"Autobiographies of great nations are written in three manuscripts – a book of deeds, a book of words, and a book of art. Of the three, I would choose the latter as truest testimony." - Sir Kenneth Smith, Great Civilisations

"I must write each day without fail, not so much for the success of the work, as in order not to get out of my routine." - Leo Tolstoy

I have never believed that one should wait until one is inspired because I think the pleasures of not writing are so great that if you ever start indulging them you will never write again. - John Updike

"The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it." - J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations." - Lawrence Ferlinghetti


[Note - If any article requires updating or correction please notate this in the comment section. Thank you. - res]


Tuesday, May 4, 2021

A Potpourris of Poems

  


What Can Happen in a Second
by Annie Valkema

I.

the perch closes its mouth on the worm
my hand jerks the pole
lungs swell quickly on a gasp
water wrinkles as fins protest heave
fish surrenders
guilt surfaces

II.

air pushed through open lips
a sigh, a puff of disappointment
or a clipped whistle
at the dog who ran
too far down shore

III.

there is a green aura
where the sun touches the water
on the horizon
we cannot help but call
out this science to strangers
all facing the fading heat
while waves break
and wind pushes
we anticipate the mystery
absorb it like humidity
on our goose-pimpled flesh
when it is over
in a second
we smile shyly at those
same strangers trudging
through sand
back to car campers
differently warm


by Annie Valkema
April 13, 20213



After Mary Oliver
by Travis West


Christmas morning came and went
and still our pond is peppered with geese,
the sky alternately filled with their
rusty-hinge wings and their incessant honks,
harsh and exciting.

If Mary Oliver was right, and their
south-bound invitation is simply to
love what you love, perhaps it’s okay to
love the north, the cold, and winter too.

The soft crunch of boot on snow.
The magic of visible breath.
The sudden pink-on-blue of morning.
The wild wind reminding you as urgently
and frantically as the geese that
you are, in fact, in this moment,
alive.


Travis West
April 27, 2021



The Hardest Part is Starting
by Travis West


The explosive flutter of quail taking flight;
the plastic twist of hummingbird gossip;
the frantic grate of a hummingbird warning
to a trespassing blue jay.

The sharp pain of exquisite beauty:
the sun rising as the moon sets;
the gentle embrace of verdant hills.

The slimy tracks of early-morning snail commutes
that silently call us from our sleeping tombs
to greet the day and face our fears once more.

But how can I do this
without community, without worship, without routine?
I am trapped in a cage of my own making:
excuses, rationalizations, fear.

And just like that a hummingbird brings me back to myself
to this moment
to the swirling sound of insect song
to the truth:

We have all we need.


Travis West
April 27, 2021



Liminal Space
by Linnea Scobey


“When you are between your old comfort zone and any possible new answer … the sacred space where the old world is able to fall apart, and a bigger world is revealed …” — Richard Rohr

It’s Sarah and Abraham, every dragging year
between the promise and the child.
It’s Israelites at the foot of the mountain
waiting for Moses’ return.
Leaving Eden, leaving Egypt;
Isaac bound upon the altar.
Joseph barred by prison doors,
Jonah crushed by whale ribs,
Hagar in the wilderness, withering.
Empty stomachs, hands, nets.
Every year hobbling through the desert;
every night water pummeled the ark.
Mary and Martha at the grave of their brother;
disciples hidden in a locked room; 
stone in the mouth of the tomb.

It’s the layover, the stoplight,
the waiting room. The era between tests
and results. The dark womb
of sky before the dawn. The interlude 
between chorus and verse, the space
between two bodies. The inhale
of each wave before 
it overtakes the shore. 
The time between blossom 
and berry, between a star’s birth 
and visible light.
It’s a dial tone, then ringing, before
there’s an answer. It’s standing at 
the knocked door, waiting
for it to open.


Linnea Scobey
April 20, 2021



Lovesongs
by Annie Valkema

I.

We go together
like Methodists and poker,
like bars and bad marriages.

II.

The goodness of spouses,
black coffee and confession
are underrated.

III.

I imagine receiving postcards
from the afterlife:
I don’t miss you but I’m waiting for you.
I’m counting the days
but I can’t tell you the number.
Your dad says hi. He’s playing softball.
I joined the choir.

IV.

Thick-ankled girls dance in cotton skirts
like cotton candy clouds,
Tilt-a-Whirl waltzes.
Dance with a Dutch girl
and your sleep will be easy.


Annie Valkema
April 13, 20212




Amaryllis
by Julia Spicher Kasdorf


He who plants the ear, shall he not hear?
- Psalm 94:6


Who set the heart like a bulb
in the chest, shall He not bless

the blade that tears brown
husks, parts dirt, thrusts

a green budded shaft
to blast this blossom

horn straining toward
the window’s bright pane,

transparent plain between
gaping scarlet and snow?

