“The Woods”

The springtime woods are a wonder in that
they ever grew magnificent and tall.
A muffled-echo, an empty habitat
inside and under the shade of all.
Noises unseen in moving silence,
you can hear the stillness where time sways.
Breezes brushing through green vibrance,
with life—the canopy covers decay.

Reading the Poem

Forårsstemning i skoven (Springtime in a forest) by Godfred Christensen, 1916, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Inspiration

“The Woods” came from two ideas for poetry prompts combined into one.

Prompt 1: “Look outside and write what you see.”

Prompt 2: “The woods.”

The result being I looked outside and saw the woods, full of wonder.

Internal Tensions of Majesty

The poem plays on tensions between the senses, emptiness, fullness, life and death—capturing wonder and everything between.

Written in the Spring, my mind was on rebirth after winter. In one way, it could symbolize finding your purpose again, after the old things have passed away on the forest floor. And the new life covering all as green leaves soak in the sun.

That said, you cannot mention a forest without a sense of danger in the unknown.

That’s life. Exploration and discovery does not come without risk.

Even so, with the danger in adventuring into the unknown that is life, it’s worth it.

And we can still trust in the Maker of Heaven and Earth through it all.

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Let the heavens rejoice, let the earth be glad;
    let the sea resound, and all that is in it.
Let the fields be jubilant, and everything in them;
    let all the trees of the forest sing for joy.
Let all creation rejoice before the Lord, for he comes,
    he comes to judge the earth.
He will judge the world in righteousness
    and the peoples in his faithfulness.

Psalm 96:11–13 (NIV)

                            A charcoal
                            sketch of soot
                            collected
                            on the skin,
an anointing of oil dedicating, blessing the first
of all we have and are not—the parched thirst
                            from breathing
                            smoke rising
                            from the fire
                            of life, burning
                            in our hearts,
                            longing for
                            eternity—
                            dust to dust,
                            sin to death,
                            sacrifice to
                            life, grace in
                            ashes born again.

Reading the Poem

Las Tentaciones de Cristo (The Temptations of Christ) by Sandro Botticelli, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Inspiration

Once again, this poem came from the Creative Writing group I help lead. One of our students suggested Lent as the topic-prompt, and my first thought-image was of an Ash Wednesday Cross.

This is also my first concrete poem, where the poem takes the shape of a picture.

Besides the imagery of the ash cross, the poem is layered with meaning from the perspective of a protestant who did not grow up celebrating Ash Wednesday or Lent. (But I do have incredible respect for those that do.)

I draw (pun intended) a parallel of the ash being applied to being anointed with oil. And references of how Jesus’s sacrifice saves us from eternal judgement.

However, my favorite is the tension in the to, so to speak, from the saying, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” With the to being the breath of life we have.

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By the sweat of your brow
    you will eat your food
until you return to the ground,
    since from it you were taken;
for dust you are
    and to dust you will return.”

Genesis 3:19 NIV

Thank You, Jesus, for saving us from the curse of death by giving Your life. Thank You for eternal life with, in, and through You.

Note on image choice: Lent is a 40 day fasting season, and Jesus was tempted at the end of his 40 days in the wilderness. While my poem doesn’t touch on temptation itself, it does allude to the consequences of sin that we need to be saved from. Regardless, I chose this image to keep the context (and because I couldn’t find a suitable image of a charcoal cross).

Carol of the bells—
O Holy Night, silent night,
sing the first Noel.

Over Bethlehem

A start explodes as
the heavens rejoice over
the Light of mankind.

Herald to the Shepherds

Rod striking iron—
staff comforts man and sheep,
the Shepherd is born.

Mailing a Christmas Letter

Writing, our hearts and minds
were stirred, sealing our words
under evergreen bristles
wrapped in red fabric—
tied in time, sent for
the season, handed off for
travel in time, to be
delivered in a chorus as we
gather our gifts together
around the Christmas tree.

Christmas Spirit

Christmastime cookies and holiday cheer,
the lights are my favorite this time of year.
The meals are the best—it's a wonderful life—
with friends and family, my kids and my wife.

Santa Claus is coming, three nights,
at least—we won't be home alone,
but together—by window shining starlight
at peace—under blankets and heaven atoned.

For all the smiles and traditional rhymes,
the sanctity still holds that split all time.
Happiness and heaviness, holy as one—
the joy of a Baby, our Savior, God's Son.

“Christmas Eve” by J. Hoover and Son, 1878, Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.

