Ready to Make Friends with Poetry? ⟶
Spider, bug,
Ant and bee
In my garden,
At my knee.
Provide a show
For this young one,
Eyes tuned tight
In midday sun.
He alone can see them move
We pass so fast his dawdling proves
Were we more still
We’d find delight
In this wee world
Through child’s sight.
Just a simple poem for my first grandson. Children delight in the simplest things.
W CROSS R D S Lamb. Perfect. Hung. Alone. Naked. For me. Abandoned. Blamed. Spit on. Mocked. Forsaken. For me. Loving. Spotless. Alone. For love. Blood poured out. For me. Broken. Crying. Praying. Dying. A garden beginning, A garden His ending. On a hill he hung for me.
I wanna wear rainbow-striped leggings like Carly or a bright pink tutu with Zoe’s sparkly shirt. I’d like pigtails or a vivid purple flower clipped in my hair. I’d like to run with abandon hollering after a ball and do a leaping high five when I catch it. I want to jump rope–double-dutch, in fact–…
When you have walked through the valley of the shadow and death came anyway (not to you, for you did.not.die) and there is breath in you to greet the day. when you survive the shredding of your soul to its core and the disappearance of dreams, all other challenges– man made, God-breathed– like snow— can…
I want to fly these dumbbells up, down, up, down quick! The momentum of each lift rising at my side pushing past perhaps what’s safe or wise in the name of what? Speed or yes, the checklist-exercise- done! When I slow instead, face the window and raise these weighted arms slow, slow, slow-up; slow, slow,…
Many corners of the interwebs are echoing Jesus-followers to be more intentional about pauses in our busy days and find a Sabbath rest. In this season of my life it is more and more difficult to engage in such a practice. However, I woke up the other morning and heard, “find Me in the In-Between”,…
The warm spring rain persisted Like the need for prayer, insisted I arise. A call to care, regardless of the hour, When time knows no limits, And love requires me to listen! Whose heart’s cry do I hear? My own—involved, consumed? Aware of the power, if I ask, for The Father’s hand to reach…