June 30, 2025

        I will go  back
        tomorrow
        and cuss
        some more
        the lady,
        a Ford executive
        assured me,
        that the lady’s
        only job was
        to figure out
        where to put parts,
        so a shade tree
        mechanic
        could not get
        to them,
        without buying
        the right tool.

        There is
        no
        right tool
        for
        poetry.

They say that all good things must
come to an end. It may be two minutes
from now or perhaps it’ll be twenty
years from now. The only difference is
the time it will take to transition to the
next moment. Each moment will build
on to the story that creates your life and
even if those stories must come to an end,
wasn’t so beautiful to be able to enjoy
those moments and hold them in your
arms. These moments will end and that’s
the way of the world, yet without endings
we may be stuck in situations that we
don’t know how to leave without a push
or a leap of faith or something beyond
ourselves. It may be closing time, but
remember the promise that each moment
will end and we will still remain and we
will keep going forward every moment.

it felt great to try
some new things and also make
my silly haikus

Who holds the doll,
Needle in hand 

That sends the sharp
Twinges into the skin and muscle
Of my chest
Without warning. 

Surprising, sometimes scaring me.
Almost two months
After the surgeon’s power saw
Separated my sternum in two.
And severed a zillion nerves
Across my chest. 

Is it a former student
Or employee
Who resented my evaluation of their work.
Or a neighbor who found my yardwork inadequate?
Or a stranger I cut off in traffic
Without even knowing it?
A friend or acquaintance I did not acknowledge –
Lost in my own world? 

Or is this normal?
An expected side effect after the surgery?
Or perhaps it just IS. 
No reason needed.
For the pain we feel.

A cat, rotund, in stark monochrome
lounged near a case stacked with tomes.
His eyes, how they fluttered, all while he lazed
beneath the fireflies’ unending glow.
At fourteen years senior, we thought, rightly so,
that his mouse-catching days were a dream
he dreamt while he fell asleep upon the plush-padded floor.

But, lo, a rustle in the neighboring room piques
our brave knight’s attention from slumber.
In seconds he rises and makes for the door
I swear lightning could not have moved faster.
We damsels curled upon our chaise in a quite fearful daze
as we heard thunder clap from the battleground yonder.
The sounds of a struggle, could it possibly be that our hero
had been beaten fair?

Yet, behold, here he comes with a prize ‘tween his teeth
I must squint to be sure it is there.
Yes, a mouse, I can see it, the gray corpse is pierced
by two golden sabers acute.
The warrior drops his own prize at our feet
as we stand up and shout to the sky,
“Huzzah!  The fierce Twinkle has done it again, 
he has slain his most infamous foe!”

So ends the great tale of Twinkle the hunter,
whose might knows nothing of age,
and may we recall his loyalty true
so long as Arcturus shines bright up above.

Big Mulch advises 3 inches of coverage is optimal for the health of your soil. 

The bed has beckoned me
ever since I left it.  Why?
It is only a shelf for when 
my body is not being used.
But the clarion call, so deep,
so sincere.  I fought it
so hard as a child,
never knowing whether
the next day would come at all.
How along the way do we
learn how to trust, to fall
asleep steadfast in the belief
that a new day beckons
just on the other side of the bed?

I press my hand
Against the dirty window 
The cold glass reminding me
That it’s not yet spring 

The frosty white rim
Of an empty bird’s nest 
Shimmers in the early rays
Of the rising sun

The outside becomes lighter
But the view from the window
Feels like an old photograph
Grainy and fading 

I’ve spilled my soul these thirty days—
lines where shadows bleed
into flickers of belief.

Poetry became the outlet
my songs wouldn’t offered,
melodies must 
soar in the light,
though the brightest of moments
come from confessing the dark.

In music, I’m the voice
of hope,
a role model of joy,
an architect of rising suns.

These poems called for
a deeper truth.
I’ve exposed
the torment underneath:
the silent wars,
the clawing doubts,
the tears that fall unseen.

I’ve written of nights
where faith felt paper-thin,
of how despair
can be a prophet,
pointing me
to eternal roots.

For even trees
and trembling flowers
weather the greatest 
of storms,
only because
their roots dig deep.

The same is true
for my soul—
as I’ve found;
it can’t stand
against the storms I face
unless I’m wholly
rooted in Christ—
fed by living water,
anchored firm in
unstable ground.

From this misery,
sprouts ministry.
From confession,
comes connection.
From wounds,
flows wisdom.

I stand,
rooted in Him—
as I’ve always been,
though often struggle to
play the part.
Branches stretching
toward hearts full of pain.
Leaves wave in acceptance,
Offering rest to the weary soul.

I have seen
how darkness shapes
a faith that cannot
be shaken.
I have watched the lowest rise,
only because they chose to trust.

A ministry has bloomed
not in spite of misery—
but because I’ve
walked through it.
At the deepest roots,
ever faithful—
is where I find Him.