In the Middle Part


It started well – the action’s pace

And characters behaved.

The dialogue was natural,

Each scene what reader craved.

The villain entered right on cue,

But there, the thickened plot

Unravelled all the ends at once,

Derailed your train of thought.

You turn the pages, heart in throat,

Each word spells tragedy;

The flyleaf didn’t caution you,

Predict your destiny.

The Witches charm, Deep Evil lurks,

The Wrong upsets the right;

The Bad Guys go from Worse to Foul,

And Dark absorbs all light.

Anxiety hits fevered pitch,

But each word you devour

Reveals more loathsome characters,

Or strips you of your power.

In anguish, trembling fingers clutch

The closure that’s been penned;

You must, you must, you must find out

What happens in the end.

But oh, dear reader, pause a while,

Breathe every phrase in peace;

You’re only in the middle part,

Where havoc is released.

Your anxious soul would skip this bit,

To save your heart from harm –

But if you skim this episode,

You’ll miss your story’s charm.

The overthrow of villainy,

The chains that break in time,

Heroic actions, victories

That kill each awful crime.

So slow it down and read each word,

Your story is not done;

This chapter is not you, my friend –

Your best is yet to come.

You’re Hard to Read

You’re hard to read;



with cavernous depths untapped

by casual communication,

blotted missive,

dog-eared corners,

obscure references to images

buried in time and place,

needing a good dusting, an

Ephesian library.

What hidden treatise

lurks within your leaves?

You reduce me to an illiterate,

a picture-book primer to your Tolstoy;

what words do I use

to translate you to my heart?

Open the Book

How do you feel if I stop and stare?

Do you ever get tired of those who dare

to judge you by the way you look?

Would you rather your viewers open the book

and peek inside, to find your heart?

Are you short-changed if viewers’ art

Is limited to outside skin?

What are you really like, deep within?

Bookish Beauty


I hear ya, Mr. Jefferson.

I love the feel of the pages.  I love the way the covers distend to display their wares.  I love the weight of them in my hands.  I love the smell of an old, leather-bound classic – musty and wise, they smell of secret reminiscences of  readers in days of yore.

And I love their words.  Thousands of them, ants scurrying for the last crumb of communication on every page.  Spilling over each other in their awareness of self-importance – each one bears the weight of its own missive in silent dignity.  Together, they tell of castles and knights and goblins and princesses.  Places and spaces and ideas and plots.  Opinions and perspectives and cultures and history.  And stories – always, amazing stories…

Stories can entertain.  They can enlarge understanding.  They can inform, encourage, energize, enlighten, inspire.  They can draw out tears.  They can provide a mirror to your soul.

They can be oh, so beautiful.

And one Book surpasses them all in its life-changing power.  No other Book can create the desire to become a better me.  No other Book can impart hope and courage in the face of terrible trouble.

“All Scripture is inspired by God and is useful to teach us what is true and to make us realize what is wrong in our lives.  It corrects us when we are wrong and teaches us to do what is right.” II Timothy 3:16 NLT


What do you love about books?  How does their beauty touch you?  How have you felt and experienced the beauty of The Good Book?