Oh, whoever lit this winter
sun must also love love.


Julia Spicher Kasdorf
April 6, 2021


Wednesday, April 21, 2021

Black Lives Matter - STAND UP!

 



Willie Spence, Stand UP
American Idol, April 19, 2021


STAND UP

November 7, 2018

Stand Up
and let your voice be heard 
Stand Up
for the rights you believe in 
Stand Up 
having a strong voice you will surely win
Stand Up
whites blacks all colors of the world 
Stand Up 
all of our people should come together 
Stand Up
break the cycle of division 
Stand Up
unity is what we strive for 
Stand Up
one clear mind we need it more and more 
Stand Up
don’t shut me out 
Stand Up
i’ll scream and shout
Stand Up
until you see that we are one 
STAND UP


In a country that has systematised the oppression of black lives from the institution of slavery to peonage, lynching, Jim Crow, segregation, mass incarceration and police brutality, #BLM provides the church an opportunity to proclaim the gospel that announces the end of oppression. | Image: Scott Olson / Getty Images



Poem About Standing Up For What Is Right

Hi, I am a thirteen-year-old girl who has been secretly writing poetry since fourth grade, and I'm really glad you came to read my poem! This poem that I wrote is called "United" because I wanted to write a poem that was inspiring and could mean something to everybody out there. Stand up for what you love and what you know is right because in the end that is what will matter. I hope "United" can inspire you, and I really hope you like it. Remember to follow your dreams! 
United

© Erica More By Erica
December 2017

Do we stay silent
Or raise our voices?
Do we give in
Or make our choices?

This is our chance.
This is our threat.
This is our choice.
And we're not finished yet.

We stand together
And await the light.
This is our chance,
This is our fight.

Here we're standing,
United and strong.
We're not giving this up.
We're not moving on.

This is our voice;
This is what we came to show.
This is our choice,
And we're not letting go.

This is our word.
You give what you get.
This is our world,
And we're not finished yet.

We stand beside you,
Ready to pay our debt
We stand united
Because we're not finished yet.

Children are born every day,
Waiting for someone to trust.
Dreams are dreamed every day
But left alone to rust.

Raise your voices; stand up tall.
You know this is unjust.
Make your choices; stand from the fall,
Because dreams are counting on us.

I know that you are scared to be strong.
You have every right to be.
Show the dreamers that you care.
Come and stand with me.

Think of our future; think of the truth.
Think of the lives we share.
Think of our beginnings; think of our youth.
We're all just a kid from somewhere.

Standing together, holding hands,
We all came from the same place.
Joined, we are forever;
We are running the same race.

Stand with me; we're not through yet.
We are getting what we gave.
Hand in hand with me, strongest together.
This can all be saved.

This is like our lifetimes;
This is more than just a game.
This is more than just the money,
More than ourselves, more than fame.

Speak up for what matters,
Because now it does; this love is caving.
Speak up before we shatter.
Think of all the dreams we're saving.

There are kids like us in Texas,
Out in Utah, up in Maine.
There are kids that are the future Crosby,
Skinner, Matthews, Kane.

From the mountains, valleys, cities,
Suburbs, hamlets and countryside,
There are the children of this future.
All around us they reside.

On the Pittsburgh Penguins, Boston Bruins,
The Canes and Minnesota Wild.
We often forget that before they were champions,
Each one was just a child

They once stood watching,
Dreaming with this light inside their eyes.
Together we can save that light,
And return it to more lives.

Here we're standing, grasping hands;
Here we're standing strong.
This time we're not giving in,
And we're not moving on.

THIS is our voice;
This is what we came to show.
This is our choice,
And we're not letting go.

This is the world we live in.
You must give what you get.
This is our word we're giving.             
We're not finished yet.

We stand together, united.
This is our chance to repay this debt.
We stand beside you all, united.
We're not finished yet.

 

Poem of the Week for: 2018-02-27
This week's Poem of the Week, "United", is particularly poignant as we respond to yet another mass shooting. Because, this time, something long thought impossible is happening. Young people across the country by joining together United are breaking cultural and political barriers and making their world a better place. Wishing all of us the inspiration to join together United to make positive change in our own worlds!

