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Poetic Justice … you can take it with you

Journalism reports yesterday’s news.
Like the weather,
it needs no re-cap.
No sense keeping that around.

Fiction tells a good story.
Entertaining, but unless
those characters make a home with us,
one and done.


Poetry bears telling and re-telling,
reading and re-reading.
Poems speak newness,
reading into us, as we are new.
The one we are (the me who reads)
is new, with each reading.

peotry words

Yesterday’s poem
holds no sway over today’s me.
Perhaps, a look and see
at how it affected me.
How I landed there. then.

But today lifts off into a new wind,
under new weather conditions.
Today the poem is a completely new flight.
New flight plan, same pilot.

There is no quenching living words,
they continue to speak:
to draw the heart out
to fill the soul up
to still, no activate, no ignite, no…
distill … can’t make up my own mind,
must let it make itself.

These are powerful words that propel me:
to places I’d never go otherwise,
with people I’d never meet otherwise,
that I came to the poem,
and it met me there
but didn’t leave me there,
didn’t leave me at all.
It stayed.

What is a poet
but one who lives a life that speaks?
Your life speaks.
It’s poetry
as you write it —
see how it changes you,
as you write
and they,
as they read.

Write that.


Are You Finished Yet?

humingbird Brade FullerWhat is our perfect number of days?

Before we are who our families meet,

and our friends know,

and our partners embrace,

we are complete.

Completely made ready

by the One who was and is and ever will be.


Can the end of our days ever be welcome?

A just dessert,

a welcome respite,

a final resting place?

We are created to reach beyond the end,

to grasp even for that which we cannot see.

Touching it completes us,

even as it loved us completely

into being.


I don’t create, I rearrange

I am not creative.

I do not create

something from nothing.

That was done once,

only once.

I rearrange.

Been rearranging

since the beginning

of me.

IMG_1068Today, I give thanks for the gift of creativity. The desire to look at a thing and all that surrounds it and try out the combinations. What goes here? What fits there. How would these work if they were together? This isn’t working, how can I help it? How can I adjust it, reorganize it, so it clicks. So it operates. So it runs full steam ahead.

Life is a puzzle. I am the puzzler.

I do not create

something from nothing.

I create

something from something.

And that creates me.

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