Stars

Stars

by John W. Vander Velden

                                    Image taken from: science.nationalgeographic.com 

The long day closing the western sky hot filled with amber and yellow.  The world’s color fading slowly to shades of gray as the sky reluctantly gives up its light.  The summer evening yet hot only the slightest breeze caressing hair and cheeks, gently stirring leaves high above.  The nighthawk and whip-or-will’s call remind life goes on.  Heaven’s colors fade, only a pale remnant remain above the sun’s exit.  The sky’s blue grows darker…to violet…to indigo.  The first bright diamonds can be seen before the night’s blackness has swallowed the last color.  Soon the few brightest are joined by their uncountable companions.  Hours the blue-white gems march across the sky, following the same trails journeyed for eons.  Often unnoticed as if with lives of their own, each holding its own particular place among its kin, some brighter…some bluer…yet each vital.  Together painting the great canvas above.  The great clear sky immense beyond measure can make one feel small…insignificant.  Yet we…each of us…as every star has our place.  Going on our own travels day by day.  As the night sky would be incomplete without even the smallest…dimmest…the world needs each…the proud…the grand…the modest…and above all the humble.  So stand beneath the night sky.  Breathe deeply absorbing the beauty infinite and shine!

(215 Words)

More Than Clouds

More than Clouds

By John W. Vander Velden  

                     

Have you taken the time lately, on a lazy hot summer’s evening to look at the sky?  Often great masses of white float casually on the breeze.  Do you see…truly see…see more than clouds?  Oh, a childish pursuit, you say…. Reserved for the young or foolish dreamers, you say…. For the responsible, time wasted, you say….  Perhaps.  Maybe we are surrounded by walls blinding our vision.  Walls, of time clocks, bills, promises, future plans, that limit our view.  Our focus upon reality…is there more?  For the world hurls reality in our face…the news…TV…at work…at home…all around, numbed yet feeling strangely content.  Secure that we understand the facts and facts are all that matter…facts make us wise.  Foolish to see great sailing ships, castles, or grand ranges of white and gray mountains; ever changing as leisurely they drift past.  Life is too intense…too demanding.  We are grownups…met our obligations…made the sacrifices.  But have we surrendered the ability to see more than clouds?

(168 Words)

The Doorway

The Doorway 

by John W. Vander Velden

                          

We stand at the doorway uncertain what waits beyond.  Remembering too well, all that lies behind us, our pains, our failures.  The road traveled, each mile unique, a pathway with bumps and chuckholes.  For each, the journey has made us.  Are we not formed by the years…by the challenges…by the hardships…by our achievements?  Step by step we move forward, down one hallway, following another, around corners unexpected, often facing the greatest resistor…our own feeling of inadequacy.  Knowing ourselves too well, seeing all kept hidden from others, our weaknesses drives our fears.  For with each day doubt’s strength grows.  Certain we are bound by our past.  How can we lift ourselves above the mire…this time?  Yet optimism, as we face the future, a tool worthy of hope’s possibilities, for we once more stand in the doorway.  Though the future beyond…hidden…surely offers both risk and great triumph.  It is for us to choose.  Charge forward, chin high, eyes set, seeking what can, ignoring those that say nay…or to cower fearful, made impotent by the lies of smaller minds.  What do you choose…?  For we stand at the doorway!
 

(191 Words)

Hot Summer Afternoon

Hot Summer Afternoon

By John W. Vander Velden                 

Wiping his sweat covered brow with a faded red handkerchief, the damp rag, in truth, of little benefit.  The farmer has not lost track of the hours spent beneath the summer sun; hours raking hay, cured.  Squinting, Claude examines the sky, clouds building to his west…concerning.  The crop nearly ready, the next task at hand, now not the time to rest.  His damp shirt sticking to flesh goes unnoticed; other things fill the man’s mind.  Hurrying, Claude exchanges equipment.  Rake replaced by baler.  Time passes.  The wind hot as now…thump…thump…thump the machine labors, compressing the long ribbons of green into twine bound rectangles laid in rows.  Rank after rank made…rank after rank as dust and sweat, an unpleasant mix, cover the man. The machine shakes his tractor while the roaring engine sways beneath the load of each plunger stroke. Thump…thump…thump…Claude counts, thirteen strokes to a bale.  The pace will do.  Once more he rearranges sweat and sticky green with the saturated bandana.  Though moving at a walking pace, he wrestles the steering wheel.  Little room for error.  Claude must remain constantly aware.  His ears tune to the rhythm of engine and baler while eyes watch the hay flow as devoured.  Counting strokes, hearing the needles thrust…the clinkety-clink of the knotters.  The count begins again.  Claude measures the windrows that remain against his watch and darkening sky.  Perhaps the weather will hold, on that he has no confidence.  Time seems the enemy. Thump…thump…thump…whoof… clinkety-clink…sweat pours…the hours pass.  The last bale finished, it is only six-thirty and still “hotter than….” Claude refuses to think the word, as once more he mops his brow.  A swig…the water bottle now empty…a task complete…the day certainly not ended.  For those neat rows, the hundreds of green soldiers must be lifted, stacked and put away before the old man can go at last to his rest…satisfied.  Later with steady hands Claude races across the field.  The cleverness, of this machine, never ceases to amaze.  Yet it takes nearly three hours, as alone he works, as alone he completes the task others might think impossible.  Lightning flashes across the darkening sky, as with haste Claude rushes home.  Wind shifts, the temp falls, the first large warm drops pelt the farmer bouncing along as he races toward the barn.   Tractor and load brought inside as the rain, thunderously loud, pounds the metal roof overhead.  The musty damp scent fills his nostrils, as he fights the wind and forces the large doors closed.  Claude now leaning against that stubborn door, the first time considers the day.  With closed eyes and a smile, thanking God he has beaten the rain.  The old farmer draws a breath.  In the dimness he sees the fruits of the long hours…the sweat.  But in the end Claude understands it was just another hot summer afternoon.  

(486 Words)