 

Stand Up by Cynthia Erivo


Lyrics

I been walkin'
With my face turned to the sun
Weight on my shoulders
A bullet in my gun
Oh, I got eyes in the back of my head
Just in case I have to run
I do what I can when I can while I can for my people
While the clouds roll back and the stars fill the night

That's when I'm gonna stand up
Take my people with me
Together we are going
To a brand new home
Far across the river
Can you hear freedom calling?
Calling me to answer
Gonna keep on keepin' on
I can feel it in my bones

Early in the mornin'
Before the sun begins to shine
We're gonna start movin'
Towards that separating line
I'm wadin' through muddy waters
You know I got a made up mind
And I don't mind if I lose any blood on the way to salvation
And I'll fight with the strength that I got until I die

So I'm gonna stand up
Take my people with me
Together we are going
To a brand new home
Far across the river
Can you hear freedom calling?
Calling me to answer
Gonna keep on keepin' on

And I know what's around the bend
Might be hard to face 'cause I'm alone
And I just might fail
But Lord knows I tried
Sure as stars fill up the sky

Stand up
Take my people with me
Together we are going
To a brand new home
Far across the river
Can you hear freedom calling?
Calling me to answer
Gonna keep on keepin' on

I'm gonna stand up
Take my people with me
Together we are going
To a brand new home
Far across the river
Do you hear freedom calling?
Calling me to answer
Gonna keep on keepin' on

I'm gonna stand up
Take my people with me
Together we are going
To a brand new home
Far across the river
I hear freedom calling
Calling me to answer
Gonna keep on keepin' on
I can feel it in my bones

I go to prepare a place for you
I go to prepare a place for you
I go to prepare a place for you
I go to prepare a place for you




Harriet Tubman

Harriet Tubman didn't take no stuff
Wasn't scared of nothing neither
Didn't come in this world to be no slave
And wasn't going to stay one either

"Farewell!" she sang to her friends one night
She was mighty sad to leave 'em
But she ran away that dark, hot night
Ran looking for her freedom
She ran to the woods and she ran through the woods
With the slave catchers right behind her
And she kept on going till she got to the North
Where those mean men couldn't find her

Nineteen times she went back South
To get three hundred others
She ran for her freedom nineteen times
To save Black sisters and brothers
Harriet Tubman didn't take no stuff
Wasn't scared of nothing neither
Didn't come in this world to be no slave
And didn't stay one either

And didn't stay one either








Sunday, April 11, 2021

R.E. Slater - The Birth & Death of God




The Birth & Death of God

by R.E. Slater


"They spoke death to me during the day.
They spoke death to me in the night.
God spare me the Great Corruption.
Let me speak life and light."- res


"God is love," I said,

But God must condemn!

"God is love," I said,

But God must hate!

"God is love," I said,

But God must kill!

"God is love," I said,

But there must be justice!

"Then God must be dead,

And we have killed Him."

 

             . . .



Be careful how you birth

God to the world;

What you birth may bring

Beauty or destruction,

Salvation or death.

Let God love and be love,

All other loves are death.


R.E. Slater
April 11, 2021

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved
 
Notice what the “death of God” means in the chiasm: God dies unless we come to God’s aid and let God be God in our lives. What has been traditionally called death of God theology is a headline grabber but it is a misleading misnomer—it should have been called the birth of God…

That is why I never speak of the death of God but of the birth of God or the desire for God... God is what God does, and what God does is what is done in the name of God, which is the birth of God in the world.

- Jack Caputo (Biography; Books)







Sunday, April 4, 2021

R.E. Slater - Ruptured Soils

 


Ruptured Soils

by R.E. Slater


As cold, dark earth must yield,
    to warmth and new life,
Even so does Jesus' Resurrection rupture,
    the broken soils of darkened hearts.
In whom death has been defeated,
    darkness disspelt, and
New life in God's love made alive,
    birthing beauty from old.

Jesus' death and resurrection,
    celebrates all who we are,
Embracing darkness and death,
    before arising, breaking forth.
Bursting the tired bonds of earth's
    unyielding fellowships,
In resurrecting power from death
    to life, by God's renewing Spirit.

We, who are the healed, the delivered,
    from the cold soils of bondage,
Who must shout, who must rejoice,
    "Jesus is Risen!"
Washed in Holy Spirit power,
    raised from creation's cradle,
In whom all our yesterdays, todays, and
    forevers, rise before Calvary's Cross.


R.E. Slater
Easter Sunday
April 4, 2021


@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved


Wednesday, March 24, 2021

R.E. Slater - Nightshades




Nightshades
by R.E. Slater


Evening was falling as I scrambled up onto the granary
roof gaining the lower elevation of its backside before
stepping up onto the upper level careful not to slice my
hands or legs on the rusted corrugated steel or loose-
headed nails fixing the panels down to the upper beams.

There I sat listening to the evensongs of nightbirds some
swaying on barbed fence lines, others on well weathered
wooden posts, singing away their cares across the grassy
fields having endured another windy day before settling
down into their scented beds of wheat, hay or alfalfa.

