I guess we call it “Fall” because leaves trickle down, And I suppose that makes a lot of sense. But, somehow, I think “Autumn” has a better sound — More positive — when lovely things commence.
For me, it is the crowning season of the year, And supersedes even winter holidays. I get a happy feeling as it’s drawing near, And yearn for it to make a longer stay.
The brilliant golds and reds and oranges bursting free Against a sky pellucid, yet true blue. Carpets made of crunchy leaves beneath the trees: A happy crunch — but extra work it’s true.
Bonfires’ unique scents that drifts along the air; Families roasting hot dogs, smashing smores; Digging out the sweatshirts we can’t wait to wear; Shopping at the farmer’s market stores.
Squash, tomatoes, apples, pumpkins, corn on cob, Chrysanthemums so big they seem unreal. The work of harvest overtakes all other jobs, And nature’s blessing our good effort seals.
I just can’t get enough of that crisp Autumn air, Or the quiet that seems to rest on everything. Even Autumn rains fall with quiet care, And something in my heart can’t help but sing.
If I could have my way, Autumn would rule the year. I’d keep one month for Winter’s cleansing touch. I’d give one month to Spring and Summer with good cheer. But all the rest to the Autumn I love so much!
A friend of mine has just published a huge book of quotes, jokes, puns, and interesting facts that will prove a terrific resource for public speakers of all genres. Called simply SPEAKER’S GOLDMINE, the 436-page book has a lot to offer — so much so, in fact, that rather than trying to type out an ad for it myself, I’m posting the book trailer so you can get a close-up look at what it’s all about. I hope it can serve as a help to some of you podcasters, educators, ministers, and motivational and inspirational speakers.
I share more personal stories about drinking coffee, from half a cup, thick with milk and sugar, allowed in childhood, to large cups, hot and black, once old enough to make my own choices. This episode includes the story of my father’s tornado experience and his insistence on building a storm cellar as a result. And, naturally, after a night in a storm cellar, nothing but coffee can get things back to normal. I round out the episode with one of my coffee poems.
April is National Poetry Writing Month, and although several years I’ve celebrated it by trying to write a poem every day — and almost succeeding some of those years — I knew I couldn’t work at that pace this time around. In fact, I accidentally let April slip in without one rhyme. But today I decided I need to at least make the effort to contribute to the world’s collection of poetry by writing a few new poems during April. So I’m making a start right now.
WHERE IS SPRING?
Spring is trying hard to get a start this year. March did come in with lion winds on cue. But other elements just cannot get in gear, The weather’s gray and cold, and that won’t do.
Daffodils did bloom and lift their yellow heads, Only to be beaten down by storms and rain. They lay forlorn and helpless, flat upon their beds, And now its wet and gray and cold again.
I just don’t know what’s happened to our happy spring. When scents of flowers and grasses fill the air. When golden sun and bluest skies cause birds to sing. And folks can catch ‘spring fever’ everywhere.
Maybe it will change and warm up in no time. I surely hope that’s true, ’cause here’s the thing: To end this poem I need to have a word that rhymes, And I can’t think of anything but Spring!
Since we’re moving towards summer and its bright warm colors, I felt in the mood to do a post featuring a few of my paintings that use oranges and yellows primarily. Hope you enjoy them.
I am subscribed to “Keep It Alive,” and Sadje (the owner of that channel) keeps us abreast of a number of writing challenges. I don’t always have time to take part in them, but I manage to do so once in a while. This week, she shared a challenge from “Selma,” who told us how she was prompted to take the last line from the poem of a friend and begin a new poem of her own with that line. She then challenged us to do the same. I have done something similar in the past for another poetry challenge, but it has been many years, so I thought it would be fun.
Selma’s last line was “In perfect accord.” So I set out to write a poem beginning with that line. I did not intend for my last line to repeat the first, but it just worked out that way so perfectly that I couldn’t help myself.
Anyway, I hope you will all hop over to visit Sadjeand Selmaboth and maybe write your own poem beginning with the last line of mine — or theirs.
Here’s my poem:
I REST WITH GOD
In perfect accord with God, I rest; Forgiven for sin and healed and blessed. I have no need to struggle or strain, Or fight for what I want to gain. He meets my needs on every hand, And, washed clean by His blood, I stand Acquitted, accepted, anointed, adored; I rest with Him, in perfect accord.
Come over and join me on “God Bless My Coffee” channel to hear the delightful history of Maxwell House Coffee. And to get my unique checklist for finding the “perfect husband.”
I’m excited to announce my new YouTube channel devoted to Coffee. It’s called “God Bless My Coffee,” and I’ll be posting video/podcasts regularly. A lot of what I’ll be sharing is material I have shared here in written form, but I thought some of you might enjoy interacting with me on YouTube — especially the other coffee lovers out there.
Anyway, here’s the first episode to give you a feel for what it will be like. If you do visit the channel, please hit that “Like” button for me, and, of course, Subscribe and click the little Bell Symbol so you’ll be informed about future episodes. Thank You. I hope your enjoy it.
Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, when we focus on Jesus’ suffering and death for us. But we want to be sure we don’t focus on the suffering and death without including the victory that resulted from it. I wrote this poem this week to celebrate all that Jesus did.
THE PRICE IS PAID; THE VICTORY’S WON
Mankind was bowed beneath the load of sin and shame. But in the fulness of God’s time, the Savior came. He walked as man and lived obedient to God’s law. Then took upon Himself the sin and curse for all.
