Susan Noyes Anderson

Life is Golden

admin — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 23:46:21 +0000

Are we condemned to take our lives for granted?

Must loss be felt (or feared) before the joy?

Does gratitude grow stale when goodness gathers,

when all is well with every girl and boy?

Is friendship priceless in a close-knit circle,

or must its worth be found in solitude?

For childish noise and clamor to be treasured,

must one dear voice be taken from the brood?

Can married love be valued in full measure

before one partner yields at last to death?

Must we abide disease, our bodies broken,

in order to appreciate each breath?

It’s true that opposition is the agent

that helps us mark the bitter and the sweet.

The trials must come; will we store them so deeply

that we forfeit the prize of their receipt?

Or will we use them to embrace thanksgiving,

to claim one joy against another pain?

Will sorrow plant delight for tender mercies?

Will rainbow shades endure beyond the rain?

The choice is yours and mine, as are the blessings,

bright gems that we may seek and recognize.

Don’t wait till it’s too late, for life is golden.

The proof is sparkling right before our eyes.

Life Has A Rhythm

admin — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 03:15:55 +0000

Life has a rhythm all its own

It bends and dips and flows

It moves through channels

Swirls in eddies

Goes and stops and goes

It’s up; it’s down; it’s all around

From grassy banks and shores

To misty meadows, lofty peaks

Rock beds and ocean floors

Life winds around the edges

And it goes outside the tracks

It blasts its way and wears away

And trickles through the cracks

Sometimes it’s cut off at the pass

Or tangled up in weeds

It soars and slips and freefalls

Rushes in and then recedes

Life looms and lulls and lights the sky

Life sucks you dry and fills you

Embrace it; chase it; drink it up…

Release the fear that stills you

Not living is what kills you

A Love Note to America…and Her People

admin — Sun, 04 Jul 2010 15:36:47 +0000

Americans are different

as Americans can be.

We hail from north, south, east and west…

from sea to shining sea.

We’re red and yellow, black and white…

the spectrum is complete.

We’re big and small; we’re narrow, wide,

and tall. We’re short and sweet.

We work in banks and fields and mines;

we paint and dig and teach.

Some operate, incorporate,

or nurse, while others preach.

A bunch of us like grown-up toys,

speed boats and water-skis;

while others love to stand in streams

with boots up to our knees.

We swing at golf balls, shoot at hoops,

or serve up a home run…

then watch the pros do all those things

on TV screens. What fun!

We may or may not go to church,

but lots of us still pray.

We love our families, help our friends,

and vote to have our say.

Some fly the flag; some flout the flag…

but most view it with pride.

We live in towns and cities,

all across the countryside.

Our motto is “In God We Trust,”

and many of us do.

We care about our country, and

we honor freedom, too.

We’re grateful for the founding fathers,

patriots indeed.

We honor men and women

who have dared to fight and bleed…

to claim and keep our independence

in each hour of need.

Americans are different

as Americans can be.

But in one thing we are the same:

We must and will live free.

Union: the Nature

admin — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 23:22:52 +0000

our roots run

together

trunk to trunk

we rise up

bark on bark

we grow

leave knots

love knots

forget-me-knots

knotholes and

arching separations

always winding back

together

bowing

to and fro

as branch in

branch we dance

and struggle

hang low then

stretch high

boughs yearning

reaching turning

tasting bits of

one (the very same)

bright azure sky

A Song for My Mother

admin — Wed, 05 May 2010 02:53:30 +0000

What song shall I sing for my mother? What key?

Which chords own the notes that will set her joy free?

Was psalm ever born that could raise her hopes high

as the million bright stars she has hung in my sky?

Might one interval be so deep and so wide

that the dreams of her heart could rest safely inside?

Which chorus would ring through her soul like a bell,

proclaiming in cadence what words cannot tell…

that she is a mother of infinite worth,

whose opus has played since the day of my birth?

What song shall I sing for my mother? What key?

Which chords own the notes that will set her joy free?

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

One melody answers, in strains weak and strong.

Its verses are mine, every line, right or wrong.

I sing for my mother…I’ve sung all along.

My life is the song.

Neglect Not the Gift That Is in Thee…

admin — Thu, 15 Apr 2010 17:06:55 +0000

(1 Timothy 4:14)

The gift is given. Will we make a space

within the cluttered circles of our lives?

As mothers, daughters, sisters, friends and wives,

will we lay hold or run an endless race?

Will we lay hold, or run an endless race…

and, running, lose our vision of the prize?

“Be still,” God said. The cup goes to the wise,

for every gift must have its time and place.

For every gift must have its time and place

or be forgotten…and the Giver, too.

Come, let us dedicate ourselves anew.

Receive and magnify each gift with grace.

Create a fertile ground; make room for growing.

We have the seeds, and they are ripe for sowing.

The gift is given. Will we make a space?

The Man of Galilee

admin — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 17:00:32 +0000

Gethsemane brought Jesus to His knees.

“Remove this cup from me,” He dared to ask.

His humble prayer, “Thy will, not mine, be done,”

allowed no respite from the fearsome task.

Then Judas branded Jesus with a kiss

and set in motion all that was to be.