Inspiration

The Three Haiku

“Christmas Haiku” came from a prompt I gave the creative writing group I help lead.

The prompt was literally two words: “Christmas writing.” The haiku I wrote draws from some of my favorite Christmas songs.

The other two haiku I wrote later, and build off the first.

“Over Bethlehem” suggests the Star over Bethlehem was a supernova.

The rod in “Herald the Shepherds” represents both a shepherd’s rod, and the clapper (or tongue) of a bell.

“Mailing a Christmas Letter” and “Christmas Spirit”

The letter poem is written off an earlier draft of my poem, “A Letter,” in which I ended with the visual of gather around a Christmas tree. I cut it from that poem (it wasn’t around Christmas), but decided I wanted to reuse it in a new work.

The last poem started as an attempt to be lighthearted, but the middle stanza took a turn, and I went with it.

Gift Wrapping it Up

I do like where I landed at the end of the “Christmas Spirit” poem.

Christmas has joy, and family, gifts and Christmas movies. Christmas also hold incredible holiness in celebrating the birth of our Savior.

And what better way for God to embody both—joy and the sanctity of life—than as a baby boy in his Son, Jesus.

For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

Isaiah 9:6 NIV

And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.”

Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,

“Glory to God in the highest heaven,
and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.”

Luke 2:8–14 NIV

In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind.

John 1:4 NIV

Merry Christmas!

Share Creativity & Culture

The poet is a prophet whose writing
comes from Eternity. Proclaiming
truth for redemption; grace
for salvation. Judgement persuading
the heart to turn to God.

Reading the Poem

Starry Night Over the Rhône by Vincent van Gogh, 1888.

Inspiration

My personal poetry philosophy is summed up as follows:

God set eternity in the hearts of men, and a poem is an attempt to reach it.

I recently heard it said that writing comes from water or place, depending on who you ask. I’m not going to debate figurative water or literal place, but it did get me wondering, “Where does poetry come from?”

Poetry comes from eternity, because God set eternity in the hearts of men, and a poem is an attempt to reach it.

This means depth of the soul in simplicity, breadth of emotions in complexity, and height of imagination in mystery.

That’s poetic speak for, “Poetry captures the intangible in the real.”

An attempt to capture eternity in the life we get to live

Encouragement

Ecclesiastes 3:10–11 (NIV) says:

I have seen the burden God has laid on the human race. He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.

Every poem is a burden the poet didn’t know he had, until it flows out of him in the creative process, becoming beautiful in time.

We are eternal beings created in the Image of the Eternal Creator. Our earthly bodies won’t last, but our spirits will.

And so we long for eternity—even if the yearning comes out as art (redeemed or not).

Ultimately, the only way we can reach eternity is through Jesus.

And there is no attempt to reach eternity. There is only paid for and done.

We already have eternity, in Jesus’s name. He’s given us the keys, the truth, His grace.

Therefor we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary but what is unseen is eternal.

2 Corinthians 4:16–18 NIV

White horse–conquest,
the Spring seeds blossom,
the Lion wears his crown.

Red horse–war,
the Summer heat blisters,
the Ox drags his weight.

Black horse–famine,
the Fall fruit’s barren,
the Man bears his guilt.

Pale horse–death,
the Winter frost blankets,
the Eagle drops his prey.

Reading the Poem

Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse by Victor Vasnetsov, 1887. Cropped.

Inspiration

The inspiration for this poem comes from the idea of juxtaposing the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse with what theologians refer to as the Four Faces of God (a man, lion, ox, and eagle). It’s experimental for me in both style and content.

It is not meant to be a theological work of art, but of human experience.

(It is also not meant to be literal. It is poetry, after all.)

The poem begins with hope, goes through seasons of judgment, and ends with a “letting go” of sorts.

It could be a dream dying, or letting go of a hope deferred.

Encouragement

Proverbs 12:13 (NIV) says,

Hope deferred makes the heart sick,
but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.

This verse speaks to where all of us either have been, are, or will be.

Holding on to something—choosing to defer it, to put if off—makes the heart sick. This could be the weight of your conscience and the conviction of the Holy Spirit, for not taking action on what you need to do.

But a longing fulfilled? It’s the best thing ever.

Sometimes we get there by adjusting expectations. Many times we get there by putting in the work. Most times it’s all of the above.

Just keep the context of what matters: hope, heart, longing, life.

Be strong and take heart,
all you who hope in the Lord.

Psalms 31:24 NIV

Ancient scripts hiding
in sand—covering decayed,
beige gaps in the old
papyrus holding missing
words between tears of black ink
imprinting fibers in time.