His sorrow was so deep it turned his sweat to blood. In agony He prayed alone, misunderstood. He cried “Dear Abba, can You find another way?” But when no way was found, He rose up and obeyed.
The scourging ripped His body; thorns punctured His head. Nailed to the cross, unclothed, He cried aloud and said, “Father, forgive them; they do not know what they do. I’ve done Your will, and now my spirit comes to You.”
The arms of death did grip Him tight within their hold. The devil felt supreme and in his hate grew bold. But suddenly God’s voice was heard: “The price is paid!” And all the underworld began to reel and shake.
The Spirit of Life, who had created all that’s seen, From Heaven came down and filled Christ’s body once again. He rose to life victorious over sin and curse, And in that life now reigns over the universe.
Beautiful flowers are food for my soul: Bright colors, soft petals, verdant leaves. When I feel fragmented, they help make me whole And saturate me with their peace.
For flowers have a nature of positive vibes, In the sunshine, the wind, or the rain. Even when storms thrash them from side to side, They lift up their heads once again.
When I’m in a funk about life overall, I stop and I contemplate blooms. For I know my soul needs to answer their call To let beauty dissolve away gloom.
What an exhilarating experience it is to create something! Our God, of course, is the original Creator, but since He made us in His own image, we are also creative by our very genetic nature. I’ve written about this fact a number of times in the past, including it as an important part of my curriculum Releasing the Creative Writer in You.
Writers, particularly, need to be aware of this facet of their craft. Artists just naturally seem to understand that they have created something unique when they finish a painting or a sculpture. And jewelry makers and woodcrafters recognize the fact. But so often I meet writers who seem to feel that until they have completed an entire novel or at least a large collection of short stories or poems, they have not actually created anything of value. And then many writers feel that until another person has judged their work and labeled it “valuable” – someone such as a publisher or literary agent – then they are still “working” at being “creative.”
But the truth is that the intrinsic value of writing lies in this one potent fact: everyone who writes – once he has written an original piece of any size – has created something that never before existed. That person’s words in that specific form, making that specific statement, having that particular impact, constitute an entity that never existed before it came forth out of that individual. What’s more, it never would have existed – had no chance of ever seeing the light of the world – unless that individual had put it onto paper – or into his computer as the case may be.
Now, it’s true that most of us who write want others to read and appreciate what we’ve written. That’s fine. In fact, it’s a good thing. And the acknowledgment of others has its place in a creator’s life. But the fact is that whether or not anyone else reads what we’ve written – whether or not it ever boasts a publisher’s imprint or spends time on a bookstore shelf – every original piece we write is a unique entity that we have created out of ourselves. I encourage all the students in my creative writing classes to get that point indelibly planted into their minds and souls and to enjoy the power of it as they labor, even on their most frustrating, unfruitful days, to hone and polish their craft.
And just as an afterthought, I’ll add one more point that I tell my students – again and again – until I get it solidly established in each of them: Once an individual has written anything original, he has become a “writer.” I never allow my students to say that they are an aspiring writer, a would-be writer, or a prospective writer. Any individual who has created a piece of literature that never before existed is a writer, pure and simple, and should gladly embrace and acknowledge that fact to himself and to others as well.
WAIT A MINUTE. Roses come in scores of colors. And violets are … well … violet — not blue. In fact, both flowers come in a variety of colors. So what’s my point?
I’m not really complaining about the color of any one flower. I just got to thinking about that particularly well-known bit of verse, and about how we as poets really do feel we have our own kind of literary license. What is it about poets that makes them think they can write just anything they want to write as long as it rhymes and keeps the meter smooth and uninterrupted? Well, I’ll tell you what it is about us:
We love words — the sounds of words — the rhythm of words — the music of words. And we love playing around with lots of different numbers of syllables. We love to hear consonants repeated, vowels repeated, digraphs repeated. And if we need to turn a sentence around backwards to get the right rhythm — or leave out a couple letters replaced by an apostrophe — or go beyond the norm with hyperbole — well, it’s all part of what we see as our job —— and to be honest —— it’s part of the FUN of writing poetry.
True poets follow rules of meter and rhyme and correct use of figurative language. But we also follow rules of emotion, yearning, and imagination. So, yes, we do believe that it’s okay if we altar reality a bit here and there or say things backwards. If it helps make the poem touch a heart, grab the imagination, take the reader to another realm, or tickle his funny-bone, we figure we’ve done our job well.
And, personally, I think that’s why a poem can speak to readers in such unique ways. People don’t always realize it when they are reading a poem, but it’s those quirky kinds of things — those little excursions away from what is generally the “accepted” pattern — that has caused many a poem to grab a place in the reader’s mind and heart and stay there.
So okay. I decided to have a little fun with this subject and can now offer you a choice of poems that get to the real truth. I’ll post both of there here, and you can take your pick:
UNTRUSTWORTHY POETS
Roses are red? Violets are blue? I beg to differ; It just isn’t true:
Roses are found in any color we choose. I’ve seen them in yellows and oranges and blues. Why, I’ve even seen them in ugly chartreuse! And violets, I’ve learned, also vary in hue: Yellow and pink, even white; it’s quite true. So never trust a poet to tell you the truth. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
PURPOSE IN POEMS
Roses are red; Violets are blue; We don’t always stick With only what’s true. We’re looking for words With meter and rhyme, And if we can’t find them, We might tend to whine. So cut us some slack; We’re doing our best. If a poem gives you pleasure, It passes the test.
The Happy Wordcrafter 