On a modern day dilemma

It is impossible not to finish something

If you keep plugging away at it.

This is what I tell myself

When my projects look overwhelming.


On the other hand,

I suppose it is impossible

To finish something

If you keep plugging away at it.


So it would appear

That the better part of success

Is knowing when to keep plugging and

When to quit.

In sickness and in health: a short opinion on life in the former

There are human experiences that find relief only in the writing of extremely tacky poetry – the kind that Uncle Joe would read aloud at his great-niece’s wedding, laboring under the impression that he has produced something clever while everyone else ate cake. (“Her mother and father did her adore, Little knowing what lay in store…”)

Thank you for indulging me. I’ve found there is nothing like a bad rhyme to lift the spirits.

A few years ago we vowed sickness and health

But what that entailed I couldn’t have shown ya

The germs staged a coup and attacked us by stealth

The year I had bronchitis and he had pneumonia.


The children were coughing, the fevers were rife.

I said “Hello, doctor? I thought I would phone ya

Hubby says when he breathes he is stabbed by a knife

I bet I have bronchitis and he has pneumonia.”


The comforting thing is that all of this landed

Into the first month of the new year we’ve known

So the rest can’t be worse than the scoop we were handed

When I had bronchitis and he had pneumone.


Unless of course somebody dies and gets buried

Or my mind says Goodbye pal, it’s nice to have known ya

…Or a cannibal sharpens his axe to debone ya

…Or the orthodox church takes a notion to stone ya

…Or the wrecker has an accident right while he’s towin ya

…Or a stranger says Here’s a black backpack to loan ya


All things considered, I’m just not that worried

Since I had bronchitis and he had pneumonia.

Dawning of the age

Early in the morning

Afraid of what they’d find, a

Sisterhood of grief and trepidation

Turned the final corner of the age to find an

Empty bed, drooping linens, risen Lord


Resurrection morning.


Eagerly we work and wait the advent

As His kingdom comes, His will is done, we

Scan the earth and sky for

Tombstones shattered

Energy unleashed, heaven coming down


Resurrection morning.

The house of tomorrow

I always say that Ryan is the one who had fostering in his blood, not me. But tonight I remembered a poem I loved before I was married. I used to sing it to myself, because it got inside my heart and tugged. Maybe it was a premonition. I never thought so then.

Foster Baby Bye
Judy Ann Unruh

I did not cry when they came for him,
my goodbye was suitably gay;
as if it were not a jagged-edged piece of my heart
that was torn
that was torn
torn away.

This is my goal with every foster child I keep:

To see inside.
To get a little glimpse into the heart of the real person, and to love him forever.

I have never kept a child long, and have not seen how hard it will get, after months of loving. In the meanwhile I find it deeply fulfilling. And this helps, when I pack the carefully-chosen outfits and write a note to go along, and wave goodbye: I know I got to meet an awesome kid, and he will be a part of me as long as I live.

On Children
 Kahlil Gibran

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.