Happy to share my poem “Bar of Soap” with you! It’s a prose poem, and it landed in the first edition of inScribe: Journal of Creative Writing, a publication from South Australia. Their inaugural theme was Gift—the idea that life is properly regarded as a gift. Many of you may have never heard of such an animal. Why a prose poem? Why not? It’s an option. I like so many types of poetry. Sort of kin to liking Baptists, Methodists, Presbyterians, Catholics, Jews, or liking iris,

I am fond of things with feathers. So fond of them that I feed them, listen to them, watch them. And happily, I am not alone in this endeavor. Here's a poem by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886). Poem 254. (Her poems are numbered instead of titled. That’s why they are sometimes referred to by the first line.) "Hope” is the thing with feathers — That perches in the soul — And sings the tune without the words — And never stops — at all — And sweetest — in the Gale — is heard — And sor

I’m seeing bright scarves of white flowers hanging on trees. It has a bridal appearance—to me, it looks like scarf upon scarf of white blossoms veiling slender shoulders. The whirling dervishes, the bridal gowns are actually white dogwoods. They usually appear near Easter. This year, they are especially beautiful in the Ozark Mountains. As I look on them, I also think of the beautiful gowns and prom dresses I saw last weekend while Haven, a granddaughter, and I shopped for he

Oh, my friend. Do you know that it’s possible to be so full that you know, for sure, that your words don’t matter much? I thought my Saturday and Sunday would be spent working around the house, going to church, getting ready for next week. But then, I read again about some dear women going to the tomb, finding emptiness 20 centuries ago. I had already been praying for some other precious women who’ve been struggling with loss and health. Maybe that’s why the Easter story impa