65 is Just a Number {a #poem}

There is no statute of limitations on vision. My old eyes register a darting messenger of God’s blatant, creative joy. Watch the winged creation hover in a web of air. Spy a sleuthing intruder snap-tapping its way across the wood, tunneling away and down the outside stairs. No expiration (yet) for hearing, cataloguing birdvoice and the chipclacking of breakfast at the feeder, the squeaking insistence … Continue reading 65 is Just a Number {a #poem}

Inventory {a #poem}

Lavender linaria spikes upward, miniature clouds stalk-perched      as they reach for the sky. Hummingbirds crowd-feed      in the waning afternoon sun. Carnations, red as a fresh-cut      thumb, wave divine perfume from      ruffled taffeta on gray-green stems. Sweet peas’ pungent surprise,      a salmon/marshmallow palette, celestial      bouquet a fragrance of that      far away gate … Continue reading Inventory {a #poem}

Writer’s Break {a #poem}

I’ve been awash in words of late, missing out on the wind waving through steel branches, blue and white sky. Eyes too crowded to take note of the weather which goes on without me, whether I watch it or not. A glance through the dining room glass speaks loudly in all caps. I am listening. “There is no earth-changing work worth writing that can compare … Continue reading Writer’s Break {a #poem}

Isaiah 1:18

The snow comes, unexpected like grace after a fall (yours, mine, ours) a quiet wool covering missteps, mistakes, messes. White-soft gift leaves an expanse of peace, pulling my eyes away from the ground, these humble, human feet, to the misty, gray horizon. Heart now centered, sheltered, still where Creation whispers my thanks. **** Do you remember the Oscars from a few years ago, with the … Continue reading Isaiah 1:18

When Poems Beget Poetry

“The day is done and all the fields lie fallow, One thing is needful, one voice calls your name.” From the Sonnet “Pilgrimage” for Kate Gross, by Malcolm Guite Selection from “Parable and Paradox Sometimes a poem rises up and words pour out after reading another writers’ work. Here’s what I was inspired to pen after reading the above lines in Malcolm Guite’s sonnet. Harvest What … Continue reading When Poems Beget Poetry

For Friends Too Many to Name {a #poem}

Years and miles evaporate like the season’s new-birthed fog, leaving the strong, bright gleam of friendship lighthouse true. Holding true like the trees weathered through decades of sun as we weathered our own wearying waves of life, lapping at the edge of our friendship, threatening to erode the years of tears and laughter, the space and distance breakers in between. In between we hold on, reach out … Continue reading For Friends Too Many to Name {a #poem}

Ad Vent {a #poem}

Glossy pages proclaim paltry purchases as life savers for my overrun soul. I’m run over as they bellow, beckoning, “buy me! buy me!” I cannot partake of one more iota of input– how can quiet paper carry so much loud weight and end up selling me nothing? This war of words promises joy and happiness are but a wallet-full away. Enough greenbacks and I’d have … Continue reading Ad Vent {a #poem}

Lessons in Autumn-A Poem

One must gather a chair, a cushion, a small setting table field glasses, cup of tea, these grand books like quiet friends then sit. One must sit, knees crossed in cushioned chair anchored in the too tall grass, eyes to the hawthorn and bayberry, waving maple, water-sounding leaves on air. One must train the eye, not strain but rest on beauty- aleaf and aberry, expecting … Continue reading Lessons in Autumn-A Poem

Writing Down the Bones {a #poem}

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, too, re-living the washing of water by their words, like … Continue reading Writing Down the Bones {a #poem}

Hurrahing in Harvest–A Poem I Did Not Write

“Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks arise    Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behaviour    Of silk-sack clouds! has wilder, wilful-wavier Meal-drift moulded ever and melted across skies? “I walk, I lift up, I lift up heart, eyes,    Down all that glory in the heavens to glean our Saviour;    And, eyes, heart, what looks, what lips yet gave … Continue reading Hurrahing in Harvest–A Poem I Did Not Write