Archive | April 2014

Poetry Month End

for fun

Three short of my goal
More works in my mind’s hopper
All and all not bad


A Certain Hope


When my heart is filled with sadness,
And the songs have all been sung,
When there’s nothing left to say,
And yet the sorrow’s just begun,
When there’s no one to turn to,
And no where to hide,
From the anguish of the soul inside-
When all around my world is cold and gray,
I still hear Him say,
Be not as those that have no hope,
Weeping’s for a night, but joy comes in the morning.
Be not as those that have no hope,
Weeping’s for a night, but joy comes in the morning.
When I shall awake, I shall be in thy likeness
When I shall awake, I shall be in thy likeness
For eye has not seen, and ear has not heard,
Neither has entered in the heart of man,
The things God has prepared for them that love Him,
For them that love Him.
So, be not as those
that have no hope,
Weeping’s for a night
But joy comes in
The morning
I shall awake in thy likeness.

From God Remembers published 2010


SBPC - WIN_20140425_181527

Not the Kansas Federal prison,
But the little Bavarian-style town
Quaint and nestled at an entrance
Into the Cascade Mountains
A river runs through it
Hills roll around it
Dotted with apple orchards
A couple of hours away from
What the locals call “the coast”
Though Seattle is far from it.
Festivals dot the year
Apple Blossom, May Day, Autumn Leaf,
Oktoberfest, Christmas Lighting
Attracting tourists here
Unique little shops,
Cheesy tourist traps,
Themed hotels and restaurants
All within walking distance.
Founded as a logging town
Later just a little town
Trying to stay alive
Now a town of art, artists and
Given to hospitality
A wonderful destination
I would say they’ve done a good job.

SBPC - WIN_20140425_181850

Ferry Ride



The bluest skies you’ve ever seen,
The water sparkles calm blue-green,
Bound by mountains east and west,
Its a spring day at its best!

Gulls and herons gather ’round
As we travel across the Sound,
Cars and passengers afloat,
Aboard a Washington Ferry boat.

The sunshine’s warm, the air is chill,
The wind is brisk, the horn is shrill,
Variegated green on the distant hill,
In my heart a spring-time thrill.

To the north, Mount Baker – white,
South, Rainier’s a majestic sight,
Jagged Olympics to the west,
Cascades to the east, equally blest.

Drive the quiet island countryside,
Forrest and gardens kept with pride,
Respite from the cities’ crowd
Busy, rushing, restless, loud.

Adventure in a quick fun jaunt,
Lunch at a little restaurant,
Discoveries become a favorite haunt,
Someone to share it, what more could one want?



Rain Shower

mini garden

Wind-driven branches wave a vigorous goodbye,
New blossoms peek out, nod their heads and sigh,
The sun hides behind the clouds,
As they begin to cry
And build into an unexpected tantrum.

The day’s face grows dark,
The sky thunders what it said,
Birds and furry creatures scurry
Seeking cover for their head.
The wind comes with fury like a phantom.

The sun comes out again and says,
There, there let’s dry your tears,
Practiced at restoring calm and order
Through the years,
Invigorating warmth spreads through the ground.

Rain drops like tears sparkle on the cheek of green,
Squirrels venture out to the world all scrubbed and clean,
Storm and cloud evaporate
‘Till they’re no longer seen,
The air again is filled with spring-time sound.


SBPC - WIN_20140423_172635 (2)

I baked cornbread yesterday
The warm chewy, crumbly goodness
A delight to my carbs-deprived lips
A sudden hunger for something else
I haven’t had in a long time.
Does anyone even use the phrase
“Slower than molasses
In the wintertime”
I pulled the molasses
Out of my pantry
And drizzled some
On my cornbread
The heavy, earthy sweetness
Floods my mouth with flavor
And my mind with
Long forgotten memories
And stories
Of my great-grandmother
Born before 1910
I’m not sure exactly when,
I don’t think she was either.
To not know your birthdate
To not lock your house
To be married at age 14
She shared the scandalous
Tale of her teenage years–
She once rode a horse
Straddle instead of side-saddle!
Maybe it was more than once.
She belonged to a different era
She was a gentle soul,
Sweet and simple, fragile yet sturdy.
She was widowed at age 55
She lived as a widow
Longer than she had been married
She never cut her hair
Because her husband liked it long.
She told me about
Making sorghum molasses
A process similar to
Making maple syrup
There was a wistfulness
In the way she said
“Sorghum molasses”
Like she was remembering
So much more
And so it reminds me of her-
Belonging to a different era
A poor man’s honey
Sweet yet strong
Delicate and down to earth
More complex and rich
Than I first thought.