Sketch Notes
To Inspire, Always.
Angel Heart
By Leann Marshall

Stars do not always light the way
When dark obscures all

There are Shadows in the hall…

Be still, and listen

We are still here and the sun is rising, she said…

For what it’s worth
To realize
Mother Earth will catch you
As you fall


Turns away her eyes
Dons the rainbow
As a cloak
Remembers ancient words
They spoke

Not so very far
Every place
Truth and Grace
And Joy and Love

He said

We will never be apart
My angel heart
A Blank Slate
Ann Marquette

I give it all to you, Lord Jesus
This mind
This soul
This heart
The spirit within
I am letting go

Letting it all go
All the muddled thoughts
All the mixed emotions
All the confused feelings
Too much, too many
Have scarred the very essence
Of this being

I give to you
This empty vessel
This blank slate
For you to make it new
For you to fill it up
Fill it to overflowing
With Your goodness
Your grace
Your light
Your love

Write what you will
On this blank slate
That is me
Waiting to be cleansed
And renewed
With Your Spirit, Lord Jesus

Copyright October 24, 2008
Spring Carol
by Robert Louis Stevenson

WHEN loud by landside streamlets gush,
And clear in the greenwood quires the thrush,
With sun on the meadows
And songs in the shadows
Comes again to me
The gift of the tongues of the lea,
The gift of the tongues of meadows.

Straightway my olden heart returns
And dances with the dancing burns;
It sings with the sparrows;
To the rain and the (grimy) barrows
Sings my heart aloud -
To the silver-bellied cloud,
To the silver rainy arrows.

It bears the song of the skylark down,
And it hears the singing of the town;
And youth on the highways
And lovers in byways
Follows and sees:
And hearkens the song of the leas
And sings the songs of the highways.

So when the earth is alive with gods,
And the lusty ploughman breaks the sod,
And the grass sings in the meadows,
And the flowers smile in the shadows,
Sits my heart at ease,
Hearing the song of the leas,
Singing the songs of the meadows.

Where the Sidewalk Ends
by Shel Silverstein

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
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I enjoy reading and writing (check out
my two fiction novels,
The Starfish
People and The Rendering.)

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My philosophy as quoted by Johann
Wolfgang von Goethe:
"One ought, every day at least, to hear a
little song, read a good poem, see a fine
picture, and, if it were possible, to speak
a few reasonable words.”

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