Thursday, January 27, 2011

The Potter

Isaiah 64:8
Yet, O LORD, you are our Father. We are the clay, you are the potter; we are all the work of your hand.

The potter eyed the clay curiously
He thought to himself furiously
What will this lump of clay become?

The world his spinning potter’s wheel
The pot’s holes and cracks made it real
The potter already loved the creation to come.

Sure, the clay would fall
Yes, it would definitely appall
It would be like a sheep: witless and dumb

But the potter, his creation adored
Even when its acts he abhorred
Even when it couldn’t remember where it was from

The pot became cracked and broken
But the potter didn’t destroy the existence he’d spoken.
He still found a use for the thing whose difference outweighed its sum. 

Wednesday, January 26, 2011


Once upon a time
On the clock's eightieth 14th chime.
There lived an old man of crime.
Who looked and smelled like lemon and lime.
In his presence he kept a mime
And a jar of dried up slime.
The old man maintained a happiness so sublime
One that resulted from his life filled with grime.
He did not the mountains want to climb
He did not wish to build a rhyme.
He did not even want to learn about Kime.
The man and his mime
Lived their life and time
They came they went and even cooked with thyme
And now I will be done with this silly game of rhyme.


Oatkake My other blog.

Fresh Ideas and Pretzels

I love the sweet smell
Of freshly printed pages
How I love the sight
Of words neatly stacked against the odds
I love hearing the sound
Of pen scratching paper
I simply adore the taste
Of fresh ideas and pretzels
I love the way it feels
To write away my fears. 
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