Ready to Make Friends with Poetry? ⟶
Autumn morning, my eyes are trainedthrough windows to the shadowshow on tree trunks, crayon box of colors falling through space from newly-revealed branches.Creator comes to mind, how Hecarries us, colors us, covers uswith His power, tree-like arms ourstrength, raising us Heavenward. Aware that sap is invisible, a pulsing, stickyriver, carrying nourishment in its wake while…
Sir spider suspended, still but for the invisible jarring of his aerial abode. Does it frighten him to be held by strength he cannot see, to scuttle across the sky, limb to leaf knowing the opposite anchored end could detach in a blink? Still he spins in space, hovers across my path while I dodge and…
I never dreamed one day I’d be parsing a picture book explaining to five year olds that yes, a black man was shot by someone who hated him because of the color of his skin, and before he died he had a Dream for children just like them. After the story (required), they—with their earnest,…
“Stretch” must be a biblical word, regardless of one’s age (an extension, a straining) like a two-year-old reaching on tiptoes towards her Father, not unlike the discomfort of unfolding old bones and well-used knees, joints so stiff they’ve forgotten how to bend. I want to stress and press past the comfortable,groan with the growing, the knowing that dailyI must…
Thank you, Jesus, you came to The average everyday of us, Chose dwelling in limited space, Smiling your vast smile at our Smallness as we reach for our evening beers Down at the local, Baring our souls as we join heart and soul With our friends. You sit back and rest with us in our…
Water, is taught by thirst Land-by the oceans passed. Transport–by throe– Peace–by its battles told– Love, by Memorial Mold– Birds, by the Snow. Emily Dickinson, 1896 ~~~~~~~~~~ no snow here, friends, not yet. but plenty of birds and poetry.
Furious gusts of wayward windstrip branches bare of late season leaves,punctuating the sky with explosions of colorand silent, sweeping stars.
Something has been said about “writing down the bones” which sounds like a good practice if you’re learning anatomy. But the first time I heard the phrase, I thought it was “writing down the poems,” So I am. Writing down the poems moving my bones, the ligaments lightly holding the pen– black on paper, blue,…
I thought I had tomorrow-more than one, like petalsfrom an infinite flowerheld in my hand.I thought I had tomorrowfoolishly thinking the chanceswould arise in infinite numberrolling in like wavesagain and again on the shore.But the words-writ at my feet,stayed there, washing awaylike silken sand,crumbling in liquid lines–the words I never said.I meant to say “Thank…