• 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,  Poetry

    It’s Almost Here–Hearts on Pilgrimage-Poems & Prayers

    It’s the fourth day of Christmas and I’m sitting at my dining table while shadows play on the Advent wreath and the dishwasher hums. The post-holiday lull has begun, that in-between time where memories of enjoying my family’s company, complete with six noisy grandkids, partner with a looking-forward frame of mind to a new year and a new book. Hearts on Pilgrimage-Poems & Prayers is allllmoooost finished; the final touches are being added to the cover and I am working on the electronic download of the book as well.  Since I’m self-publishing the process is a little nerve-wracking as all the details of content, design and cover are up to…

  • Poetry

    Phillis Wheatley, African American Poet

    Several years ago in a biography of preacher and evangelist Jonathan Edwards, I read the name of  “slave poet” Phillis Wheatley (1753-1784). Wheatley wrote an elegy (poem on the occasion of one’s death) for George Whitefield, one of Jonathan Edwards’ dear friends. Whitefield and Edwards were pillars of the Great Awakening that swept the world from England to the United States in the 1700’s and Wheatley had been greatly affected by the move of God in her own life. In fact, much of her strong Christian faith shows up in her poems, which I soon found out when I went looking. What’s astonishing to me is the language and voice of…

  • Poetry

    The Next Best Yes {a #poem}

      Now Let  And  Yet How can the power of my surrender be wrapped up in three slight letters? A mix of mercy in a single syllable? And yet. Placed just so, like fine crystal refracting evening sun into shards  of light, they precede each sentence, illuming my way to the next best yes. *** I’m grateful to Jesus, who is eternal and an all-at-once God, that we are bound by time. That we are asked to step into our days one at a time, one yes at a time.  

  • Poetry

    Five Female Poets of Faith

    One thing the world needs is for more people to read poetry. Especially from female writers of a certain age who identify as people of faith. I hope you enjoy this small round up and hope you’ll take the time to read more of their work via the links provided. You will be richer for it. –Abigail Carroll That I Might Dwell That I might dwell in warbler song, in fields of sorrel, fields of stars, that dwelling in your house I’d know, I’d rest, I’d play at wonder. Oh that I might dwell in pine-branched shade, among the sway, among the praise of oak-fern,           …

  • My Poems,  Poetry

    Dayspring From on High {a #poem}

      The Christ, as yet unchristened. The Word as yet unspoken. So His Mother announced instead, He has performed mighty deeds with  His arm; He has scattered those who are proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He has brought down rulers from their thrones, but has exalted the humble. He has filled the hungry with good things But has sent the rich away empty. He has helped His servant Israel, remembering to  to be merciful, as He promised to our Fathers to Abraham and his descendants forever.” It is written. It is said. It is done. Before our Lord’s first cry, we’d already won. ***** Mary’s song is from…

  • Poetry

    Silence Ascends, Sunday {a #poem}

    There’s a lot one can say      about the power of being       quiet (yes, I see the irony). When listening forefronts the mind      other senses muscle their       way into place (the ears above      all) take in the not-words      simply song, hum and tone      in counterpoint. No addition necessary; I am      mute, yet the Word bursts      alive, verse and chorus rise      without me. The truth      needs no help to stand. Even when I’m not singing      even if I’m not yes-ing it. Sometimes you don’t get an amen.

  • Poetry

    Home-A Poem in Three Parts

    Beginning Years and miles evaporate like the morning’s ocean fog where the strong, bright gleam of friendship holds true. Holds true like trees that have weathered 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 breaking in between. In between we hold on, reach out past the yesterdays touching this day as we raise high our glasses, crystal etching the air, the sound like a chime announcing we are still here. Middle I threw myself at roaring rolls of foam and froth, abandoned my limbs skyward as I jumped the tops of…