(For Tweetspeak Poetry’s laundry poem prompt.)
All my laundry is white.
No strategically chosen colors,
no distracting patterns
to hide any stains.
I hang them in the sun
and something in the light
makes them bright again
and warms a nearby stone
where I can rest.
And Samuel grew, and the Lord was with him and let none of his words fall to the ground.
(1 Samuel 3:19, ESV)
Let flavorful tidbits
roll off your tongue.
Take a twist or two
from the salt mill.
Add grace to taste
(no measuring). Then
God will not let
your words go
to waste, like
off the plate.
Someone hungry will
and not a crumb
will fall to the ground.
Therefore encourage one another and build one another up, just as you are doing.
(1 Thessalonians 5:11)
Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart
be acceptable in your sight,
O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.
Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear.
Linking with Sandy:
In the room with south-facing windows
there is a worn wooden box—closed
but not secure. A padlock slips
tenuously through the hasp
attached to the box. The lock has not
a key, only a shiny dial whose combination
is left to this number, two revolutions right
to that number, then left again.
But you have to know the numbers.
The lock fits loosely
in the hole of the hasp and rattles
at any disturbance—
like nearby thunder
or a hasty hand spinning
Leave off the lock. Lift up
the hasp. Swing open
that treasure chest
and let light
from the windows
into the quiet darkness.
For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake, he is the one who will save it.
(Luke 9:24, NASB)
… for he called you out of the darkness into his wonderful light.
(1 Peter 2:9, NLT)
Linking with Sandra Heska King and Laura Boggess:
Photo credit: John D., via Flickr Creative Commons
(photo via Tweetspeak Poetry)
For Tweetspeak Poetry’s latest prompt: Write a poem for the exhausted new parent. Reflect on the fleeting season of childhood.
Breathe her in, savor
these newborn days as fleeting
as the baby’s breath
the flower is named for.
Carry her skin
And don’t blink, they say.
True, but napping
Jennifer Dukes Lee has invited us to write a color poem! But I couldn’t decide on one color, so I’m doing plaid:
Plaid is the vertical, heaven reaching down,
intertwining with sideways lines—
you reaching out to me
reaching out to you.
Tartan lines, some bold and wide, some
narrow, all coming together
at right angles, motley little L’s
loving one another.
Just as our bodies have many parts and each part has a special function, so it is with Christ’s body. We are many parts of one body, and we all belong to each other.
How can it be that magma heat
loses its liquid burn? How
can fiery froth turn cold,
molten bubbles no longer
bursting in a rolling boil?
Your zealous glow has cooled, aloof now
and indifferent, your white-hot hue
frozen into dull darkness, igneous and basaltic,
your dynamic flow turned
static, all the little holes
hardened into airy rock, not much
weight, negligible influence on
any scale. Burn again.
Because you have this faith, I now remind you to stir up that inner fire which God gave you.
– 2 Timothy 1:6 (Phillips)
(for this poetry prompt at tweetspeakpoetry.com)
Once, at a ski-town cabin, I chopped wood.
I put the log over a wide tree stump and swung
an axe for the first time. That was before
I had read any Annie Dillard, so I didn’t know
I should aim for the stump, should swing past
the log I wanted to split. But I liked that it was hard
work, I liked the transfer of energy from arms
to axe to wood, and then I was too tired even to be
angry. It’s like when I was a girl and my
big sister’s boyfriend took us to the batting cages.
When I swung hard but missed I felt heavy
like a storm cloud that couldn’t let down
its thunderload of rain. But when I heard
the crack of the bat and felt that same energy
transfer from my arms to the flying baseball,
I understood why they called it a sweet spot.
Sometimes when I am angry
I want to go to the batting cages
or the chopping block at that cabin,
when I am the baseball
or the log to be split.
Do to others as you would like them to do to you.
Don’t sin by letting anger control you.
Short-tempered people do foolish things.
Geometrical optics is just a rough
approximation. The angle of incidence
is supposed to be the same as the angle
of reflection. Well,
when wavelengths are small enough
to disregard the character of
the wave, this method might work.
But ray tracing requires straight lines
with arrowheads showing they’re sure
of their direction, requires
no distortions, and you have to ignore
the photon’s character as well
as its energy levels. Not to mention,
the angles have to be measured
from the normal. It’s so hard to
sketch a mirror image. Who can find
a line of symmetry when everything
(For the “Mirror, Mirror” poetry prompt by Seth Haines. Read the prompt and join in with your own poem!)
Wood-shreds, cotton, flax, grass—
plant fibers beaten to expose
inner life, so old life will pass
into something new. Water-softened,
washed, mixed into slurry, ready to be
made and molded. And pressed.
Sheet bared to the sun, blessed
and made useful in the drying,
in the exposure to the Sun.
I have a memory; every crease remains,
intricate folds of experience
shaping origami me. He unfolds,
some parts tucked in so tightly
I tear in the unfolding. I tear
in every unfolding, but
His hand smoothes over.
Surrendered in the unfolding, I wait
and He writes.
Spirit-ink penetrates, bleeds
all the way through as nib makes
graceful strokes recording
flourishes of kindness, goodness,
grace on me.
She ducked when they hovered
so close above her, the downwash
from the blades of their frantic
propellers whirring, worrying.
“Be safe in the rain! Keep warm!
Wear waterproof shoes and a plastic
coat!” And she did, but also made
sure to roll up her cuffs
enough to let
(For the image poetry prompt at the Every Day Poems Facebook page.)