For silver, he gave up a heart of gold,

betraying Christ, the Man of Galilee.

In lesser ways, His friends forsook Him, too.

“Could ye not watch with me one hour?” He pled.

But sleep earned their devotion more than He

who slumbered, once, within a manger bed.

They loved Him, but they failed to understand,

though He had warned them clearly, in His way.

When Peter struck and smote a Roman’s ear,

Christ healed the grievous wound without delay.

For He would bow Himself beneath us all

and heal the wounds by our own sins laid bare.

The day had come; just One could pay the price

for every soul whose burden He would share.

The great and dreadful reckoning was nigh…

the final act for which He had been born:

when love would overcome the bonds of death

and mercy be returned for hate and scorn.

Meekly, Christ gave Himself into the hands

of greedy men who hungered for His life.

His goodness and His honor mocked them all

and flayed their sanctimony like a knife.

Abusing Him in body, mind and soul,

His people judged Him blasphemer, not King.

They looked to Roman rule to kill their Lord

by means that promised untold suffering…

To crucify, not stone, the very One

whose agony would save them from their own.

What irony that He, to save the world,

would tread the bitter winepress all alone.

When Pontius nor Herod would condemn,

the people chose Barabbas over Him.

Then was He scourged and stripped and crowned with thorns,

His innocence reviled from limb to limb.

No mark of disrespect was deemed too foul,

though He accepted all with kingly grace.

No hand of kindness dried his bleeding brow;

no voice defended Him, nor pled his case.

Instead they jeered and followed His advance

to Calgary, Golgotha also named;

Christ’s hands and feet were nailed upon the cross:

The Lamb of God, bloody but unashamed.

The shame belonged to others––and the guilt.

Naught but a few emerged with hands still clean.

Peter denied Him thrice; disciples fled.

But John was there, to grace the final scene.

And Mary, too, and others of good heart.

“Behold, thy mother!” … Christ was heard anew.

His thoughts, in death, were for another’s care.

“Father, forgive…They know not what they do.”

Oh, God, my God, hast Thou forsaken me?

In Father’s absence, Jesus had to own

the sins of all the world, without relief;

He paid the ransom for our souls, alone.

And when, at last, He uttered, “It is finished.”

Into Thy hands, my spirit I commend.

He willfully surrendered life for love,

so mercy could serve justice, in the end.

His followers had still not understood;

they mourned Him as if everything were lost.

Christ promised He would rise again, and yet…

they saw but darkly, torn by grief and tossed.

The women went to honor Him once more.

An angel came; the stone was rolled away.

At first, they grieved to find His body gone

and looked upon the angel with dismay.

Where was their Lord? Had evil men conspired

to steal the body and defile His flesh?

But when the angel spake, their fears were stilled,

despite the sting of death…the wounds, so fresh.

“He is not here, for He is risen.” Lo,

“He goeth before you into Galilee.”

Departing hence, the women saw Christ’s face

and fell before His feet on bended knee.

In glory, He appeared to His disciples

and bade them touch His hands and feet and side.

Their minds and hearts were pierced, deeply as He was,

for truth had been revealed and sanctified.

His resurrection meant that Death was vanquished.

The door was opened wide; He held the key.

His sacrifice atoned for all God’s children,

from Eve and Adam…through eternity.

Christ’s gift to us is sacred and enduring:

His saving blood, the only peace we find.

In word and deed, forever we’ll revere Him––

The Lamb of God, Redeemer of mankind!

“…I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me,

though he were dead, yet shall he live.” -John 11:25

The Gifts of Creation

admin — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 00:57:32 +0000

How bless’d are we by all of God’s creation!

What miracles attend His outstretched hand!

Adoring is our gaze across the mountains,

Appreciative, our feet upon the land.

In reverence, we observe the sparkling waters,

The creatures that adorn both sky and sea;

In wonder, we embrace the lamb and lion…

And other living things, earthbound as we.

Who does not thrill to hear the sounds of nature:

The babbling brook where bullfrogs sing along…

The aspen leaves, aflutter in the treetops…

The soul-reviving glory of birdsong?

Who cannot hear the whisperings all around us?

Who fails to see the majesty of earth?

What heart must not o’erflow with sweet submission,

Awestricken by the privileges of birth?

When hearts wax cold, I would not be among them.

My own is small, beside His offering…

But ever is it His, in love and honor…

A gift to my Creator, Lord, and King.

Seascape

admin — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 06:12:33 +0000

If life is art, brush all my days

in colors of the sea.

The symphonies of gull and wave

lull cares away from me.

When thought is caught in city haze,

when songs of hope grow faint,

the steady rhythm of the ocean

soothes my soul’s complaint.

Sea sights and sea sounds weather well,

like sunlight in the heart––

warming and uplifting every

sacred, inner part.

In Every Thing, Give Thanks

admin — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 19:15:35 +0000

When wintry winds and stormy seas

Make all the world seem bleak,

When hope is difficult to find

And peace is hard to seek,

Through troubled times and dreary days,

In glorious and simple ways,

My eyes are somehow turned to Thee;

And once more, all is well with me.

For this, my heart will ever raise

A song of love, a song of praise.