Who Will Serve?



and so the day
and the week
and the month


But the end of term was
ME! and
ME! and

Who can judge
to determine when mercy’s meted out
and when eviction’s apportioned?

Sometimes I think
there are too many ants feeding grasshoppers.

And then I see the fiddle I hold
behind my back
and am thankful

Jars of Clay


Those words
branded you
as soon as they left your lips
and all manner of chaos
flew about our heads.

Unlike Pandora
you left the jar empty.

Cursing the groom,
you stormed away from the feast
and missed the finest wine
this side of heaven.



Notes on Clay Jars

Pandora’s “box” was actually a large jar (poor translation made it a “box”)
which was generally used for storing wine, oil, water or grain.

These same type of jars were used for water in Israel.  At a family wedding Mary confided to Jesus that the wine was finished long before the party was.  She told the servants to do everything Jesus instructed them to do.  He had them fill the large jars with water, dip some out and take it to the master of the banquet.  When he tasted the wine the servants brought him, he called the bridegroom aside and said, “Everyone brings out the choice wine first and then the cheaper wine after the guests have had too much to drink; but you have saved the best till now.”

And Paul, in 2 Corinthians, says “we ourselves are like fragile clay jars containing this great treasure. This makes it clear that our great power is from God, not from ourselves.”

dazzling dawn




Once again I was inspired by Whimsygizmo’s Blog and the invitation to come play with words at Play Online – Magnetic Poetry.

It is actually quite a soothing exercise.
Try it!  🙂


My Brother’s Keeper


The first time —
the very first time —
the heartbeat of heaven stopped,
and creation gasped for air.
Earth shrieked in pain.
Surely it was the beginning of the end.

Today blood cries out to the Lord from the ground —
so much blood that it stains the soil
and drowns the sound of children’s laughter.
No one hears the singing stars.

And still we ask,
“Am I my brother’s keeper?”


A resident of our town was killed in a hijacking yesterday.
An elderly couple was robbed and then beaten to death.
A young man was fatally shot by his intoxicated brother in the heat of an argument.
And for the rest of us, life went on as normal.



Nearly a quarter,
but not quite yet,
I waited,

A mystery,
a gift,
a blessing
which we’d only know,
really know,
as the years wove intricate patterns
of colour and rhythm.

On this side of time
I celebrate with joy
the woman who sings the Maker’s song
and like her Father
creates beauty
with her hands,
her grace


i think you’re beautiful


Little miss(understood) spider
no bigger than a crumb
dancing with the curser
across the monitor,

stealthy cat patience
hunting your prey,
bulldog ferocity
in your tenacious pounce,

I think you’re beautiful,
little miss(understood) spider.

I think you’re beautiful.

Wide of the Mark


The more we learn, the more we find
so many things are left behind.
Diverted energy, wasted time,
unused reasons, unfinished rhymes.
The brilliant piece I meant to write
defies the paper and takes flight.
Everything I try to do
measures half of what is true.

And yet in nature, perfectly,
grows dandy flower and tall pine tree.
Every blade of emerald grass,
Cobalt sky where sun does pass.
A craggy canyon, tadpole’s tail,
A tiny ant, humpbacked whale.
The stars, a snowflake made of frost —
Once created, nothing lost.

Like Father, I would awe(some) be —
To write and paint in harmony.

Stark Contrast


twelve years old

bored student in an overheated classroom
reluctant soldier indoctrinated in war

monthly soirées at the country club
daily drills in shooting things

cool leather crossbody bag to complete the outfit
a bomb strapped to the chest

watching the latest Hollywood release
witnessing the brutal death of a bunk mate

sleeping in a bed in a house, with pets and parents
resting in a ditch with a gun, ants and other scared young boys

tomorrow i turn thirteen



Today I was struck by the stark contrast in the lives of people on planet Earth.  I thought of two boys, growing up in completely different environments.  Maybe they are both 12 years old.  Maybe they have their birthdays on the same day.   One lives in secure comfort and takes his life for granted.  The other is a child soldier, probably an orphan forced into service.

Sheep in Wolves’ Clothes


we learn the subtle art of disguise.
Slowly we layer our hearts so that they are nearly suffocated.
Systematically we wrap ourselves in exteriors which are
cool or hip,
nonchalant or insignificant,
bumptious or delicate.

But not really.
The only reason no one around us notices our horns,
is that they too are caught up in concealing their own sheepish faces.



we were meant to be one.

but we fell down
and shattered into a million pieces.
now we are just a floor
full of tiny fragments
each trying to pretend
we have meaning on our own.

a bit of willow.
a trace of manufacturer’s mark.
pure white.
solid blue.

we align ourselves with like bits
hoping to fit.

but it is a disaster.

Older Entries Newer Entries