The last of April, the last of my concentration on poems in my blog posts for the year. I admit I’ve pushed myself to put focus on poems this month. A poetry retreat, state meeting, and local meeting, poet groups on-line will do that. Why? I want to make my poetry better. Poetry is an emotional container. Sometimes a poem needs space, sometimes a little opposition so that it’s more than syrupy sweet, sometimes it’s like a discovery with a flashlight. It’s noticeable, even to

It was the day of suffering—the day of mocking, flogging, betrayal. Day became night. Jesus. It’s the day He was crucified, the day He freely gave up His life for all mankind. His story moves me today like it did when I was a girl. Today, I know Jesus was born for the crucifixion, to testify the truth. The Son of God did not run away from suffering. He came to die for the sake of the world that sins might be redeemed. No other way. His body was buried, but Jesus was victoriou

My Saturday involved leaving Conway, Arkansas, and driving I-40 to Little Rock. It was raining. And there was talk on the radio of thunderstorms coming our way. I drove at 65 mph so I wouldn’t get run over, but big trucks were passing me and throwing waves of water in my face. One wreck in the median—flashing lights, fire truck, police cars. A light on my dash was no longer just blinking. It was RED and constantly on. I arrived at the Cox Building for a meeting with Poets' Ro

Let the fun begin! Poetry, poetry, poetry and interacting with others who love words. Always, I tear up when I hear a poem that touches my heart. No shame in my tears. It’s a way to praise the poet. The woman reading touches my heart with her honest words. I’m holding all my logic and practicality for when I drive home in three days. Meanwhile, when I feel a poem, I’m letting myself crumble a bit, letting the emotion come. These are poets, people who understand and get trigge

Keep your eyes open if you are anywhere near northern Arkansas. Buds are sprouting, breaking free from a dark winter. Trees and buds must be brave. Breaking open—sounds painful, sacrificial, beautiful. And beauty is always fragile. I guess things have to break apart, in order for better things to come. Things are waking up and coming alive. Here, willows are putting out a little restless green. Gingko, dogwood, cottonwood, sweet gum, tulip tree, sugar maple. We are surrounded