Genesis_1_Dead_Sea_Scroll_(Cropped).jpg, Wikimedia Commons

Inspiration

The inspiration for this poem came from a writing exercise with a small group of college students, and from the themes in the resulting poems.

The writing prompt was to choose a picture out of a National Geographic magazine that featured and focused on The Dead Sea Scrolls. I chose the fragment image on the cover.

Since this was the second time to use this prompt, several members of the group already had poems written, including one the mentioning gaps and one focused on time.

Writing the poem as a tanka came from a group member asking about a form of Japanese poetry similar to haiku. I realized I had never written a tanka, and wanted to try it myself.

Without the group and their work, this poem could not exist.

A tanka is a Japanese poetic form consisting of 31 syllables over 7 lines, following 5/7/5/7/7 syllables per line.

Self-Critiquing Teaching Example

The group includes several “novice” writers (including one who wrote his first ever poem in response to this prompt).

Before writing this poem, I had given feedback on their works. I then used the first draft of this poem as a teaching example.

I read them the initial draft, and pointed out several places that needed work:

• Redundant/repeated words (gap and cover).

• Wasted syllables (the is a wasted word in the first draft).

• Where I needed a better picture to convey a deeper meaning.

• Use of the word stained which isn’t the feel or idea I want to give, considering The Dead Sea Scrolls contain Scripture.

Here is the initial draft, followed by the published version again.

You can see the transformation from the initial draft of getting my thoughts down in 20-minutes, to letting it rest and redrafting for the published version.

Notice that the first line of the original draft doesn’t have the correct number of syllables….yet.

First Draft: “Dead Sea Tanka”

The Dead Sea Scrolls covered
in sand covering decay
and gaps in the old
papyrus holding missing
words between the gaps of ink
staining the fibers in time.

Published Draft: “Dead Sea Scrolls”

Ancient scripts hiding
in sand—covering decayed,
beige gaps in the old
papyrus holding missing
words between tears of black ink
imprinting fibers in time.

Proverbs 15:31, NIV

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Whoever heeds life-giving correction
will be at home among the wise.

so little ends
beneath

a red maple's
spring leaves

grazed with wind
rushing

above maroon
pine straw

From Farm Work to Yard Work

This poem is inspired in part by, and is written as a homage, to “The Red Wheelbarrow” by William Carlos Williams.

I remember the first time I read “The Red Wheelbarrow” in 11th grade English in high school: I thought it was dumb. Truth is….I was taking the poem at literal value, and acting how I thought I was supposed to act about silly things like poetry.

However, this poem stuck with me because of the image of the red wheel barrow, left in the rain, beside the white chickens who lived and worked with the owner, producing eggs for sustenance. The story behind it captured me.

The rest of the inspiration for this poem came from seeing a red maple in a neighbors yard, with fresh reddish brown (maroon) pine straw beneath it. Wanting to continue to stretch myself and write in new styles, I immediately thought of “The Red Wheelbarrow”.

The poem also tells a story of work, but of vanity, not sustenance. Living chickens that provided food for life, as opposed to dead pine needles that didn’t really offer much value when alive.

Perhaps there is a direct literary analogy to go along with it too. After all, what I wrote is a shadow of something better.

Whatever the case, as poets, our writing is built upon the work the came before us through influences and inspiration, much like my neighbor’s red maple tree is landscaping in a subdivision built upon farm and forest land that provided sustenance for people that came before us.

So much depends upon…

Such a good poem.

The Red Wheelbarrow

By William Carlos Williams (1883–1963), public domain.

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens

Ecclesiastes 2:11 NIV

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Yet when I surveyed all that my hands had done
    and what I had toiled to achieve,
everything was meaningless, a chasing after the wind;
    nothing was gained under the sun.

Light is sown in streams
watering the seed sprouting
to the source. A wellspring
moving at the speed
of life—rushing, in waves
widening time and space,
despair and desires redeemed:
drawn from darkness and doubting
to a wedding ring
for all the earth to need—
the narrow source who saves
us from our time and place.

Walls and Waves

This poem came from a trickle of inspiration: it started with knowing I wanted to write a poem, to knowing a poem was being birthed when listening to a message by Pastor Jim Laffoon, to finally seeing the poem come to light as I read the footnote to Psalm.

In Pastor Jim’s message, he mentioned spiritual attacks come in “walls and waves.”

Thinking in terms of waves: light travels in waves. And more waves can distort or obscure what’s already there. (This is what light pollution does to stars shining in the night sky.)

