Writing

Some Fun News

Every once and a while something cool happens. A literary press, Underwood Press, picked up one of my pieces. One of my favorites. ❤

There is something special about having other writers/editors saying yes to something you have submitted. ☺️

Sometimes encouragement comes, just when you are at the end of your own.

You can check out my piece, The Weavers here https://underwoodpress.com/Underwood/?p=347 and the full issue here https://underwoodpress.com/Underwood/?page_id=61

Thank you for reading along,

Glory Over Everything

Mango Salsa

In these days of quiet, chaos I have been searching to find God’s glory in every little thing.  As always, He has been faithful to show it to me.  As I was making a bowl of mango salsa this week, suddenly, there it was.   

 

Mango Salsa

 

The dog days of summer,

the garden is wild and heavy with fruit.

Tomato vines crawl over beans, threaten cucumbers and taunt the zucchini.

 

Tomatoes sun themselves,

ever changing, green, and pink and red,

abundance is waiting, ripe for the picking.

 

Mangoes tarry, cradled in a bowl,

eager to greet their longtime friends.

Their meeting place, the cutting board.

 

The quiet slicing of deep red, and cubes, yellow like the sun

The same knife slides through red onions, grown in shallow dirt

Swaying cilantro is picked and chopped as its scent fills the air.

 

With one brush of the knife,

the patchwork of colors tumble into a glass bowl,

it must be glass, they must be seen.

 

The lime is cut and gently squeezed,

salt and pepper sprinkled, gladly join the bowl.

The familiar wooden spoon tosses them gently together.

 

All started from seed, hidden in the dark,

In the darkness. In the quiet.

He was there.

 

In one moment, He brought them into his glorious light.

They came together, God’s Harvest,

in all its taste, in all its glory.

Copy of Untitled

 

#gloryovereverything

 

Poetry

Typing Out Poetry

I recently read a book called, The Poetry of Strangers, it spoke about the slower process of typing out a poem, key stroke by key stroke.

You can check out the book here The Poetry of Strangers

Then I was gifted three manual typewriters, that came from an old house, and the tiniest house I’ve ever seen. The woman who lived in this tiny house, typed the titles for our township. Now my fingers rest on those same keys, I love that! 💗

I pulled out my paints and hand painted some paper and then started typing.

There is something about working with your hands that is so absorbing. The clickty clack of the typewriter so satisfying.

This verse has been my anchor all summer. Reminding me that minding my own business, living a quiet life and working with my hands are good things. They bring peace and purpose to my life and that is good and it’s contagious. ☺️

That you also aspire to lead a quiet life, to mind your own business, and to work with your own hands, as we commanded you, that you may walk properly toward those who are outside, and that you may lack nothing.
1 Thessalonians 4:11-12

I’m hoping to offer custom hand typed poems soon! 🌺

Glory Over Everything

Hometown

I’ve always lived in my hometown, as a young girl my plans were to leave for a more exciting pasture.  But alas, I fell in love, married young, had a few babies, who have now flown the nest.  They search for exciting pastures of their own.  Though they left us with instructions that we are to never move,  even from this old house.  Now we find ourselves the keepers of home, for them.

I am reminded of words that my Dad spoke often to those he loved, who were longing to leave.  “Go, see the world, just remember, you can always come home.”  

Hometown

I know its streets,

T\the curves, the bricks,

the crumbling ones by railroad tracks.

 

I know its buildings,

the ones falling in piece by piece,

the hopeful ones, being made new.

 

I know its fountain,

the one in central park,

that calls out for children to come and dangle their feet.

 

I know the places that hold treasure,

the coffee shop that pours liquid gold,

the place that smells of books and wood.

 

I know its people,

the familiar bank teller,

who seeing my sorrow, cupped my hands in hers

 

The grandfather who walks in the mornings,

once cradling a bundle,

now steadies the back of a of a pink bicycle.

 

The young man, I silently cheered on,

as he lumbered along Main Street,

now runs.

 

The mother in the electric wheelchair,

who waits at the bus stop,

in the sun, the rain, the snow.

 

It is a place where life is lived,

smiles are shared,

and shoulders rub.

 

Were dreams vanish, like paint fading in the sun,

yet hope can be found around the next corner.

