• My Poems

    How to Measure Time {a #poem}

    I swerved around a swallowtail today, its goldblackblue mosaic translated across the glass and gone. Street’s curbed outline caught the corner of my eye as the colorburst startled me to noticing, awakened me to a sight just past the neighbors. A sudden glimpse of canines at their master’s feet—heads anon, ears aperk—then they rose and trotted on. ***** What if darting visions, experience, growth were not an arrow whizzing by in time but instead layers that land over our lives like a blanket? What might we make of it, the mundane atop daysweeksmonths of richness? Years folding slowly, one event or view at a time—like the memory of a butterfly’s…

  • My Poems

    Cocoon-{a #poem}

    I slip on this chosen shelter, hide within silken walls and wonder— How long will these layers hold? Fragile pearlescence surrounds me- who’s to say? My shattered self is still, waiting. Gauzy quiet and singular, barren days envelop me by the hour. I take pains with my words, listen more, defy the urgency of unnecessary things. Spinning a private insulation preserves me heart and mind, a soundless cushion while my soul heals. —– No one can chart a butterfly’s birth. Not really. Skin is shed, the surprise of color shocks as wings unfurl, breathing life into deep- down cells. Chrysalis—gold. All that remains when death is past and days have…

  • My Poems,  Poetry

    Gilt Gift {a #poem}

    Sometimes I guilt myself right out of joy. Like the surprise of an iridescent butterfly from an unsightly cocoon, who would expect this shimmering show in morning sunlight? Eyes are trained on Northwest firs framed in blue, frosted feeders, feathered presents hidden among the trees. I’ve held my breath, wondering. Did my mother ever ponder stilling herself, take a moment with the birds in her California garden? Gaze restful at morning fog carried in on marine air? Was she ever at ease in her troubled life, as she parented us alone? I will never know. I cannot ring her up to ask, there is no email to send, no letter…

  • Hearts on Pilgrimage,  My Poems

    My Favorite Poem From my New Book

    What My Grandkids Will Say About Me on Oprah When my grandkids talk to Oprah     about their Nana, the famous writer, they will say words were my oxygen–     to read, to write, to share, and that I spent way too much money     at Thrift Stores on books by dead authors– Emily Dickinson, George Herbert, LM Montgomery     and Keats. They will also tell her I loved to sing–     another form of breathing– and how I embarrassed them in public     by belting out the “Tomorrow” song from Annie or grabbing their elbows in the mall     while shouting “We’re off…

  • My Poems

    Plating the Bread of Life {a #poem}

    Bed askew with straw, rummaged       leftovers of the menageries’ last meal. A stone space quarried like the heart of a  small ark, opening just enough  to cradle the straw. The stall, open planks no match for the midnight  chill, gaps lasering light, streaming in on stone. Mother draped in simple cloth, teenaged hands trembling as she lays her infant  in the place of the animals’ meal. Suckling sounds as He stares, still, into the sky  where the host of Heaven lift voices  through the spheres Announcing His presentation,  which, as the young father recalls,  would at last be everything. Merry Christmas, friends.

  • My Poems,  The Church Year

    Anna Waits {a #poem}

    Light is coming she’d heard and read, and widowed, she had nothing calling her name but His across the years like an echo from The Garden so long ago. She’d been seeking (was He hiding?), steadfastly determined, for what else was her life but this–an always looking in the temple courts, trusting the doorway would be darkened some day when Light came into the room. (sharing from the Archives)

  • My Poems

    Contemplate {a #poem}

    I’ve no chisel but this pen chipping at paper like stone, carving words, not to build but bend graphite like steel, curve the bones (Dear God, not break) but lay in place and then form a space to hold a new edifice, sculpt and rest and tap some more while You hand me bricks to begin, restore. *** The word contemplate is from the Latin, and literally means to carve out a temple, from the two parts-‘com’ and ‘templum,’ i.e. an “intensive space.” Words are swirling everywhere lately and the voices are l o u d. Seems no matter where I turn there is something to fear whether it’s danger,…

  • My Poems

    Five Haikus for Spring

    Blue Door Sapphire welcome says hello at the start of day I walk and wonder. Wisteria Dropping amethyst Translucent emerald trailing Reflected treasures Haiku for Spring Drops of see through gems moisture gift drips slowly down Silvered honesty. Accompaniment Devoted songbirds Daily raise their melody No maestro but Spring. Aerial Hummingbird sips blooms From windows I spy each zoom Birds in lilacs appear I’ve been writing poems throughout this season of #lifeinthetimeofcorona and very grateful for the sure thing provided by Spring, which listens to its own Maestro, Creator God. Regardless of ‘lockdown’ everywhere else, His presence is not isolated inside. The familiar form of haikus–3 lines with syllable counts…