Most people come in prose— masterpieces that the world could not do without. But when You wrote me, you wrote poetry— imaginative, concise, and rhyming You. And when I look around, I see glory where others see cliche— bits of poetry sprouting in the grass, jumping trees with squirrels, resting moon-like in the clouds. I … Continue reading My Poet
Little hopes grow like weeds— looking pretty in the grass. Must we weed them out? Pull them up today, and they’ll be back tomorrow, anyway, whimsical as ever. Of course, they may die some time, but so will the flowers. I’ve a mind to let them stay— a yard full of color in a dull … Continue reading Little Hopes
I am like a kite, Lord— small and flimsy, vulnerable to the wind. But if You hold me, not even a hurricane can blow me away. And when You hold me down, I can finally fly.
How dreary! Winters in the South— grey trees against the mournful sky— weeping, sulking, drudging in the cold. ••• Make my heart like winters of the West— unending sky that gives and gives the snow— swirling, glittering, hopeful in the cold.
Dark world, but how the streets shine— scarlet, then emerald! And sparkling on the windshield, rain, the gentle applause— this day is done.
One of the rules in my classroom is that no one except the teacher gets to open the door (for safety reasons). Often when we are getting ready to go somewhere, one of my students will put his hands on the door handle as if to open it, and I will ask them all, “Who … Continue reading Who Gets To Be God