I recently read a book called, The Poetry of Strangers, it spoke about the slower process of typing out a poem, key stroke by key stroke.
You can check out the book here The Poetry of Strangers
Then I was gifted three manual typewriters, that came from an old house, and the tiniest house I’ve ever seen. The woman who lived in this tiny house, typed the titles for our township. Now my fingers rest on those same keys, I love that! 💗
I pulled out my paints and hand painted some paper and then started typing.
There is something about working with your hands that is so absorbing. The clickty clack of the typewriter so satisfying.
This verse has been my anchor all summer. Reminding me that minding my own business, living a quiet life and working with my hands are good things. They bring peace and purpose to my life and that is good and it’s contagious. ☺️
That you also aspire to lead a quiet life, to mind your own business, and to work with your own hands, as we commanded you, that you may walk properly toward those who are outside, and that you may lack nothing.
1 Thessalonians 4:11-12
I’m hoping to offer custom hand typed poems soon! 🌺
Lament is a gift. A place where we find sweet relief in tears. When our tears subside we have that brief moment of looking up. We take a breath in that holy place, where our trust is renewed in Him once again.
A Song of Sorrow
I opened my eyes, I saw.
I cannot, I will not, unsee.
I see them…
Skin over small bones,
as parents, watch in helpless horror.
Women bleeding on a bales of hay,
believing their blood is a curse.
The persecuted, bound and tortured,
their lives taken, while silence reigns.
Bodies of babes, washed up on shores,
sand clings to fingers, that once circled a mother’s.
I turn my eyes away, I look up.
I cry to God and heaven,
as my song of sorrow soars.
I feel the light on my face,
and the darkness at my back.
In the stillness he is near.
In the stillness I trust.
In the stillness I look down.
There, I see my hands, my feet.
A little boy comes to the neighbor next door on Saturday mornings, at first listen you would be tempted to think he is a brat. My old girl and I know differently, and we wait for him with delight.
He comes each Saturday morning
to the neighbor’s house next door,
this brazen boy of wonder.
Once the car door opens,
his insistent voice
commands the air.
He battles imaginary monsters.
Holding sticks and stones,
in cupped hands.
Curtains flutter in the open window,
the old girl’s nose quivers against the screen.
She watches him, breathing him in.
He begins happy,
laughing, running, stomping, yelling,
she and I know it will not last long.
Old girl whimpers at the window
her brows set in worried frown.
A bee sting, a fall, a frustration
His cries will come on cue.
She and I sand, silhouettes in the window,
breathing sighs of relief, when brave boy runs once again.
I have had my eyes open to daily delights these past months. They lift my spirits, change my perspective and stir hope. May we open our eyes friends, to the sounds, the smells, the sights all around us and then simply give thanks, to the Maker of it all.
An Open Window
The window sits wide open,
curtains ruffle in the wind.
The breath of life is slowly drifting in.
The fluttering of wings,
joins chorus of a calling crow,
beating in time with chirps and coos.
The crackling of moving tires
A train horn far in the distance,
the rhythm of wheels on tracks.
The sound of someone mowing,
then the sweet aroma of freshly cut grass.
The delight of children’s treasure,
at a yard sale down the street.
I lay near the open window,
Closing my eyes, breathing in,
As the breeze tickles my feet.
I glory there for a moment
In the sounds and the smells,
You see, life is calling, to wake up once again.
This past weekend I attended baby shower of a dear friend’s daughter. It was pouring rain as we each made our way to the shower, yet we made our way. Women, young and old, gathered around the new mother-to-be. We brought gifts, love and encouragement, for both mother and daughter. The gathering of women is a sight to behold.
Women walk, wearing easy summer dresses.
Rain falls, umbrellas open
sandals in puddles, gifts in hands.
Tables draped in linens, hold borrowed china,
flowers surround unlit candles,
fragrant in the warm summer air.
Women, young and old, have gathered,
lovingly their eyes rest on her swollen belly.
The women squeeze in tight
as water drips from canopy rims,
down backs, drops glisten on fallen hair.
A smiling watermelon hippo offers fruit,
chicken salad on croissants,
salads brought to be shared
Talking, laughing, the eating of cupcakes.
Ribbons are cut, guessing inches,
stories of mothers and babes linger in the air.
The women circle, lemonade in hand,
their eyes on the one becoming.
The gifts fall like the rain.
The birds sing in rhythm from treetops.
A soft breeze blows, leaves and balloons flutter
The sun peaks, as clouds roll away.
Wrappings tumble, glitter flies in the sun.
Full are the hearts
of the woman, who came in the rain.
In these dim days, I have been looking for bits of joy. My ordinary life, has become even more ordinary. I have slowed, and looked and paid attention to all the small things in my day. Turns out I’ve been missing allot.
I had a little girl stop in my office with her Dad, she is about four. In moments we had a glorious visit together and I’m still smiling about it.
In a moment she slipped into my world.
Her smile curious, as we greeted,
she asked my name, and I asked her’s.
And just like that, we were friends.
I complimented her aqua blue
She told me they were clip-ons.
She said she liked my blue eyes, and my dark brown hair
I replied that her golden hair was beautiful.
We continued complimenting everything about one another,
until we floated.
Her shirt said, Wonder Woman
I asked if she was a superhero.
She told me, Yes.
As she turned to leave, I asked,
What are your superpowers?
With confidence she said, I can fly, and I’ll save everyone.
Yes, I believe you will, darling girl
Here most of us are, sitting at home. On any normal day isn’t this the place we long to be?
Here is a little reminder of the beauty of Home –
A place of solitude
The building of a sanctuary
Where peace is found
A place of communion
The ringing of laughter
Where joy is shared
A place of gathering
The keeping of conversations
Where bonds are made
A place of meals
The filling of the empty
Where hearts are warmed
A place where wisdom is taught
The falling of tears
Where grace is given
A place of warm blankets
The drifting off to sleep
Where rest is found
A place of understanding
The art of listening close
Where knowledge is known
A holy place
Where rooms are filled
With precious and pleasant riches