 

I know the place of the white birch,

where the seasons change, each beautiful one.

Copy of Untitled

 

Poetry

A Song of Sorrow

Lament is a gift.  A place where we find sweet relief in tears.  When our tears subside we have that brief moment of looking up.  We take a breath in that holy place, where our trust is renewed in Him once again.

A Song of Sorrow

 I opened my eyes, I saw.

I cannot, I will not, unsee.

I see them…

Skin over small bones,

as parents, watch in helpless horror.

Women bleeding on a bales of hay,

believing their blood is a curse.

The persecuted, bound and tortured,

their lives taken, while silence reigns.

Bodies of babes, washed up on shores,

sand clings to fingers, that once circled a mother’s.

 

I turn my eyes away,  I look up.

 

I cry to God and heaven,

as my song of sorrow soars.

I feel the light on my face,

and the darkness at my back.

 

In the stillness he is near.

In the stillness I trust.

In the stillness I look down.

 

There, I see my hands, my feet.

Copy of Untitled

Poetry

Brave Boy

A little boy comes to the neighbor next door on Saturday mornings, at first listen you would be tempted to think he is a brat. My old girl and I know differently, and we wait for him with delight.  

Brave Boy 

He comes each Saturday morning

to the neighbor’s house next door,

this brazen boy of wonder.

 

Once the car door opens,

his insistent voice

commands the air.

 

He battles imaginary monsters.

Holding sticks and stones,

in cupped hands.

 

Curtains flutter in the open window,

the old girl’s nose quivers against the screen.

She watches him, breathing him in.

 

He begins happy,

laughing, running, stomping, yelling,

she and I know it will not last long.

 

Old girl whimpers at the window

with knowing,

her brows set in worried frown.

 

A bee sting, a fall, a frustration

His cries will come on cue.

She and I sand, silhouettes in the window,

breathing sighs of relief, when brave boy runs once again.

Copy of Untitled

Poetry

An Open Window

I have had my eyes open to daily delights these past months.  They lift my spirits, change my perspective and stir hope.  May we open our eyes friends, to the sounds, the smells, the sights all around us and then simply give thanks, to the Maker of it all.

An Open Window

The window sits wide open,

curtains ruffle in the wind.

The breath of life is slowly drifting in.

 

The fluttering of wings,

joins chorus of a calling crow,

beating in time with chirps and coos.

 

The crackling of moving tires

A train horn far in the distance,

the rhythm of wheels on tracks.

 

The sound of someone mowing,

then the sweet aroma of freshly cut grass.

 

The delight of children’s treasure,

at a yard sale down the street.

 

I lay near the open window,

Closing my eyes, breathing in,

As the breeze tickles my feet.

 

I glory there for a moment

In the sounds and the smells,

You see, life is calling, to wake up once again.

Copy of Untitled

 

 

Poetry

Shower

This past weekend I attended baby shower of a dear friend’s daughter.  It was pouring rain as we each made our way to the shower, yet we made our way.  Women, young and old, gathered around  the new mother-to-be.  We brought gifts, love and encouragement, for both mother and daughter.  The gathering of women is a sight to behold.

Shower

Women walk, wearing easy summer dresses.

Rain falls, umbrellas open

sandals in puddles, gifts in hands.

 

Tables draped in linens, hold borrowed china,

flowers surround unlit candles,

fragrant in the warm summer air.

 

Women, young and old, have gathered,

lovingly their eyes rest on her swollen belly.

 

The women squeeze in tight

as water drips from canopy rims,

down backs, drops glisten on fallen hair.

 

A smiling watermelon hippo offers fruit,

chicken salad on croissants,

salads brought to be shared

 

Talking, laughing, the eating of cupcakes.

Ribbons are cut, guessing inches,

stories of mothers and babes linger in the air.

 

The women circle, lemonade in hand,

their eyes on the one becoming.

The gifts fall like the rain.

 

The birds sing in rhythm from treetops.

A soft breeze blows, leaves and balloons flutter

The sun peaks, as clouds roll away.

 

Wrappings tumble, glitter flies in the sun.

Full are the hearts

of the woman, who came in the rain.

Copy of Untitled