“Personally, I know little about God, whoever he is. If he is. I realize, however, that to some, he’s downright awesome. From Gram’s description, I picture him like a raptor with a sky’s wingspan, exhaling love’s oxygen on his hatchlings, feeding them comfort and truth and power straight from his beak.” -Sugar Birds, Cheryl Bostrom I haven’t stayed up until midnight to read a book … Continue reading Sugar Birds by Cheryl Grey Bostrom
Susan Cowger confesses she was the ‘black sheep’ in the family, not quite fitting into the mold of family vocations–nurses, pharmacists, sensible people. Instead, her first language was art, a calling that led to a BA in Fine Art (1977) from Montana State University and subsequent MFA in Poetry with a secondary emphasis in Art from Eastern Washington University in 1997. Susan is a sculptor, … Continue reading Female Faith Poet-Susan Cowger
Birds, their tones both winged and bright Harmonize from branches out of sight Know their parts, score memorized Flash and zoom before my eyes. Soprano, alto, second, bass Throaty praises from branchy place Echo, float, reverberate A pause, then celebrate Mornings’ rise first slow and quiet Against dull backdrops now a riot Their songs a span of treble and bass Background my day, this hallowed … Continue reading Accompaniment {a #poem}
Where have you been? Out of town like those who flee our chilled clime and metallic skies? Elsewhere, warming up your voice to herald today’s sunrise with your song? I welcome your morning melody making its way to my ears, stirring memories of other songs on sullen, silver days when your music was my only companion, a balm for the emptiness at the edge of … Continue reading January Bird {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}
You could say (and you would be correct) the mottled, colorless sky leaves one bereft of brightness this time of year. You could say (see above) the empty, lifeless branches are dull, dormant gray/brown slender swords against said mottled sky. You could say (well, you know) there’s little beauty in such poor adornment, small pleasure in the drab and drear view. On the other hand, … Continue reading What the Birds Say-A Winter Poem