Music to His Ears

Trees in the forest, clapping their hands,

birds scratching notes in sea coastal sands,

fig trees and fir trees, oaks and mulberries,

things on the wing and moths like pink fairies,

primroses, daisies and sassy bluebonnets

wave in the breezes while ladies write sonnets.

Creation and creatures in concert to sing

"Praise the Creator of every good thing!"

A "lyric poem about nature."  

Awarded first place in the Siloam Springs Writer's monthly challenge.

April Fools

April Fools, a little poem I wrote last year, and following that, a limerick written for an assignment.  I don't yet know how it did.

April Fools

Raindrops drip-dropping,

Easter hat shopping,

skunks gone all sappy

and really quite stinky

chasing their mates

across dark country roads.

Rabbits hip-hopping,

fuzzy and jumpy,

intent on increasing,

living up to their fame.

Boys think they’re charming

polished and gracious,

their intentions so obvious,

yet girls seem oblivious

for Spring has come

making fools of us all.

...and the limerick--Ed might be an April fool, too:

Consider the guy we called Ed

uncommonly fond of his bed.

When offered employment

said “where’s the enjoyment?

I’m taking a long nap instead.”

Our Love

We sipped

from the same chalice

sealing our promise to cherish

forever,

and when his tender lips touch mine

I still warm because our love

runs deep.

A "Cameo" poem

Christmas Eve Program

Here it is, a couple of days late: 

CHRISTMAS EVE PROGRAM

Magic it was for us children,

chattering in the Ford’s back seat,

driving through snow light as linen,

with heated bricks warming our feet.

We made it to church just in time

to hear the steeple bells ringing.

We slipped in before the last chime,

happily joining the singing.

I tried very hard not to fidget,

all dressed up in my new red dress.

Mama’s picture in my locket--

I promised her to do my best.

I stepped forward, into the light,

reciting from Luke, chapter two,

all about that magical night

when Jesus came for me and for you.

Shepherds portrayed by the big boys;

Mary, by a ten-year old child.

Toddlers gave baby Jesus toys,

while grandparents looked on and smiled.

We gave our Sunday School teacher

a hanky and a pretty card.

Fat oranges from the preacher

were handed out in the churchyard.

Back in our car, our bricks cold,

singing with glee kept us warm,

 with all of the joy we could hold—

anew in our hearts, Christ is born!

Note:  This poem took first place in the December challenge.

Christmas poems

Here it is, the eve of Christmas eve!  It seems to come earlier every year.  Here is a poem I've written on the subject.

What is it about December

that amplifies expectations?

Most Christmases I remember

left me pondering these questions.

Why do we scurry store to store

buying our kids shiny new toys?

They have so much but still want more

of things that all make lots of noise.

We tell them absurd fairy tales

of Santa Claus and helper elves.

We build them up but it all fails

to thrill while we wear out ourselves.

We try instilling magic into lives

who already are full of stuff.

Get down to basics; what survives

is knowing we all have enough.

Hear the true meaning of Christmas:

No magic here, but history.

Earthmaker’s Son, alive in us.

Heaven touched earth. Sweet mystery! 

The Pilgrim Way

      Today I received word that my first attempt at blank verse placed FIRST in the Siloam Springs Writers monthly challenge.  Here it is:             

    THE PILGRIM WAY

In writing her last will and testament

she deeded cherished silver to her sons.

Her mother’s sewing—needlework so fine—

her daughters should receive, and would, with thanks.

Still, none of them would fully comprehend

what tales those precious heirlooms might relate

if they could speak of their long journey here.

When first she chose what she should pack, she hoped

those trunks would carry all her valuables.

Did she lament the things she could not take   

with her aboard her ship, the Mayflower?

Or count that loss surpassed by her great gain

when four weeks hence her feet touched New World soil?

At last there she could freely worship God,

and pray without restriction or reproach.

“The breaking waves dashed high,” one Pilgrim wrote

about the wild New England coast. The folks

who lived to tell of ruthless seas they sailed,

then set about assembling tools and plans,

cleared trees for farms and from that wood, built homes,

and laid foundations for our liberty.

We are not nomads here but pilgrims too,

while on our way to New Jerusalem.

We too face heavy storms and breaking waves

before we stand at last on that bright shore.

We wonder as we contemplate our lives;   

our time here on this dry and weary land

is nearly gone. Will what we leave behind

submit itself to parchment and the pen?

Oh, may the faith of daughters and of sons

make glad our hearts!  Our earthly riches pale

and fall away as we respond to Him

Whose presence lends us strength to persevere.

The glory we shall share when comes that day

we see true wealth stored up for us who left

our fortune in the lives of those we touched—

a legacy of gratitude and grace.

Poetry challenge updates

I have learned that two of my poems won prizes in the annual Siloam Springs Writers Workshop.  Full of Sap placed third in the "Free Verse" category, and The Attic of My Mind placed second in the "Sonnet" category.  Here they are: 

    

Full of Sap

Psalm 92:14

Full of sap

and very green.

Green.

Green as grass, as leaves

of lilies poking through

green ferns, fairy fresh

and aspen shimmering,

quaking with life,

celebrating.

Lupine spears

spiking the sky,

blue bonnets held high,

yet still green.

Like cedars proudly tall

minding not at all,

lower needles browning,

falling,

seeds sheltering

new life,

full of sap

and very green,

fruit bearing into old age.

Still.

And still green.

The Attic of My Mind

The many-gabled attic of my mind

is hiding cobwebbed thoughts from days gone by.          

At times I search for hours and fail to find         

a loved one’s name, or why we said goodbye.         

Despair might draw me down and hold me fast.

Shall I lose myself in bewilderment?

With long years left, will my good senses last?

Or will I fade and become insentient?

No, I believe my wits will quite suffice.

I know enough. More words would but confuse.

To be at peace I heed my own advice

and soothe myself, all anxious fears refuse.

     So I intend henceforth to take great pains

     to celebrate each day with what remains.