if it would
exterminate the fears
that crawl under their doors and
ride the drafts that whisper
through their window frames…
I would go for the record,
of that you can be sure.© 2014 Dennis H. Ference
BATTERED AND BULLIED
BY FEARS THAT RAGE AND ROAR
LET US TRUST THAT WE ARE
BIGGER THAN OUR FEARS
LET US KNOW THAT WE ARE
SO MUCH MORE
© 2014 Dennis Ference
(First appeared 7/24/14 without pic)
memories of unhealed hurts
we hide from the Light
shackle our freedom and
secretly prolong the night© 2014 Dennis Ference
Photo: © 2014 Lily Brock
Writers, go to the well
of your creativity
regularly and often,
or it may dry up
and leave you
with a heavy sadness
secretly pressing down
upon your heart.© 2015 Dennis Ference
My eight-year-old granddaughter, Elizabeth, and I were kicking back in her room and riding the drafts of imagination wherever they might fly. As this particular story unfolded, we were sitting next to her small desk and cutting up downy feathers from a craft variety pack of “stuff”. I, regrettably, was big-time antsy, a sciatic nerve challenging me to find a comfortable spot on an uncomfortable, child-sized chair. Nonetheless, I was enjoying the easy banter and the sudden twists and turns that often come when Elizabeth has taken the lead. We were cutting the feathers up into small bits, as I recall, to create a soft garment for the imaginary store we were “hired” to supply.
Well, the bag of feathers was large, and after a while, I thought that maybe we had cut enough for the purpose at hand, but she informed me that wasn’t the case, and so we continued our tedious task. A little later, again I raised the same possibility, plus maybe her room was getting a little messy, fluffy down, by then, flying everywhere I looked. I further threw in the thought that perhaps her parents would be unhappy if we cut up each and every feather she had. Not even bothering to look up at me, Elizabeth continued to cut. Finally, as we just about reached the bottom of the bag, and I had thrown out my last obsessive gambit, the philosopher in Elizabeth announced with thoughtful aplomb, “You know, Papa, life is more than feathers.” Amen, Elizabeth! Amen!
© 2014 Dennis Ference
(A whimsical look at the search
for the true Self with a playful nod
to Walt Whitman’s “O Captain!
My Captain!”)
O Dentist! My Dentist!
what do you see?
Tongue, teeth alone
or the very soul of me?
Peering down
that warm, dark shaft,
your mindless chatter
creates a draft.
If a captive’s cry
you hear within,
lower some floss
and rescue him.
For how he longs
to be set free
by anyone, including
the likes of thee.
© 2006 Dennis Ference
Do not withhold
your words from the world
out of pride or anxiety
or concern for success;
rather entrust them
to the winds of the universe
that the wings of the Spirit
may receive and enfold them
and carry them to those hearts
and minds that secretly wait for them
with unspoken need.© 2015 Dennis Ference
As far back
as anyone could remember,
the people of the town
built houses for each other,
sheds, truth be told, crafted
with the hammer of judgement
and the nails of assumed
superiority; houses too small
for a full breath, too cold
for the precociousness of hope,
secured with heavy bolts
of dark warning and fear.
Yet in this town, as in
countless towns everywhere,
lives continue to be lived,
families formed, futures built,
histories made and recorded.
Yes, but wait, you may say.
What about love?
What about compassion?
Do not lose heart, my friend,
for love, in all its guises,
gratefully knows forever,
the trick to pick our locks
and let herself in.
© 2014 Dennis Ference
Merging Traffic 