The Barrel Race

A few weeks ago, we had to put down my 35-year-old quarter horse. He was one of my best friends, and when I was a teen we spent countless hours together. Barrel racing was one of our favorite things to do, and I wrote this poem in attempt to capture the inexplicable feeling of tearing around the barrels.

And We Fly

In Memory of Caleb's Jack Bar

Anticipation.
Muscles tense and bunch beneath me,
dancing but not releasing.
Such a tiny being should not hold command
over so much power,
but the absurdly small bar of metal pressing against his tongue
and a great respect for the partner on his back
keep him waiting for the right moment.
The gate opens,
and though the reins remain tight,
he senses an almost imperceptible release
and shoots into the arena - at a mere trot.
"Control," wills the rider,
nearly jittering out of the saddle herself.
But then we're charging at the first barrel,
slowing to just this side of reckless to make the turn,
then suddenly the next one is in front of us, behind us,
a slightly longer stretch, and the final barrel. Turn.
Nothing before us but open sand.
His stride opens up,
and we fly.

Photos by Teresa (mom) and Paul (husband).

Busy Morning {a poem}

As summer comes to a close, let's take a step back to the beginning of the season and fully savor this warm weather before it gives way to autumn.


A wren stands on the stone sidewalk,
legs extended to peck at the seeds of a dandelion
in the yard; white dots fan out around it.

Having bared the once-fuzzy head,
it hops onto the dewy grass - then startles back -
and tilts its head to eye more dandelions
towering just out of reach
before resuming its previous position to glean.

Another small brown bird joins the first,
this one rounder - perhaps they had been
calling to each other - chirping and trilling abounds
this busy morning.

It, too, eyes the taller stalks,
hopping bravely into the wet grass,
an then cleverly springs onto a long stem,
bending the laden head to the ground
where the round wren can easily gather breakfast
while the first, having truly bared its own flower by now,
hops off to investigate the mulched beds nearby.

Two catbirds swoop by in a blur;
a blue jay observes from its perch on a fence post.

Symphony of the Woods

The woods at first seem silent,

but listen:

The trees whisper and chatter

with the prodding of the wind,

and birds in the distance - and then closer - sing,

each with its own thread of song;

a branch creaks, an acorn falls,

the brook down the hill trills a percussive tune.

With eyes closed, observe

the symphony of the woods.

planted {spine poetry}

planted

we make the road by walking

an altar in the world

a thousand splendid suns

keepers of the covenant

if I stand {a poem}

if I stand upon a mountaintop

will I see what God sees,

know what God knows,

view the world with understanding

will my path finally present itself

with utter clarity,

my next step--and the one that follows it--

laid out before me

with unquestionable certainty

no.

I am in this world but

God permeates and surrounds

fills and transcends

the Almighty created the amoeba

and me and the stars

with equal care

and how can I even begin to comprehend

this

tired {a poem}

I'm so tired of hate
tired of anger
tired of negativity
and instead of joining the rage
I yearn for joy
yearn for peace
yearn for love
and why can't we spread these
instead of insults and fear

hope {a poem}

hope is where love resides
where refuge is found
nestled in a grove sheltered
by a canopy of leaves
hope flits among the branches
singing a reminder of beauty
in a world where
hate reigns
and terror overwhelms
but Love always wins and so
hope sings on

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seek {a poem}

I will not be crushed
by the pain of this world
I will not succumb to the depths
of my own sorrow

instead I will seek God, who
holds my soul
holds my purpose
holds my joy

I will seek God
and find myself

question from a wren

A little brown wren perches
on the stone wall
to ask me a question.

She cocks her head and
stares at me intently,
small dark eyes pleading.
"Chip, chip, chip,"
she spouts urgently,
but I cannot know the answer
if I don't understand the question

and flustered, she alights
and is gone
leaving me to ponder
the curious language of birds
and what a little brown wren
could possibly want from me.

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untitled {a poem}

For every poem I write

there are ten that never touch paper

and they

are the most beautiful of all.

beautiful defiance {a poem}

remember
that the world is beautiful
and that you live in it

flowers defy the pavement
by bursting through it
to bloom and dance

smile at them

and smile at the car that drives by
for you can hear birdsong
even above its unnatural roar

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a voice {a poem}

Are you the Lorax? the trees asked
as I stood on a stump in their woods.

That is too great a title for me, I replied.

Is it? the wind whispered in my ear,
Can't you be a voice for those in need?

for now the mountain burns

destruction, renewal -- a phoenix will be born

but for now the mountain burns

a jagged, blazing spine against the hazy sky

wafting smoke up the valley

to settle densely on hopeful blooms and buds

and tiny, new green leaves that dance upon the trees

as the mountain cries out for rain,

the dry earth weeping tears of dust

and yet knowing, somewhere in its ancient depth of thought,

that the blackened remains of forest

symbolize not death

but the cleansing beginning

of a slow and beautiful rebirth

photo via

blessed moments

blessed are these moments

which we breathe

a soul's-breadth of silence

a prayer

life is beautiful {a poem}

Life is beautiful.

If you don't believe me,

go outside.

Lie down under a tree and

stare up through the branches,

watch light dance through the leaves

as a breeze carries

the whisper of God

just out of reach -- 

listen to the thunderous pulsing

of chirping cicadas

and marvel

at the ordered tangle of branches.

