All posts by L.L. Shelton

About L.L. Shelton

Bonnie is a Jesus Lover, and in light of the fact, loves His wonderful church. She is interested in many things and enjoys sharing her view of some of them on this blog. She is a poet and a singer of songs. She resides in Memphis, Tennessee, where she is a dedicated wife and the mother of seven children- five of whom she educates at home, as the eldest two have graduated homeschool and are pursuing their own interests. In her spare moments she may be found in her home office with a client, as she is a practicing Biblical Counselor and a Life Coach. She welcomes you to print and share her articles and poetry, and to quote freely from them with the understanding that she is to be acknowledged as the author. Mrs. Shelton does NOT OWN the copyright to the majority of the photos and other types of illustration used on this site!

Of An Evening

Poetry

In springtime evening,
I hear you calling
One to another,
Weet weet weet weet
Weet weet weet weet!
Weet weet weet weet
Weet weet weet weet!
I wonder what it is that you say.
If I could speak as you,
Would we be friends?

Copyright 2018. L.L. Shelton.

Remembering the Exquisite

Poetry

My paternal grandmother was a terrifically glamorous kind of beautiful, and she was talented beyond measure.  Seriously, there was little she couldn’t do and do well- from designing and sewing her own movie star fashioned clothing to singing the most fabulous church solo you were ever likely to hear, to golfing, to leading a Cub Scout troop.  She had a zest for life that is yet unmatched in my mind.

She was equally at home in both five-star hotel and camper on the lake.  I watched her water-ski, draw, paint, and do wonderful needlework, and I was as pleased as punch to note that my grandmother was easily the prettiest KitKat girl in the line-up AND the best dancer during the local college’s performance of the Broadway musical, Cabaret.  I think I was ten at the time.  My love for Broadway musicals was ceded and sealed.

She played bridge like a pro and managed to tutor me to compete well enough that I could beat her once in a blue moon.  Her mother was nearly fanatical about a good game of cards.  In her mother’s capable hands, I learned to play Spite and Malice and Honeymoon Bridge.   We learned Horse Theif and Thirty-One as a family in her mother’s home- and both she and my great-grandmother were quick to cheat at a game if they could get away with it, so they taught me to always keep my eyes open.

My grandmother instructed me in so many things- how to set a proper table and to arrange flowers… Unfortunately, her attempts at educating me in the fine art of needlework never took- I appear to be all thumbs at that sort of enterprise and she accepted it as she felt less than good about her efforts at certain endeavors.  I recall how she was continually truly dismayed at her own piano performance, and never failed to compare it to her mother’s, which I thought was ridiculous as it was easy to see that my great-grandmother was probably magic and had set a spell over her own fingers; as with hardly a lesson, she was able to master the keys, her small but fantastic hands flying over the keyboard to give us Rachmaninov’s Flight of the Bumblebee.  I was duly impressed with both of them realizing  after my parents generously paid for three years of lessons, I still stumbled all over John Thompson’s poor Fairy Court.  And I never managed to move past it.

My spirited grandmother was born in 1920 placing her squarely at nine years old on the original Black Friday, and her parents divorced in an age when it was terribly unpopular.  She nearly literally grew up with both depression and divorce.  She was the eldest of three children and she barely remembered having a mother who didn’t work outside the home, but she had supportive grandparents in her mother’s parents, and I never heard her insult her own parents.

Mama Eetie, as I called her, because evidently I couldn’t say Mama Lolita as she had hoped, was interested in everything.  She puzzled over human behavior, her own included, and could become hotter than a freshly-fired pistol when provoked, but she had better things to do with her time than to sit around berating others; if she had something to say to you, you could count on her saying it to your face and in fact I rarely saw her sitting down.

And that brings to mind the one area on which we could never fully come to terms.  My avarice reading was a source of pure vexation as once she had read the day’s paper, she was on the move.  I read books- a lot of them.  She never could wrap her head around the idea of there being anything between the covers that warranted sitting still for soooo long when one could be LIVING.

Toward the awkward end of her energetic, fully-embraced and yet often turbulent life, she was diagnosed with bipolar.  I was never certain of the diagnosis, as most labels in the field of mental health are imbued with over-lapping symptoms, and it was late in life for her.  In fact, there are times when even the most respected diagnostician feels less than sure, and those closest to a person are generally unable to see the situation as clearly.  I know that she was filled with an astounding energy and glee on many occasions and seemed threatened with a monumental grief on others, and that I was  delighted for her when she was happy and sorry along with her when she was sad.

I do miss her and hope beyond hope to enjoy her in the life everafter.  The last good visit we had together, I went to see her at the group home where my father (and his brother) had placed her to receive care.  I  took her a favorite thing, a strawberry milkshake, and talked with her again about some of the meaningful things I had read between the covers of a very particular book.  I spoke in simple terms as by that time her mind easily embraced them, and as I have watched many children do under similar circumstance, she listened wide-eyed with wonder, clapped her hands, prayed with me and readily claimed to Believe.

Copyright 2018. L.L. Shelton.

Under Arbor

Poetry

A tree within the forest fell,
Heard herself, began to wail,

Up and down my trunk you roamed,
Among my many branches combed,

Pulled my leaves, consumed my fruit,
Ripped living things out by their root,

Left my heart and soul untapped,
My best inside myself lay trapped.

Copyright 2018. L. L. Shelton.

For C.S. Lewis

Poetry

Little mouse
In my house,
I like you.

Little mouse
Skittering about,
I like you.

Little mouse
With whiskers stares,
As he sees me on the stairs.

Little mouse
Upon my hearth,
Why should I not for you have heart?

Little mouse
Pretend with me,
I share my crumbs of destiny.

Little mouse
Here we will live,
Together give what we can give.

Copyright 2007. L.L. Shelton.

Seeing Clouds

Poetry

Clouds and cauliflower
And things that won’t be known,
Join hands with Mandelbrot
And reveal their certain faces,
Because God is a God of order
And leaves us glorious traces,
Broken lines to show man’s thoughts
And His are not so separate,
Coming together in lovely moments
And prettier pictures to replicate
His love for us in His design;
And we are one day infinite.

Copyright 2018. L.L. Shelton.

The Astounding Response

Poetry

I have allowed, Child, that you cannot shame me;
I have loved you in your unrighteousness.
I have embraced you in your sin.
I have done what you cannot;
I have done what is perfect.
I have given you The Word,
And I have promised to
Never take it from you.
Marked with Holy Seal,
Now and Eternally,
You are mine.

Copyright 2018. L.L. Shelton.