a poem in my pocket

we all begin life as prisoners;

most of us escape our mother’s womb

only to face our own limitations.

our enemy would hold us hostage;

his methods are devious, his bonds are strong.

will satan’s fate be our own awful end?

we choose  to wallow in self-made dungeons

of addiction, shame, fear or bitterness.

our hearts slowly grow cold; our minds dark.

but there is a savior who slays the beast

he opens our prison cell and calls us into light;

we are out on parole until our ultimate release.

Thirsty corn stretches dry tassels heavenward, reaching for rain.

Dusty leaves curl inward, folded in fervent prayer.

Sparse clouds cast welcome shadows on the parched land.

Scattered drops of moisture fall mercifully down on baked fields;

Every drip a precious promise, raising harvest hopes.

A wise farmer knows God as a Father who doesn’t tease but often tests.

Creation’s plenty depends entirely on the Creator’s provision.

Writer’s block

may be a knock

to stop doing nothin’

and start writing somethin’.

As you’re typin’,

thoughts can ripen.

It begins slow…

then ideas will flow.

So do not shirk;

just get to work!

A miracle of love born early

A tiny fragile fighter for life

A perfect gift from God our Father

This sweet angel did not linger long

Yet she leaves a message of hope

That we too belong to heaven.

Our farm is a place of bovine bliss

where bulls browse, cows drowse, 

and calves carouse.

Everyone

has their

unique story

to tell

and i am

no legend.

The ground, dried to cracking,

cannot long sustain healthy crop growth.

Father, pour down refreshing rains!

This voice, parched to hoarseness,

cannot easily sing joyful praise.

Jesus, stretch out your healing hand!

That poem, void of inspiration,

cannot take shape on the page.

Spirit, ignite with your creative breath!

I’m mistaken as rotten figs
Twasn’t angry birds
or even unbalanced pigs;
Twas earwigs!

My very much Dutch grandpa and grandma
each emigrated from Holland when they were young.
They fit American culture like a pair of wooden shoes.

Grandma followed in her Dutch Bible as Grandpa read aloud in English,
pointing to the text so I could pick out words like “Heere”, Lord.
And I knew the Lord listened when Grandpa prayed.

Grandma graciously served us rosettes and rusks on china saucers
with steaming tea or orange drink poured into matching tea cups.
We felt very special, listening in on grown-ups’ conversation.

Time of our vacation visits passed much too quickly
like the tick-tocking of their sitting room clock with
miniature figures of a boy and girl see-sawing the seconds away.

Grandpa rented Minnesota farmland; raised crops, livestock, two sons
and later, a dear daughter (who, in turn, raised my brother and I).
A gentle man with animals, he liked to tickle-torture us children.

Before bed, Grandma removed the squiggly hairpins
and let her braided bun fall down in silver ripples to her waist.
She would brush out her long locks while I watched, mesmerized.

On Sundays, she wore a stylish hat, black stockings and heels to church.
He dressed in a dark suit, handkerchief in breast pocket, and shiny black shoes.
Hard-working country folk transformed into classy lady and dignified gentleman!