Take nothing with you -- 

no book, no journal,

no distractions.

Just your soul.

You are alive,

and life

is beautiful.



Obviously, it being November, there are no cicadas chirping outside anymore. I wrote this poem months ago, and have been eager to share it with you since. So why did it take so long? I'm not entirely sure. Go outside and lie down under a tree anyway. Appreciate what you hear and see, even if it's just wind whistling through empty branches. Let me know what you discover. Your own soul, perhaps?



*Photo by my husband, Paul

library sale! {book haul}

I had been looking forward to my local library's massive book sale for weeks (as some of you are very well aware), and I finally came home with this lovely stack of eight paperbacks last week.

Black Beauty
by Anna Sewell

As you can see in the photo above, this isn't the edition I bought. Mine is actually a plain boring red on front, but the spine is beautiful! And yes, I have read this book before. And seen the movie (countless times). That little red paperback captured my attention, though, and I thought maybe it's time to re-read this wonderful classic!

Only the River Runs Free
by Bodie and Brock Thoene

I love Bodie and Brock Thoene's biblical fiction (what I've read, anyway), and I've been meaning to read this Irish series forever. Because Ireland. Honestly, I'm not even 100% sure what the plot line is...

Holding Up the Earth
by Dianne E. Gray

This one was a new discovery -- it's about a girl in foster care who falls in love with a farm. The cover is beautiful, the title is beautiful, and it involves a farm. I thought I'd give it a shot.

Riding Lessons
by Sara Gruen

I've seen this one on Goodreads and have been waffling on whether or not to read it. But it's a horse book, so of course I finally caved. Hopefully it's a good one -- adult horse books are few and far between.

Flying Changes
by Sara Gruen

I doubly hope Riding Lessons is good, because I bought the sequel, too...

West Wind
by Mary Oliver

It's about time I picked up a book of poetry by Mary Oliver. I have read few of her poems, but enjoyed them all. I look forward to reading more of her work in this little book!

The Two Towers
by J.R.R. Tolkien

Before you ask: yes, I have read this before. LotR is one of my favorite series -- both book and movie -- ever. I already had all three books in one volume, which makes it unpleasantly heavy to hold while reading, and my dad recently gave me a copy of The Fellowship of the Ring. And do you see that cover? It's beautiful. Plus...

The Return of the King
by J.R.R. Tolkien

...they also had book three, which is possibly even more beautiful. And both books are in pristine condition.

*******

Have you bought/borrowed any new books lately? I've heard that some libraries don't have sales (gasp!) -- does yours? Also, I'm curious: do you consider Black Beauty a children's book?

holy time {a poem}

I wrote this during my blogging hiatus, so if it sounds more like August than October, that's because it should.

















I pass an old woman
joyfully carrying two paper bags
home
after an early-morning
walk to the grocery store

and a child carefully climbs
the porch steps
into her mother's long
embrace
as they wait
for the bus to take
her to kindergarden
or perhaps
they're just sitting
she looks too young
anyway

and the heavy dew
streaking dormant cars
reminds me that fall
is not too far,
bringing an unexpected
lightness to my feet --
I've always claimed
summer
as my favorite
yet as I am drawn
to thin places
so am I drawn to
the thin times
of spring and fall
holy time
full of everything
and nothing
and God

the first page {poems}

I finally started writing in a new journal, which my dad gave to me for Christmas some years ago. It is beautiful, and I was so very excited to begin filling its pages after finishing my last journal. I can't wait to see what it will hold. How many moments, tears, smiles, years? What anxieties will pour forth, what thin places will be recorded?

For now, here are the first two poems:

{untitled}

Purple juice bleeds down

eager fingers, settling

in the creases of our palms--

leaves scratch, thorns grab,

chastising us for breaking

innocent spiders' webs

in greedy hunger for

blackberry cobbler.

{untitled}

It's August yet,

though crows call

to a breeze that draws

a thin time

ever nearer.

the last page

A friend gave this journal to me for Christmas some time in high school (way back when flip phones were cool), and I remember thinking what an odd gift it was. But after graduation, when the small yellow writing tablet I'd been scribbling poetry in ran out of pages, I dug this spiral-bound stack of paper out of a drawer and kept writing.

For nearly seven years I wrote in this book, sometimes laying it aside for months, and sometimes flipping to a new page every day. It contains more memories and emotion than any diary I ever kept, and in far fewer words. You've seen some of its contents spilled on this blog -- all of the poems I've posted originated from this journal's pages.

I knew that I couldn't end it with just any poem, and during a solitary walk this evening I found, if not perfect, sufficient words to fill the last page. It's the end, and yet, somehow, it feels like the beginning.

here's to hope--
to having a voice,
to being a voice
the blank page of invitation
a line, a letter, a word,
a soul on paper

soul scribbles {an untitled poem}

long walks
ice cream cones
warm green grass under
calloused bare feet
sunshine in cloudless sky
thunderstorms and
captivating paperbacks
hot tea with
local raw honey
bunny yawns and joyful leaping
soft fur for stroking
laughter
and contented silence

*******

This is my take on a "happy list." What has brought you joy recently? Maybe stomping in puddles or buying new journals puts a smile on your face -- tell me in the comments!