Before me the sunset blazed across western skies dipping
its last winks under the horizon then flash our a few red
rays a moment later as dusk stole across in rear guard and
climbed down onto the lower roof to sit under the upper
eaves silent in the quieting earth watching and listening.

At last I rose in the dark to jump down into long grasses
below - sometimes mowed flat to stubble, sometimes filled
in by deep snowy drifts - as my hiding spot was used in all
weathers and seasons where solitude or contemplation
might be required nestled within a dying day's breaches.

I next skirted along the upper barnyard ridges circling
around the marshy hollow below hearing blackbird and
robin, thrush and lark, in last serenades as I gained the
front buildings of the family homestead cutting through
mowed country yards to our tiny house lit next door.

Chains rattled as I sidled by under tall tree canopies
as I spoke quietly to our hunting dogs held under their 
watchful eyes knowing my habits and watching my furtive
shadow flit along the gathering darks across the dewy soils
to choruses of marsh songs by crickets and peepers below.

Day was done, as was I, and what few moments I gained
from a walk across evening fields or rolling hillsides was
but brief reprieve to the next day's early black mornings
after a long night's last hours of study and homework
before rising to school, band, sports, and daily prayer.


R.E. Slater
March 24, 2021

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved






Sunday, March 21, 2021

R.E. Slater - The Hill




The Hill

by R.E. Slater


I began counting my steps as I climbed

our side hill slowly rising steadily ahead

remembering the summers when I had

rolled down its long green grasses or had

jumped across its failing backsides along

the tears in the ground pulling upon its

earthy  weight. Remembering flattened

cardboard boxes I used to slide down on

greasy green ice or raced my runner sled

down its steep face into the wetlands lying

far below. Happy days not unlike today

as I carefully measured and remeasured

my steps not wanting to be off in my

count as accuracy was needed this day.






I knew this hill as well as it knew me.

From skeet shooting its top with my dad

and brother to snowmobiling up into its

heavily drifted tops. My last memory was

watching the very first Skylab fly overhead

as a shiny thing reflecting the five o'clock

morning rays. I was headed to bed when

driving home but thought to go out and

wait. A few minutes later it flew overhead

and then I went to bed having stayed up all

night at my senior prom party having left

alone to go home. Not unlike all other past

days and years when I also went home to

fields and stars. Country kids learned to

improvise by looking up into the heavens.






The evening prior I had just graduated.

Only months away September would

find me leaving home to live at a distant

university far from my beloved hill and

its many memories. Youth was gone as

was my grandpa next door having lived

out his days on the old family homestead.

The farm lay fallow and I, as its sixth and

last generation, would not inherit its lowly

fields or wandering fence lines. The aged

barns were used up. So too the rusted

tractors and plows. The dairy herd sold

and fence lines, like their fields, lying in

disrepair. Around lay city encroachment

and like the hill, I and it would become

forgotten things flattened by progress.  






I already had known this from a very

young age, which is why I was tracing

my steps again, counting them lest my

earlier memories had failed me as I

stepped upwards along the worn rise.

Trying to find its final height. The last bit.

Before it fell away more steeply then its

earlier length when crossing its topmost

beam. But what I had once thought was its

final height was but a false perception.

For in the ground its real top lay farther

ahead. Probably a third of the way more

than when first looking. I found this a

great relief and would hold on to these

thoughts for the remainder of my life.






Thus I stepped off my slowing pace anew

to measure for accuracy - not perception.

And in the measuring was gaining a new

confidence to my initial perceptual dismay.

A sadness I had been holding within too

long as a young boy yet in middle school.

That its distance lay much further ahead of

me then I had once anticipated. And when

finally gaining its top, looking all around in

every direction, I tried to remember every-

thing that my eyes took in. All the changes

the many long years had brought. I saw them

again and remembered. Not even the backside

of the hill could remove those wandering glens

from my heart as it began spinning downwards.






Not for the last time I reminded myself

remember, remember... as I have from

time to time when fearing my journey too

quickly passing. That my youth was but an

interlude to many happy climbs to come on

a bare hill called life rising gracefully ahead.

At times speeding too quickly. At other times

too slowly. Yet life itself rises as it will to both

dreamer and old. It will take many a solitary

trek to step it off completely. To wear away.

And so I have remembered to this day the

vistas, the views, the hopes of all the promises

I had allowed might be, which could be. Even 

as I have allowed them now finding myself still

climbing. Still taking each day in stride with all

other previous days prior until I can no longer

roll down life's slopes as I had once climbed

so easily, so carelessly, so eagerly, in distant

summer days past I can only now remember

but faintly with a smile and light step.



R.E. Slater
March 21, 2021


@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved