Ready to Make Friends with Poetry? ⟶
I’m awake behind closed eyes noting the whooshing sounds of far away freeway noise (at 2 in the morning? seriously?) and a howling, train-whistly cry rises in the distance through my open night window. The coyotes are stirring, too. The Psalmist David writes of being awake through the watches of the night and I wonder…
If I was inside not here–away– I’d miss the rickety sounding chip, chip, chip of the cautious squirrel feasting on my deck. I’d be still and safe and sure of my surroundings but could never feel this lacy, lingering, gentle breeze lilting along the leaves of the trees. My eyes would rest on the all…
My husband and I recently spent some time away for our anniversary and I discovered that in confined quarters–our all in one room on the island–it’s hard to find personal space. My husband’s solution? To not having to listen to me all the time? Turn off his hearing aids. Smile. It made me think about…
Summertime is either noisy busy, with houses full of now-at-home children and the moms who want to make the most of the days, or, well….just plain busy. God is in all of it–the kidsounds and joy–and in the quiet, when we can coax it out of our day. Here are some shhhhhh…..thoughts for finding the…
Across the dining room chairs over the lamp and past the plants through the window, I spy silhouettes that awaken and dance like the pebbled stones in a child’s kaleidoscope, shape-shifting black against the not quite white night sky. Here the leaves move, there they bend and turn branches like sky-borne seaweed in an ocean…
Six o’clock sounds say ‘hurry home’ in the rush and whoosh of tires sliding through the rain soaked street. The tick, click, tick of the clock confirms the dinner hour while a bird through the window with his “cheerup, cheerup, cheer!” reminds any and all listeners that evening is approaching. The electronic hmmzzzzzzzz…. of the…
Golden oil in a bottle liquid light refracting sun in shimmers a mirrored shape reflects on the surface and I wonder at the drop, drop, drops of light as they drip, drip, drip down. All this tasting joyfulness because something was crushed and pressed, leaving light.
the lights have left the leaves, golden brilliance turned out like a glowing candle quieted by the wind. the leaves float and rustle, voices, too, carried by the breeze to this place atop a hill– a slanted receptacle for sound forcing it upwards to my ears. I’m hidden–He’s not. I hear Him. He’s here.
Vashon Hardware, Vashon Island, WA Rudyard Kipling begins his classic “If” poem, urging me to keep my head when all about me are losing theirs, and I’m certain my head–and its grey matter contents– will soon explode for the sums and ciphers impinging on the brain space I. do. not. have. This is a necessary…
I fell flat–face first Down on the ground Hard. Stopped short, mid-stride Chatting as I rolled Around the corner. (Why I’ll show these young people a thing or two.) All I wanted to do was Join in the fun— Ah, Family Skate Night. Fellowship with the saints, Be salt and light, Share the joy. I…