Truth Lent
Ash Wednesday: humbling reminder of who I am in relation to the great I AM. noticing what is lent to me by the One who made me. giving up what is too important to me to let in what is most important for me. embracing a new practice to erase an old rut. uncluttering my heart to discover more of God's heart. aying no to this by saying yes to that. simplifying to deepen. lessening to become more. Oh, Jesus, let me simply be with You. © Lane M....
In Purple Haze of Morning
Plum perfect: as in the royal sunrise tickled me awake with lavender laughter. I slid down the bannister in my favorite periwinkle PJs, inhaled the lilacs, toasted the day with blueberries, as tart and bright as an amethyst, intoxicated with violet hues. ...
Alert for Betweens
Between This line And the next My thoughts burst forth Like fireworks Shimmering against The dark. Between This line And the next I may have strolled around the block Or down the lane. I may have stopped and chatted with a friend Over a cup of Earl Grey tea. Between This line And the next A minute passes Or an hour Or a day or two. Between This line And the next A new year begins Where Advent whispers, “Get ready. Stay alert for the Betweens." Between This line And the next Pause with wonder; Ponder with hope: Long ago Today And One Forever day Christ...
The Habit of Poetry
"I want to be a better writer, so I try to read a poem a day," says L. L. Barkat. I agree. Reading poetry is like the interplay of chocolate and oranges: rich, juicy, tart, and unexpected. It changes how I look at words and how I write them. Poetry came into my life early: nursery rhymes from the crib forward, poems memorized in elementary school, and the sappy love poems read in my teenage years. Then there was a wonderful elementary teacher who got me started on writing poems. After that, poems came in through the front door, by the window, on the back porch…from just about from...
Remnants
Rivulets steam and stream Salty, hot, Under this thick non-woven Breathing face mask, Meant to keep out A million miniscule molecules Of ash, one remnant of That rant of fire That leapt the canyons and dry ridges, In one pyrocumulus moment Then consumed, decimated, This now catastrophed neighborhood Where children and dogs once played And grey rabbits nibbled, hopping beside Twin fawns at dawn. We volunteers Shovel debris, Shovel residue, Shovel cinders Of unrecognizables, Sifting stunned, Sifting silently, Sifting hoping for Mementos of memories. We sweat Inside...
Edit Two
The final round Of editing Feels like That sprint When your lungs burn And your legs wobble And you can see the finish line, But are gasping for hope and energy. To undo What took so long to do Seems counterproductive. In fact, Such editing Adds a patina Of possibility That was lost In the plethora Of prose. Ah, Lord, You, too, Edit me. You fix typos And point out Inconsistencies. You invite me to more By becoming less. Edit away, Lord, That I might be A fine story For Your glory. © Lane Arnold ...
The Hope of Dirt
The shovel is my brother, a good companion as we play together in the dirt… and I am bigger for hoping— as I dig, as I turn soil & a few worms upside down. I imagine the tiny roots climbing low, low, low, while tiny shoots climb high, high, high. Sunday’s sunny. Thursday’s rainy. And, in spite of the July fourth storm, all red rumbling, blue bruising, and hailstone white, the beauty pulls through, with small bursts of bright passion. At first, silent and small as a hummingbird hovering, the shoots poke up their green heads, then, choose to linger a...
Arose She
Arose she at magenta sunrise, just after twinkling bouquets faded. The summer damask rose shimmered in an old cut glass vase beside her bed. He always left one waiting there. She thought of that other day, fifty-two summers ago, when her now-snow-headed sweetheart knelt on one knee, and asked what he already knew the answer to: Will you? I will. Every morning, The yes of Whimsy and joy, wafting among quotidian moments, Lovers lasting Aroma. Outside the bay window, roseate puffs proposed, flushing the face of craggy young Rockies. Alpenglow blush: Two beauties dancing to dawn’s delight, on...
What We Didn’t Know
What we didn’t know was that our hearts would burn within us, just like their hearts burned when The Fire Spoke on the road. Emmaus-bound, so they thought, yet really, like us, they were bound to The Consuming One. The Word, Made Flesh, newly spoken, Remade by His Presence, their leaden downcast faces, their slowness of Heart, transforming them into Glowing Ones who declared the truth Of the Risen Bread Of the Flowing Wine to doubters, first themselves, led unto recognizing Him by revelation Of the Resurrected Word. What we didn’t know was that our hearts, too, would find, in the burning...
