Monday, April 26, 2010

Hidden Story

I used to write inside the dresser drawers. First on the white paper liner, later lifting the protection and coloring beneath. Dark smooth wood. I’d scribble green and red and blue and then close it away. A hidden rendevous with beauty. A hidden wrong.

The mind is a drawer of remembracnce...

...hidden stories that rub off on clean clothes, that seep subtly into everything—a cuff stained with a fleck of red, a blue tinge on your favorite shorts.

Occasionally, in just the right weather, the dresser shakes and the drawer rumbles open, the story flies out in a kite full of gestures, paper and colors against wood and wind, soiled sox tailing the tempest, truth diving and circling the syllables.

Listen. There’s more.

Now it’s your turn. Confession is a story with a line of sorrow, the updraft of forgivenss.

It takes two. An indelible connection. No matter how dark, how closed.

Breaker crushed shells, grit

So fine it tells a story:

Undertow. Life line.


Monday, April 19, 2010


Light can be described both as a wave and a particle. Not one or the other. Both.
It can be dark in the light. And light in the dark.
In the beginning was the Word and the word was with God and the word was God.
Riddles in which we find truth.
Is there anything more full of light that the voice of someone you love?

Trails under the bark

Passageways defined by dark

Light softly spoken


Saturday, April 17, 2010

Golden Rule

I have only one word of advice:

Do to others as you would have them do to you.

That's it. That is the only flashlight you get.

Keep it in front of you. It will go well with you.


(it's only cliche until you do it...)

Forgive sweat and blood

Skin covers bone with feeling

Petals fall open


Thursday, April 15, 2010


Answers. Mostly not like a math problem, there are massively varied solutions. And those are the ones you actually figure out.

Look. Listen. Touch. Smell. Taste. Senses are hardly the right tools.

Memory comes closer.

Pain closer yet.

I'm not saying pain is the answer, just that we begin to understand different things when pain is involved.

And we still might not ever have the satisfaction of knowing the answer.

Thumb flipping pages

The leaves talk amongst themselves

Answers clear as wind


Tuesday, April 13, 2010


A year ago, a good man died in Africa. Willis. We tend to speak well of the dead—memory does that—but in the end truth lingers. Willis was kind and generous. I hope his two young sons absorbed his faith and are bearing that fruit even now. And Grace. Grace, his wife, is living out her name. I think it is Grace that I admire most in this world.

Kneeling on pebbles

Clockwise circle the seasons

Best days: sky is blue


Thursday, April 8, 2010


Poles apart

Two merge into one

Sky lays down on water and ripples


Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Apple of the Eye

A bit like the smell of motor oil, I relish the smell of printer's ink.

My husband actually likes a light smell of skunk. It recalls his uncle's ranch as as child, walking up the creek fishing and the barn cat that could not wait for the hook to come out before grabbing the fish.

Ever wonder what odd thing makes your reflection shimmer in God's mind?

 Reflecting the heart

Backward upside down buffoon

Apple of the eye


Monday, April 5, 2010

Green Flash

I've never seen the green flash. It's a sunset phenomenon wherein just after the sun slips below the horizon there is a flash of brilliant green. 

And I must tell you that if someone said they had seen it, well, it would be suspect. It is just a flash afterall. Anyone could say they saw it and the world would be no different. 

But still I wonder: is this instantaneous burst of color real--or is it just wishful thinking? 

I tend to believe slow things. Rocks flattened by glaciers and Saviors that take three days to rise. 

And yet there I am at sunset and staring through slow minutes...hoping.  

Crane: midstream stock still

Scanning eons urgent surge

Green flash flips a tail


Sunday, April 4, 2010

Christ Has Risen. He Has Risen, Indeed

Old crows and rocks gawked

Wings and doubt over head flocked

Savior rose rose rose


Saturday, April 3, 2010

Wait. You Just have to Wait

The Saturday of Holy Week: waiting, waiting--being still, living with the horror for a whole day, waiting. And their waiting was not in expectation of resurrection. More like: so now what? How do I explain this? Perhaps I'll just quietly walk back down to the dock and see how my fishing boat is. Anyone want to come?

Corridor of death

Clouds run from the horizon

Crows fly single file


Friday, April 2, 2010

Cannon for Good Friday

Tremolo: earth quakes

Glissando: law shifts on grace

Fermata: ripping


Thursday, April 1, 2010


Someone named it: April. And then National Poetry Month. NaPoMo our term of endearment.

Poetry—the art of choosing the exact and right words. Oh it strikes fear in the hearts of those who expect this means there is a right and wrong answer. And sadly these days, poetry illicits disrespect for hiding rather than revealing meaning, making the reader feel stupid. But it does not have to be so.

I propose progress as playtime. Begin with a small form: the haiku. Three lines of syllables five then seven then five. Think images. Think stark: nouns and verbs. Give one nod to nature and another to our humanity. Post your poem in the comments below.

One a day. Just like the vitamin. Who knows what good will come of it.

Frost. Clay. Rose. Each named
hair, star, grain of sand, sparrow
sought after, chosen.

Nothing in all the world means chosen, like being named.