Ready to Make Friends with Poetry? ⟶
Nothing is FINAL
There is always a new day, a new chance
Noting is FATAL
You won’t die; this experience won’t kill you
Nothing is FUTILE
Even if you’ve blown it, you can learn from this; God uses it all.
~~~~~~
From my journal August 29, 2007.
First ‘from my journal’ post is here.
To new followers here–Welcome! And for those faithful readers & friends–an update:Anyone who’s decided to write, edit or release a book in the last nine months of #lifeinthetimeofcorona might be considered misguided, but that’s exactly what I’ve been up to. My book of poetry–Hearts on Pilgrimage-Poems & Prayers–will, God willing, be released at the end of…
Some friends and I were having lunch the other day, discussing various challenges to find the time to write—caring for children, caring for our homes, talking with spouses, all manner of delights and duties. Then there was the other ‘D’—distractions. In between bites of fish and chips I lamented the ease with which I am…
Barbara Crooker is a quiet soul and a richly talented woman. I first heard Barbara’s “voice” via a broadcast of ‘Prairie Home Companion’ when Garrison Keillor read one of her poems. I continued to discover her voice and work as it appeared in various publications, Rock and Sling, Christianity and Literature, The Christian Century, Spiritus, and…
The ‘shuff, shuff, scritch’ of my sneakers against the damp leaves interrupts the sound of quiet on this woodsy walk. A flicker’s cry breaks in high above while I step over the dank patterned tree life at my feet. The path before me is almost entirely covered in debris revealing just the smallest glimmers of emerald…
Perhaps the greatest tool of the enemy of our souls is to keep our addictions and problems in the dark. Actually, it IS his greatest tool. In Christian circles we have deemed it acceptable to talk about overeating and gluttony–there is Weight Watchers or we can enroll in Jenny Craig. There are support groups for…
I grew up in Southern California, the land of orange orchards and strawberry fields. I remember well the acres on the corner lot near our elementary school—the Aihara’s place—with row after row of strawberries. I remember two things about my elementary school friend Lynne Aihara—her remarkably beautiful handwriting and sifting rice. When I was invited to…