Real Rain

Prosy poem or poemy prose? You decide.

Middle of the night stirs to hear the rain on the roof

After so long it surprises me

Not a thunder-rain or a wonder-is-it-there-rain 

But a Real steady splish sploshing and pitter pattering

I sleep away and wonder the wheres of January snow

Slip awake again and not expecting rain

Yet still as real and still no thunder

The uncanny silenced Kansas thunder

Remembering when I first realized

That in other places it rained without

Booms and lights and storm chasers

Tornado watches and wind that tears the leaves

In books is rain that falls without these things

We sometimes got a quiet rain but never Real

Just sprinkles, sudden showers or mists in the dark
How odd for it to rain without the shake of thunder

No other shoe dropping from the sky
Do not showers always draw up thunderstorms?

Woke again at wake-up-time and still it really rained

A strange comfortable cloudy darkness

Wishing for a cozy listening all day long

Recalling green and droughtless England

And a lush wet Kansas spring right before a brutal summer

When I stared at the world as though just three days old

Workday called my name and rose and went and still it rained

Soon out of mind until someone asked
And someone mentioned only mist

It made me sad to hear it gone

Again

Shadows long
Early Sun
Time to seize the day again

Sleepy feet
Time clock beep
Sigh and go to work again

Up the lift
Down the stairs
Get into the flow again

Stapler lost
Stapler found
Nettled feelings felt again

Books off shelves
Toys on floor
Pick up after kids again

Watching clock
Pacing feet
Almost time to leave again

Hello to you
Goodbye to me
Pulling nametag off again

Walk outside
Sun in eyes
Put my feet to home again

Maid of Honor

I was happy to stand beside my dear cousin, Kendra, as she was married this past Saturday. Her wedding was lovely in colors of gray, yellow, and green.

twirling in gray frock

against the rainbow flowers

dance my yellow shoes

Wistful

little boxes typing
birthday friends a-singing
through to pictures clicking
post of yours a-liking

looking for a happening

friends away are drifting

conversations wanting
green wanders wishing

Feather Snow

sparkle twinkle feather snow

fluffy thumpy pillows grow

drifted shifted whitened land

streaming gleaming crossroads sand

moonshine outline porchlight pile

glitter mirror starlight smile

The Hand

The hand that makes the rivers run,

that made the mountains tall,

the hand that calmed the mighty storm,

and formed, from clay, us all.

The voice commands the heavens above

and shakes the earth below,

the voice that whispers guiding words

for you alone to know.

The feet that walked for 30 years

upon this broken Earth,

the feet that were nailed to the cross

to show our matchless worth.

The eyes that saw the sin of man

when man had not been born,

the eyes that saw his only son

beaten, rejected, torn.

The heart that loves a father's love

wholly unconditionally,

the heart that breaks for the lost

and hurts for our iniquity.

The one that died and gave his life

to break the wrong of man's design,

the one that has a plan for me

and his hand in mine.

Friday

Orange Friday is fall
Blue Friday is blue
Red Friday is hot
As a chimney-stack flue

Green Friday grows up
Gold Friday grows old
Friday in violet
Strikes conservative bold

Black Friday black
With plenty of red
There is and there isn't
Cause to stay in one's bed

Rainbows of Fridays
All colored to suit
Pick what you like
And gather your loot

The Rabbit and the Mice

Another very random limerick.

There was a cold rabbit who cried
Oh! What has become of my hide?!
     He said to the mice
     Afraid of the ice
In the future I won't let you ride.

The Unborn

Something a little more serious...

This is to those who are not yet birthed,
   not yet able to stand.
This is to those who are not yet present,
   not yet able to choose.
This is to those who are the future,
   are the hope of our land.
This is to those who are held without rights,
   are destined the battle of life to lose.
This is to those for whom the barren hope,
   for whom the childless ache to hold.
This is to those who, for pleasure, have been wrought,
   for pure convenience, discarded.
This is to those who would have been the saviors of mankind,
   would have been the doctors to find the cures.
This is to those who would have been the heroes of our country,
   would have been the ones to give their lives.

This is to those thousands of unborn children,
   to those millions of knife-wounded hearts.
This is to those opportunities lost,
   to those little ones' aborted lives.

Beans and Cornbread

This one "came to me" tonight.

Beans and cornbread taste so good!
Beans and cornbread yes you should!
Beans and cornbread dig right in!
Beans and cornbread on your chin!
Beans and cornbread are so neat!
Beans and cornbread what a treat!
Beans and cornbread yum yum yum!
Beans and cornbread in your tum!

Now then, if you didn't read that in a sing-song-happy-thought-voice you have failed. Please try again.

The Lecture

During college, as a ministry student, I was required to attend a series of lectures every year. I was fortunate that I never happened to be taking classes that required me to write a paper over these lectures. Or perhaps it was unfortunate, since I then had no motivation to take notes. One year in particular, I doodled, invented a font for Elvish and wrote this limerick about two friends who were sitting next to me.

There once was a speaker that spoke.
He wasn't much like other folk.
     This saying was said
     By a guy named David
But Liz shushed him and gave him a poke.

Pat

I feel that it is appropriate to christen this blog with one of the first poems I ever wrote. It is a limerick I created in sixth grade for a school assignment. The limerick is my favorite type of poem. I love their bouncy feel and surprise endings.


There once was a young girl named Pat.
She would not wipe her feet on the mat.
     One day she came in
     And found she couldn't win
When she got mud all over her cat.