Memory House Publishing LLC will release a new book, Anna Lee, a story poem by Kathryn Spurgeon. She will be at the Living Word Bookstore in the Shawnee Mall for a book signing on Saturday, December 3, 2016, from 1 pm to 3 pm.
Anna Lee is a selection of poems arranged into a story. It is about a young woman’s feelings through love, loss, and God’s healing. Follow Anna Lee as she struggles for value through a difficult time in her life.
Spurgeon, a poet, believes everyone writes from the heart, which means anyone with a heart can write a poem. It may not be smooth, conventional, or understandable, but if meaningful to the writer, it works.
Spurgeon should know. She just wrote her five thousandth poem.
Spurgeon recently released a historical novel about Shawnee in the 1930’s. The novel was been selected as October Reviewer’s Choice by the Midwest Book Review! “Exceptionally well written, making it a consistently compelling read from beginning to end.” Small Press Bookwatch: October 2016, James Cox, Editor-in-Chief, Midwest Book Review
For more poetry news
To pre-order Anna Lee, go to http://memoryhousepublishing.net/anna-lee/
See the author’s website at www.kathrynspurgeon.com
When opportunity brings joy,
should I rejoice?
When daybreak brings tranquility,
should sadness enter in?
What if around the world there’s pain?
What if a mother’s under strain
to feed her child?
Should I rejoice,
and laugh and play?
When morning comes to brighten me
while children play around my knee
and my heart sings songs
of needed peace,
should I rejoice?
What if a child is beaten down,
beneath a father’s drunken hand,
too weak to cry, to understand?
Should peace surround me
Can love sit still,
hold back the tears?
Does love need times,
small dots in years
to listen first,
in God rejoice
before the raging battle
Here’s one of my poems published in the Lutheran Digest. It reminds me of my young nephew Daniel, who now sits on his heavenly Father’s lap, and of Carl, Louise’s husband, who is greatly missed here on earth.
I AM HOME
Close my eyes and think of heaven.
Enter in the pearly gates.
Greet with joy, Apostle Peter.
Smell and see and feel and taste.
Roam the streets, the bright lights shining.
Loved ones greet me, everywhere.
Guide me to the mansion waiting.
Feel the presence, feel the care.
Walk into the throne of glory.
To the One who holds all truth.
Bow before the great Creator,
King of Kings, Lord of my youth.
In the presence of my Father
As He sits upon his throne,
Arms outstretching, I run to Him
“Father, Father, I am home!”
By Kathryn Spurgeon #2461 Lutheran Digest, March 2004
- I Am.. (snowwhitedove.wordpress.com)
The Sugar Mule magazine published a couple of my poems.
Thought I’d add these to my blog.
Sunlight, clouded by dark sunglasses,
pours over the green grass and dipping hillsides
where cattle wade in muddy waters, old barns crumble
and barbed wire fences line dirt roads.
It shrinks, the pasture where brush is plowed under.
Bulldozers level the meadows, planting rows of gas lines,
ruts of electricity and paths of concrete
where no cows are tethered or horses wander free.
Majestic oak trees give way to Bartlett pears,
swing sets and rose gardens.
The remaining Angus gather together in clumps
on the far side of the openness watching the building,
the coming of civilization, while herds of Palominos,
near extinct beasts replaced by bicycles,
watch the creeping face of progression.
Stand next to the tall man
in the gray tweed suit
listen to the sound of the train
its feet bellows on
through the earth's deep soil
and shakes the windowpane
in the small-town church
striking fear in the hide
of the mongrel under the porch
of Aunt Bee's bakery
while Main Street's
bounce on the counter
like a life led
on the train trekking
back and forth
between town and city
unsure of where it's going.
The Phantom Island…be assured that such an island actually exists, and has from time to time been revealed to the gaze and trodden by the feet of favored mortals. Historians and philosophers may have their doubts, but its existence has been fully attested by that inspired race, the poets; who, being gifted with a kind of second sight, are enabled to discern those mysteries of nature hidden from the eyes of ordinary men. To this gifted race it has ever been a kind of wonderland.
by Washington Irving in The Phantom Island
Who is a poet? I say– anyone who lives in a wonder land full of questions, imgination and creativity! Whether those who peek over walls at its beauty, those who dabble in life’s mysteries, or those who hesistate to return to reality. Perhaps anyone who dreams is a poet. And don’t we all dream from time to time?