Moving day


Today the Walton’s are in a frazzled state as we frantically pull together loose ends and prepare to leave our home of 16 years. So instead of a normal post here’s a poem for your amusement from a favorite author:

Hope is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I’ve heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me. 

[Emily Dickinson]

Though it tarries, wait.

by L.K. Walton
8 October 2013

Flower Bud

A longing for home
Heart content, hands open, palms raised,
No fear in love.
Quivering with joy & anticipation
But still, so still–
A hope buried in the grave
Joyful, hopeful, quiet, content.
No cause for anger,
No bitter bud.
A vision yet unclaimed,
Alive yet faint–
a smoldering wick.
No grabbing. No striving.
Hands folded in lap–
The choicest fruit sweetest
as reward,
not stolen property.
Not a home here,
yet given cosy nest as wings
grow strong,
Biding time until
set to fly.
Above, beyond, heart true & free.
Not in a cage now,
Unfettered by cares,
No fear holding back,
Feathers loosed enough to sweep the dust , not full-fledged
to leap.
No abyss to dread.
No phantom menace.
No indecision.
Perched, yet looking back over shoulder.
Home. Home. Old home.
Fixture. Sure & true.
Unknowns to come, so rest, deep quiet
Dream big & loud,
but keep head & heart
No wandering. No wondering,
All in time.
Heart beats fast.
Then calm.
Impatient dove, wait.
Remember your roots.
Plant there, deep seeded.
Love, keep, stay, bloom.
Keep the steady course.
It comes.

Finally, another post

Life, I have grown to find, never turns out exactly as we plan. It is, in fact, so very different from our imaginings. And I think therein lies a key phrase: as we imagine. Did I ever imagine I’d end up in college? Did I ever imagine I would be anything but an Art major? Did I ever imagine myself at Appalachian State? Did I ever imagine myself going into Public Relations? Did I ever imagine my dreams and desires and ambitions would change? Did I imagine? The truth be told, I could never have dreamed the reality of these things myself. They were so outside the realm of my finite, unimaginative little mind. But they were not outside of His. For this I am grateful.

The further along in life I go, the greater I come to realize that God alone is the master pilot behind the wheel of my story. I could not drive this boat along–it would have shipwrecked for sure ages ago. Yet, His loving hands guide me into safe havens, and when the storms come, though the boat rocks violently and I fear a capsize, He is yet the anchor of my soul who holds me steadfast. It is not my love for Him  that holds me there, but rather His love for me. Every event in my life has surely been a mercy. Some mercies are tender. Some are so fierce I wonder they are mercies at all. I see His name written on every one. Abraham Kyper once eloquently put it:

There is not a square inch in the whole domain of our human existence over which Christ, who is sovereign over all, does not cry, “Mine!”

I will not try to get you caught up on the past four months of my life–so much has happened and changed, I could not relate them all! What has changed is me. Not all at once. Not overnight. No, this has been a long process that is still continuing today.

I love self-revelations. They are so strange because you figure out at once something that never made sense to you about yourself, or they make your life seem like one big puzzle in which a missing piece has suddenly been placed. Here is one such epiphany:

My life, from the time of young childhood  until now, has been all about courage. Or my lack of it.

Cour.age Noun: the ability to confront fear, pain, danger, uncertainty, or intimidation. Acting in spite of fear. Mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty.

I wish I could show you all the ways in which the Lord has grown me to be “strong and courageous” [Joshua 1], because short though my lifetime is yet, there are countless ways in which He has called me out of my level of comfort to a place of utter vulnerability where “He calls me to trust Him so completely, I would be in trouble if He did not come through” [Francis Chan, “Crazy Love]. I wish I could explain to you more in depth what I mean and where I am going with this, because I know this is abstract. Just know that the One who began a good work in me is still at work to bring me to completion on the day where I will stand before Christ. I will leave you with a portion of a poem that I wrote in February of this year:

Tears will flow, yes,

For such your nature decrees,

But a Lion’s courage stands steadfast

While every weakness flees.

You are not your own,

Your life was bought and kept by another;

But the candle, faint within your breast,

He will not squash nor smother.

He knows your gentle soul is pricked,

Tender as an open wound,

Thus quietness and peace He gives

Ensuring pain is soothed.

He gives precisely what you need

But never more than you can bear.

Though painful be the load you carry,

His meaning’s always care.

Never doubt His love or leading,

One day the trials shall cease,

For what remains from darkest night

Are His murmurings of peace.

[Ephesians 7:8 by L.K. Walton]

The Artist’s Return

I burn, I pine

Dull, dead the tool, it lies

I long, I yearn

Idle is a stroke  so fine

Time is not a fool

The frozen hand, no disconcern


A coal smolders faint

In sorrowful bossom

Waiting, fainting, wanting

In marble face, no taint,

No trace of blossom

Passion, duty, laughter


Not gone yet, remains deft hue,

Ruby red, nearly faded now

Awaken, remember, begin,

Once more slew

The old, worked plough

Rekindle deft kin


I burn, I dip deep below

the yellow crest.

I pine, I stroke the robin’s

weathered breast.

I long, I open wide the palette

of once used zest.

I yearn, therefore the canvas,

with my brush, is


-Written 6 December 2010

Sonnet 1

When felt beat down, low, helpless,

Unable to move and weak,

Fly fast to Hand and undress

All sorrows on that Grand Physique.

Hard though Disappointment come,

When Bitterness claws at soul,

When first dear dream is overcome,

When little be left to console,

Yet Truth, high-held and fast

Holds two droughts in the hand of one–

The gall and sweet, the forsaken and steadfast–

But will through things, yet, overcome.

Sorrow can come like silent thief

Yet shall be swallowed by hopeful belief.

-February 2011

In which I expose my first poem to the public’s critique…

Sonnet 2

Like a coracle in the tempest,

Like a tree transplanted,

Is the soul filled with unrest

For the yearnings yet unanswered.

Would that youth brought old age–

The wisdom found and earned by gray–

Would that seekers saw past turning page

That the longing might not the appetite slay.

But the sea will calm, unannounced and free,

And the tree with find it’s roots the same.

One day you will have the eyes to see

The blow that whelms does not maim.

So take this lesson close to heart:

That which is best of you shall not depart.

–Written 16 August 2011