See Spot Run

© Jeanne E Webster All Rights Reserved


Watch writer dream

Sleep reader sleep

See writer think

Play reader play

Opine writer opine

Sit reader sit

Plot writer plot

Rest reader rest

Write writer write

Eat reader eat

Scheme writer scheme

Recline reader recline

Sweat writer sweat

Relax reader relax

Edit writer edit

Nap reader nap

Publish writer publish

Read reader read.

(Contrast between a writer’s efforts and that of a reader’s.)

Prideful Pricks


Prideful Pricks

©Jeanne E Webster — All rights reserved


A thorn in the flesh is healthier

Than a clot of pride in the heart.

A thorn will prick your attention;

Pride vainly numbs your smarts.


A thorn seeks immediate care

To purge the prick of its pain.

Pride probes for its pacifier,

Suavely sucking its own gain.


How quickly we yank the thorn;

It is most troublesome at best.

We leave fleshly plump Pride

Feathering and fluffing its nest.


Thorns set off many red flags,

Panic buttons and alarms;

Pride smugly veils its soul

Concealing its ways of harm.


Give me a thorn any old day,

Within my flesh or without;

I’ll rid it of its harmful deed

And quickly give it a shout!


But Pride, O me, O my, I cry!

Is a need I must have for sure.

Please spare me just a little bit.

How else will “I” ever endure?!





© Jeanne E. Webster–All Rights Reserved


“Write sum’fing purty,” the good Lawd said,

“’nuff glum and gloom out dere a’ready.”

So I plopped on my tinkin’ hat…reflectin’

So hard I got tired and went to beddy.


Let’s see now, Springtime is here,

Dere’s lots a’ purty colorful shrubs

Forsythia, lilacs ‘n redbuds so pink

Colorin’ the yards like pinwheel hubs.


Yards are full of purty dashing birds

All decked out in nature’s bright hues.

Courtin’ one another, startin’ families

Dey got no time fer chasin’ da blues.


Red-breasted robins, how stout they be

A’building nests and gobblin’ up worms;

Thru weather so cold or floodin’ as seas

Dey fights back like fightin’ some germs.


Look ‘it da lil’ squirrels a’flippin’ der tails

Hurryin’ here an’ dere like hopscotchin’ toys

Dey start–dey stop–den skitter up a tree

Wid a sassy attitude sorta like lil’ boys.


Bluejays do lots of screechin’ ‘n hollerin’

I tink dey jes’ like to boss everything aroun’

Maybe dey’s the neighbo’hood policin’ men

Flittin’ here and dere from trees to da groun’.


I can’t fergit dem purply house finches

Wearin’ dere finest feathers of rosy red

Dey brighten up the feeders so colorfully

As dey peck at the seeds til dey’s well-fed.


Well, Lawd, I did my best to write purty

No dismal tings, no gloom or grumpy glums;

The trees and shrubs declare Your glory

From da sassafras leaves to da purply plums.

Hoary Scritches


© Jeanne E Webster. All rights reserved
A poem-a-day in the month of April?
Is a tad bit silly; goes better in May.
But an order here I will fulfill
About what or who I just can’t say.
The reader will have to wait in line
As the poet scritches the hoary head
Crossing the Ts and the words align
Wafting at play the slatey threads.
I whoof off those stringy cobwebs
Sit up straight and take a breath
Thoughts pop in, then out they ebb
Some alive, others scrubbed in death.
Cheerio! I say to anyone present
Read these lines and in between
We shall have daily times spent
A’ scribbling in this blogging scene.

The Chrysalis

Copyright Jeanne E Webster–All Rights Reserved


He slumped into the snow and died
Alone, but for the snarling winds
Veiling his final words of life:
“Oh, Lord! My God!” he cried.

Swaddled within the soft embrace
Of feathered, wispy crystals,
His body lay shrouded in a chrysalis:
He came to the end of his race.

The boisterous winds became still,
The menacing clouds recoiled;
Stars shone with ethereal light:
It was his Father’s sovereign will.

Aloft now, his soul began to roam,
Seeking to touch that holy hand
Of his waiting Lord and King:
“My son you’re welcome home!”

Tis the story of how my dad
Met his lot on an icy road,
He lost control of his car:
Oh Lord, that wreck was bad!

Dad was in the winter of life,
A slower glory-filled pace;
Ever a faithful man of God:
His grace bewails the fife.

I miss my dad, mentor and friend,
Yet I know he’s home with God
Walking ’round with his loving smile
In that heavenly land of no end!

(Fictional story of my Dad’s passing)

Hope of Heaven


Hope of Heaven

© Jeanne E Webster.  All rights reserved


Silent night . . . holy night . . .

The kingly head that was crowned with thorns

Once lay in a manger, sleeping,

Tenderly caressed by His mother, Mary.


O Come Emmanuel . . .

The hands that were cruelly nailed to the cross

Once healed thousands by His gentle touch,

Mercifully bestowed through His Father.


Amazing grace . . . how sweet the sound . . .

Those feet so harshly hammered to the wood

Once walked the sands of time for 33 years,

Presenting the hope of heaven

…to all mankind.


Just as I am . . . without one plea . . .

Oh Lamb of God, I come

I come!

white rose