Letting Jesus in…

JN992 Kingdom of God Like Mustart Seed


The farm wife turns off the TV evangelist
by Shari Wagner

The Jesus I grew up with
likes to be outside.
If he’s not fishing, he’s picking figs
or showing us his mustard crop.
He prefers dusty roads, the common sparrow,
and lilies of the field.
When he knocks on your door
holding a lantern, you know it’s time
to buckle on overshoes
and go with him to feed the sheep.
But this preacher, who looks straight
into the camera and claims he knows
Jesus, says what he wants
is for me to believe in him
so he can come inside.
That sounds shifty to me.
Like a wolf with his paws dipped in flour.
Jesus who heals the blind
said we will know a tree by its fruit.
“The farm wife turns off the TV evangelist” by Shari Wagner from The Farm Wife’s Almanac. © Dream Seeker Books, 2019


What was Jesus’ plan for Buddy Holly?

It’s the birthday of singer and songwriter Charles Hardin “Buddy” Holly, born in Lubbock, Texas, in 1936. By the age of 13, Holly was playing what he called “Western Bop” at local clubs. He was 19 when an agent discovered him and signed him to a contract with Decca records. The following year, Holly returned to Lubbock and, with three friends, formed The Crickets, who then released “That’ll Be the Day,” which sold more than a million copies. Buddy Holly’s career was short: He died in February of 1959 in a plane crash in northern Iowa. Soon after, an English band that admired The Crickets decided to call themselves The Beatles.


Who came to the Poetry Reading?

Who came to the Poetry Reading?

Every April, Jan Hutchinson stages a poetry reading of her April Poetry Month Prompts
with the help of Cecile at the Roe Jan Library in Hillsdale, NY.
From 230 writers, we gleaned some 30 who shared their work with us.

Some of them played and sang,
some strummed and intoned,
some recited lyrics hankering for a melody,
some read, carefully rocking us with their chants,
some made us laugh with absurdity.

Some shared secrets,
some tweeted scant phrases that fit in the cracks,
some whispered; some shouted,
some wrote; some didn’t,
some gestured in polka-dotted tights.

Jan read too, modestly,
elegantly pulling the whole thing together,
a wide track from Great Barrington to Hillsdale,
from meadows to ponds, from hills and vales,
reaching even to Armenia’s 16 year old bards.

Three years in a row:
seeds planted
poems bloomed:
poetry’s Boo-Peep
and her sheep.

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