From there, I was reading Psalm 97:11, which starts, “Light shines…” However, it has a footnote that states it can also be read as “Light is sown”.

What a concept: sowing light. And it makes sense, because light is also a particle. (Light is both a wave and a particle, photons.)

While the imagery in the poem may bring to mind stars shining in space, it also hints at light touching earth that originated outside of earth. (Also, I only had these photos of sunsets on my phone, and there’s too much light pollution where I live to get a really good night sky picture anytime soon.)

Psalm 97:11 NIV

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Light shines on the righteous
and joy on the upright in heart.

Psalm 97:11 NIV, per the footnote.

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Light is sown on the righteous
and joy on the upright in heart.

The salt lick stands weathered on the hill
where shepherds drive their herds before the kill.
Once-fertile fields in the valley below
have become pass-through roads for pilgrimage—
I still see mirage embers glow
as if the fire was yesterday, embracing our home.
We did our best to escape with courage,
for family—leaving our flocks to roam—
they didn't make it past where the dawn ties in-
-to the earth, devoured on the horizon.
My lot in life, recoiled in shockwave lies.
Bursting regrets and strife billowed black
smoke clouding our sight under burning skies—
the image was cast the day my wife looked back.

Sodom and Gomorrah by Henry Ossawa Tanner, digitally enhanced, Wikimedia Commons.

Inspiration

The speaker in this sonnet is a fictional representation of Lot, reflecting on the story of Sodom and Gomorrah in Genesis.

It began with a thought of Lot fleeing, and losing his wife when she looked back. Presenting Lot’s wife as a salt lick (which possibly did happen if animals ever passed by her pillar-of-salt-remains) is thanks to growing up in Alabama.

From there, as I continually drafted this work, I put myself in Lot’s shoes. How I might remember something so traumatic if I were to revisit the place it happened?

The middle of the poem came last, and was inspired by these additional concepts.

• Psalm 84, which speaks of God’s dwelling place, and our journey in life.

• Archeological evidence of an airburst that devastated the Jordan valley in the Bronze Age. "A Tunguska sized airburst destroyed Tall el-Hammam a Middle Bronze Age city in the Jordan Valley near the Dead Sea"

• Lot settled in greener pastures, only to lose the life he built.

• Lot’s family bore the consequences of his decisions. The usage of flocks in context of the second line using shepherding is intentional.

The poem is meant to tug on the eternity heart strings that God has placed in us all, by emphasizing the futility on investing all we have in this current life.

Psalm 84:5 NIV

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Blessed are those whose strength is in you,
whose hearts are set on pilgrimage.

I was born with blue lips
two days late, gasping
for light lost in the womb's
warm umbilical grip.
My limb-peripheral grasping
onto our circular tomb.

"We are given no signs
from God; no prophets are left
and none of us knows how long
this will be." Resigned
in faith, at night for the theft,
we see how weak—we are strong.

Inspiration and Faith

The inspiration for this poem came from reading Psalm 74:9. The verse simultaneously struck me as a deep longing for more than this life, while being full of faith.

Even though the psalmist, Asaph, paints a picture of surface level hopelessness, it’s in a deeper context of faith because of where Psalm 74 goes.

[Even though] we are given no signs, from God, [even though] there’s no prophets left, and [even though] we don’t know how long this hardship or situation—life—will last, [we still have faith].

Even though all of those things may be true in the moment, we have faith in the one who owns the day and the night (Psalm 74:16).

Reflecting

In all, it made me reflect on my own life, and even the story of how I was born—two days late and with blue lips. That reflection led to the first stanza of this poem, part autobiographical, part fiction, part connecting to humanity as a whole.

The second stanza came from looking at how Psalm 74 was written—very poetic. I knew I wanted to quote the verse in a post after finishing the poem, but then I wanted to see if I could incorporate it into the poem itself. (Originally entitled “"Life Story”).

Getting the final lines added was not easy, going for the rhyme and also connecting the verse to the first stanza.

Finally, slant rhyming signs with resigned and rhyming left with theft got me to connect our wondering of how long “it” will be, to how Jesus will come back like a thief in the night. Even though He will come back when we least expect it, we’re full of faith that He will.

Psalm 74:9 NIV

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We are given no signs from God;
no prophets are left,
and none of us knows how long this will be.

1 Thessalonians 5:2 NIV

for you know very well that the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night.

