This week I have a short poem for you about a plant in our garden. It’s about more than that, really, but I’ll let it speak for itself:
Thorn Bush
The bush in our garden
Is covered with thorns
This week I have a short poem for you about a plant in our garden. It’s about more than that, really, but I’ll let it speak for itself:
Thorn Bush
The bush in our garden
Is covered with thorns
You don’t know how bad the weeds are until you try to plant and keep a garden. In a similar way, as C.S. Lewis put it, “no man knows how bad he is till he has tried very hard to be good.” These are the things I was thinking about when I wrote this poem:
Continue reading The Weeds (a poem)Sometimes it’s better to slow down to stay with someone else.
I see him walking
Slowly
Across the field
He’s old
But not so old
To move so slow
My eye follows
The lead he holds
That leads to
His companion—
Whose tail is wagging
Slowly
Continue reading Slowly (a poem)One of the reasons I love poetry is because of the power it has to make ordinary language come alive in new and different ways. But of course, when I say “come alive” that’s only a poetic phrase—I don’t actually mean that poems could ever really live. Or could they?
Continue reading A Living Poem