2 A.M.

Medium night.

This is no stretching of the morning.

Nor lingering of the night.

Minutes here are fathamable

And seconds countable.

Tiny flitting ideas

Build word-nests in my heart.

And here in utter darkness

I am understood.

Advertisements

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

I think I found where the mennonite hippies gather.

I don’t mean that in a derogatory way. I’ve always been intrigued by hippies and by how they hold their beliefs steongly.

“If I wasn’t a mennonite,” I told my friend recently, “I think I’d be a hippie.”

But maybe mennonite hippies are a thing.

I spent a weekend with barefoot, bearded poets and philosophers.

We read and studied poetry and thought thoughtful thoughts.

It was beautiful.

I loved finding others who shared the lonely poet life.

I loved that it wasn’t me saying “It almost puts words to the ache.”

I loved hearing the snippets of literature that became part of other families’ lore.

I loved staying up late into the night because the conversation was too good to end.

I even loved that everyone there knew so much more than I do.

I think it was Einstein who said, “If you’re the smartest person in the room, you’re in the wrong room”.

This weekend, I was in the right room.

If you love poetry, check out The Curator. A blog full of beautifully fresh poetry written by anabaptist people.

Literature Camp 2019 was the first of it’s kind. It will not be the last.

Creator God

Creator of little things

Of buds, and bugs and birds that sing.

To thee be praise.

Creator of hidden things

Of atoms, molecules, and tings.

I bring thee praise.

Creator of unseen things

Of spirit, soul, and angel wings

I stand in awe.

Creator of awesome things

Of mountain, lightening, fairy ring.

I love thee more.

Creator of everything,

Of all I have, to thee I bring.

Creator of me.

I Stand

I stand in the rain.

Gentle drops of coldness on my face.

Springy earth beneath my feet.

I stand in the rain.

I stand in the storm.

Raging winds beat upon my brow.

What comes to tear me down,

Instead builds strength.

I stand in the storm.

Soggy bread

Bread upon the waters cast
Will be returned to you at last,
This is a proverb strange – but true
You’ll find it works in all you do.

Soggy bread seems good for nought,
And too, it seems at times you’ve sought
For just a bit of good to come
From all the things you’ve said and done.

The work seems wasted, thrown away
Like bread that’s lost in ocean spray.
Drift on! and find your way to sea
The Master knows just where it be.

For when your faith is turned to sight,
Your hope is emptied in delight,
You’ll find the little deeds of yore
Have been returned as something more.