Ink print cursive on parchment, signed
with uncanny precision, "Becky 79".
Each pressed line-to-fade articulate
in their nature—displaying a man-made
landscape of leaves and brick on paper weight.
The artist left the colors out in shades
of imitation graphite. A gray-scale foundation
for the "Sam High House 1908",
as the drawing was labeled. No location
or hint the home existed in any state
outside the imagination of memory.
The title and signature were the only words
written, besides scribble filling gaps
in branches, the center-tree empty of birds
and life the printer forgot to ink and cap.

I first saw this thrift-store work as it rested on the shelf in our downstairs restroom. Having a love of history, I was drawn to wondering what was the story behind this house, as it appears to have existed in 1908 (or was it built in 1908), and drawn by a “Becky” in 1979.

Then the realization hit me that there might not be a story at all, besides whatever someone imagined to produce and sell with the frame. And that thought stirred the creative flow in me—so I took a picture to reference later.

(Good thing I did, as my wife has since rotated that frame for another, and I have no idea where “upstairs” this work currently is. Artwork, like lamps, tends to rotate frequently in our house.)

Whatever the story, real or contrived, of the drawing of Sam High House, it’s a testament to how we can create work that feels real in history, and resonates with us in longings in time and place.

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Isaiah 32:18 NIV
My people will live in peaceful dwelling places,
in secure homes,
in undisturbed places of rest.

Specific Pacific

I woke up to the Pacific
Waves wearing shoreline drift-trees raw;
Overcast gray and blue specific
Sights of creation roared white-foam awe,
Oh, waters over the deep!
Dear God, I was once asleep
Until You moved into me,
With Your light that let me see

“Specific Pacific” was written in 2009, on a Spring Break road trip to Olympic National Park.

I had a vision-goal of waking up early one morning, spending time with God, and writing a poem. This poem was the result of finally doing that.

Sitting above the beach and drift-trees, a dull gray overcast sky, reading the first part of Genesis, and writing in my journal.

It was a surreal moment of witnessing Creation reflecting the circumstances of its own creation—and in turn creating something myself.

Bonus: As the poem is now internalized in my memory. The Revised Version.

Specific Pacific

I awoke to the Pacific
waves wearing shoreline drift-trees raw;
overcast gray and blue specific
sights of Creation roared white-foam awe.
Oh, waters over the deep!
Dear God, I was once asleep
until You moved into me
with Your light that let me see.

Looking back, I remember the poem slightly different from what was published, so I’ve included this version as an interesting addition. Whatever the case and cause, it seems appropriate a poem about the ocean would ebb over time.

Genesis 1:1–3 NASB 1995

1 In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. 2 The earth was formless and void, and darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was moving over the surface of the waters. 3 Then God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light.

(Photos provided by our friend Steven from a previous trip to Olympic. If we can find the photos from when this poem was written, I’ll update this post. Piles of barren tree trunks as drift wood was a sight to behold.)

A good poem is
intangible words made real
in the throes of sound.

Em dash enjambments—
starting with “And”. Visual
pulls the audible.

Two carbon prisms flicker:
shadow-bright-shadow-bright—
shades of the same yellow light.

Their holder has two shoots descending,
stuttering towards smoke and sky—
flames consuming the place where they lie.

"My soul, why are you downcast,"
reading God's Word and will—
warmth overwhelms—be still.

Chemical combustions fire at will.
Their wicks melt the wax, steady—
ink and paper at the ready.

Flickers of sounds I cannot hear,
but know by the strides of my pen—
The Scriptures and prayers say, "Amen."

Psalms 43:5 NIV

Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God.

The natural flow of a precipice jutting into
the wind, friction ridges in waves of smooth
hills—greenery rolling over the rocks
and erosion. Timber clings to the cliffs,
wood veins entrenched in the earth where time splits
eons survived and impending inches moved.
—It's quiet. The peaceful song of bird and cicada
raptures stillness undisturbed by the breeze.
Leaves twist, each fold irreversible
as morning slips to heat, tectonic
in the buildup—gravity gives away.

(Photo taken by our friend Cory in 2016.)

I have a habit of telling
not showing, because I enjoy
the words. The rhythm of syllables
deep behind the inner
dialogue reading to me.
Poetry is supposed to
give more than the page—dimensions
entangled, emulating
eternity superpositioned
in sounds, the hearts of men.

Beneath a breathing shelter,
stretched fabric sieves
rays, strains drops.
The blades reach and never
touch, no matter the distance
the expanse descends under
intense pressure pushing—
springing the firmament away.
Trampoline grass grows green
in the cold; the rest
sleeps outside the poles.