The Foolishness of Creativity

When I was in elementary school I had a teacher who gave us the gifts of calligraphy and poetry. He wore a Mr. Rogers cardigan and wasn’t even one of our regular teachers, but for some reason we spent long portions of our days in his classroom where we learned how to put the nibs in our pens and hear the rhythm in a poem. He opened the world of goodness and truth and beauty to me, in thick books and papers dripped with India ink. He was such a fantastic man that I even bought him a Christmas gift.

Around this time I was inspired to send some of my poetry to a magazine, with a note assuring them there was “more where that came from” should they have a deficit of simple rhymes. I never heard back from them. 

But that’s not the painful part of this memory. 

Continue reading at Fathom Mag.

Five Minute Friday: Story

faded rose, sepia  

There are crumpled bits of paper on the floor all around.

Some wound up tight in frustration, others just neglected, falling on the floor carelessly.

I kick my way through and around and over them but never bother to pick them up. I never bother because my hands are full of more, and I furiously try to write a new page.

He comes in.

I'm all embarrassed and red. Crimson blood rushes to my face to show my shame and who am I kidding? Nothing was ever hidden, really. Nothing was ever unnoticed and now all the papers lie at His feet.

He picks one up and I shudder.

He smooths it. Puts it on the desk. I think He's reaching for an eraser or a big-fat-red pen, but He's crimson, too.

It drips on the page. All my ink spots turn red and I slump.

I should've known.

The paper is white.

All of them are gathered up and washed with crimson, all of them are bound up together. He signs His name at the bottom of every. last. one.

He's made it a story.

My trash, His treasure. 


This post is part of Five Minute Friday, where we write with a timer set and we don't edit or overthink. Today's prompt is STORY. Link up with us?


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Five Minute Friday: Present

leaf with heart on it

Life's all about preparation

and this preparing to present

me holy and blameless and above reproach.

I can't even fathom

the patience and love

 never-ending in this clumsy approach.

To the throne

takes years, sweat and toil

and tears

why does He bother with me.

Easy and light

His burden He says

I take it up

but tiring daily.

All of the stumbles

faulty days and bumbles

redeemed and made white yet again


not vacation,

not retreat or location,

much to my fleshly chagrin.

He clothes me like summer

bridal-white and new

I stand. I wonder.

I marvel at grace

He presents me and covers

my shame, not a trace.


A random picture and a five-minute poem with very little rhyme or rhythm, and just a little bit of reason! I'm letting all that go and  joining in the fun as we write for JUST FIVE MINUTES on the prompt Present. Check out Lisa-Jo's for more Five Minute Friday posts from hundreds of others.


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