Words. Sweet, flavorful, musical. They roll around in my mind like candy in my mouth As I discern their flavor. This one is sweet, with a hint of a snap after it has been fully absorbed. That one is crunchy and textured like a wafer cookie that crumbles as I imbibe it. This one is bitter, jarring, sour. The edges are sharp, and I spit it out. That one is chewy…it’ll be with me for a while. There’s something more to that one. Let me ponder it. This one has a hint of salt That one too much sugar This word isn’t right Time to choose another. Some I like, some I don’t, but that’s not the real question. I must ask, for it is my nature. Which one, which word, has more than the flavor of joy or sadness, sugar or horseradish? Which one, which word, has that ever so important hint of that one flavor That matters above all else? Like a chocolate bar with a caramel center, Which word is filled With the essence Of Holy Spirit? 

Hay muchas cosas que puedo usar Para adorarte. Puedo cantar, puedo bailar. Y puedo hablarte. Es regalo para mi Que te puedo adorar En dos idiomas La verdad a nombrar. Quiero fluir En inglés y español Para que todos sepan Que Yahweh es todo. Todo que existe Es todo que habló Yahweh en el principio HalleluYah para todo. Yahweh habla sí mismo. Porque Él es el verbo. Siempre existe, siempre es. Y porque es…. Somos.

Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! It’s CHRISTMAS! I can barely contain my excitement as my eyes pop open. No need to set an alarm! I wonder what plans there are for me today. I giggle a little as I turn over in bed, my pink fuzzy nightgown getting tangled in the sheets. I force myself to lie still a little longer, knowing that the rule is I cannot wake Mommy or Daddy before seven o’clock in the morning to go open gifts. I wriggle in anticipation, staring at the clock and wondering how long I can contain this excitement. Surely 6:59 is close enough to 7:00. Surely. And that means I only have to wait 19 minutes… 19… What waits for me under that tree? My mind turns over the possibilities, knowing what I asked for, wondering what surprises there will be. I know that whatever I get will be wonderful, because I know the people who gave them to me. Not that I am not willing to be flexible. I won’t be disappointed with any gift given in love. Finally, it is 6:...

(This is a poem I wrote one day at ecclesia. It grew out of a word and later became a big part of my novel, "The Chronicles of the Zadokim.")  Faith: See What I've Spoken I am the Creator You help me create See what I've spoken Open the gate See what I've spoken Cause it to be Come into agreement With me.  Allow me to save you  My own heart's desire See what I've spoken Enter the fire See what I've spoken Bring Heaven to Earth See what I've spoken Inherit the Word Faith comes by hearing I've given you ears See what I've spoken Abandon your fears.  See what I've spoken  Have mature faith See what I've spoken  We will relate See what I've spoken  Give it substance Stare at it, live in it Don't just glance See what I've spoken  Bind yourself to me See what I've spoken Be all you should be.  See what I've spoken  Look into my ey...

“Now I will show you what they really look like,” the other said, “instead of just what is physical.” The observer blinked, and suddenly the tableau before him looked vastly different. The people looked different. Bigger, though that wasn’t really the right word for it. “What is all that stuff clinging to them?” the observer asked, noting the things the girl was clutching, the things sticking to her. People, places, words upon words, some of them seemingly good in and of themselves, some of them obviously evil. Pretty. Stupid. Blonde. Richard. Matthew. Carol. Tall. Lazy. Bold… the list of what clung to her trailed on and on, and it was this that made her look bigger as the bulk of these false identities obscured reality. “Those are the things that they have added to themselves, or that have been added to them,” the other said. “It makes them look different. I never meant them to look that way.” “Why have they added these things?” the observer asked, knowing that it r...

“But I thought you said they were looking for love,” the observer said, watching the tableau before him. The young woman regretted her decision, the observer noted. She slunk from the house, clutching a coat to her, sneaking out the front door. She took great gasps of the night air when she reached the outside, attempting without success to stop the tears from falling in rivulets of regret down her cheeks. The young man still slept, oblivious to the woman’s desertion of him. “They are,” the other said, also seeing the tableau. “But I AM love.” “But sir,” the observer said, “I thought they loved nachos and pizza and kittens. All those things. What do they have to do with you?” “Well, the good things I created, though I did not make that glop they call nacho cheese. It’s not even dairy! They did that on their own. But they misunderstand love. They think it is a feeling. It is not.” “Did she find it?” the observer asked, gesturing to the young woman who was alread...

“Can they see us?” the observer asked, receiving a headshake in response. “Look carefully,” the other replied. “What do you see?” He looked carefully at the tableau before him, as if he had just been given a test and could, by looking, fathom the correct answers. His eyes took in the color of the garments and the cadence of the voices, hoping to find the right detail that would unlock this mystery. For mystery it was, this tableau. It truly made no sense to him. The young woman wore clothing that was far too revealing, as if she were willing to give everything she had away to the young man, who was only too willing to accept it. His friend looked on with a piqued expression, nearly invisible to the young woman or to the man who stared so arduously at her. The young woman’s eyes bespoke desperation. They were wide and falsely bright. The young man’s eyes were hungry, consuming, but equally desperate. “What are they doing?” the observer asked the other. “Why do ...

This will probably be the only blogpost that is not a work of fiction in some way. But I wanted to explain what the purpose of this blog is, and thus, this post. I am a wordsmith. I wield words, powerful weapons, against the enemy of Yahweh, who with words created all things. As a wordsmith, I have written stories, poems, short scenes, and even a novel. And I want to share them with people that they might see and know the glory of Yahweh and marvel at their creator. But by what medium do I share these things, I wonder? Publishing is complicated and it either costs money or means I give up the rights to what I've written. Not wanting to hand a sword to just anybody, I wouldn't want my words to end up in the wrong hands. But I researched copyright law and found that anything written after 1978 is automatically copyrighted as belonging to the author, so everything I write is mine unless I give it away to a publisher or something similar. Not that this is far beyond the realm...