Eating an Orange

Today we have a guest post from Elliot Anderson!

A fine aromatic mist sprays
from the leathery orange sphere,
as irregular shapes are peeled from it.
With its thick skin removed,
it is pulled apart
along the natural divisions
radiating from its poles.
First in half, then into each section
filled with membraned droplets
of citrus juice.

One by one, they are placed in the mouth
and chewed, releasing the tangy juice.
The pulp is chewed longer,
then swallowed.


Welcome to the first of my color wheel–Enjoy!


Black is the strong, graceful muscles of a panther,
As he protects and warms, shelters, the child in his care.
Black is when you run with your shaggy, old dog,
Under the endless upside down bowl full of stars;
Waiting to be found.
Black is the dank, dark mystery hiding in every cave crevice.
Black, the drip-drop, moist molecules of water.
The sound of bullfrogs.
The taste of licorice.
And the feel of a slight breeze, sleeping lazily beside you like animal fur; Breathing.
It is the sound of waves, because somewhere there is an ocean floor.
It is the shape of questions, like the place where the underwater sand suddenly slopes.
It is the one black lab in a litter full of goldens.
Black, the smell of coffee.
The color of a mother’s long, soft hair,
As she pulls you in close, towards her safe embrace.
The color of a lost witch’s tangled curls,
Wisps of smoke swirling round her black dress-train.

Black never meant to be evil.
Black hides so that nobody sees her.
Black is mystery and warmth.

Motherhood is black.

The Children of Destiny

Today we have a guest post from Peter Rogati I–Peter Rogati III’s grandfather!

When she became aware–
her world was turned upside down–
A child she would bear;
The rumors would spread miles around.

She rushed to tell Joseph, mild.
Would he, could he, understand
that she was already with child
without having known a man?

He wanted to do what was right,
to spare her the guilt and the shame.
They’d part, even that very night,
for the child will grow all the same.

If they had lived today,
there’d be an easy and quick solution.
They’d put the whole problem away;
Mary would go and have an abortion.

Indeed there wasn’t that choice,
so they stood and took all the shame.
And now for that child we rejoice,
for the glory and power of His name.

Each child is not in command
to save men; that’s plain to see.
But each conception is brought by God’s hand,
and each life has a destiny.

Fight of the Night

Today we have a guest post from Madison Ruttle over at Lost In My Head!

to the fight of the night,
fight for being right–
The fight between me
and my guilty regrets;
The fight between
what I want
and who I want to be;
The fight between
and diffusion
of the truth.

The boxing bell rings,
commencing the fight.
The battle is full blown;
Punches are thrown
causing wounds to the bone.
I’m trying to win,
but I feel drowned out by the stress.

The fight seems never ending;
I’m growing weak.
My energy is ending,
but I won’t give up defending.

The battle could go either way,
but I know
that, even if today I loose,
I can strap on my boxing gloves
and try again.


Madison Ruttle is a 15-year-old writer of poetry and fiction/fantasy. These creative avenues, for her, are like a small door into her mind. When she’s away from the keyboard or notebook, though, she loves playing her ukulele, reading, or drawing. You can find her work at

A Theory on the Evolution of Change

Since I left you,
I have not felt anything


at least not for an extended period of time.

Neither great joy nor sadness.
Not even a feeling of loss or emptiness at missing you.
Simply a blank slate,
choked up with facts.

The subconscious consciously lying to the conscious and telling me that in a few months I’ll come back home.

Since there is silence,
nothing is happening, changing, except in minute details—
but absolutely nothing pertaining to the heart.
Nothing of importance.

What can a phone really communicate anyways?

I suppose I thought change happened quickly and painfully, a punctuated equilibrium.

Instead, it is a long,
process of thinking nothing
has changed at all,
until we realize
the random habits
that allowed us to adjust
have actually turned us into an entirely

Though we come from a common ancestor of personal history,
Our DNA no longer calls us brothers.
Our DNA remembers only enough to trace back our kingdom.
Born of the same species, we share not genus, nor even family.

Time has worn us down.
Warn you down.
The only memories that survive
are your words that allowed me to survive myself;
gave me an adaptive advantage.
Those words carry on,

but only as emotionless, half-baked, halfhearted


The Heavens Declare (from Psalm 19)

This poem is not meant to replace or add to Scripture, but to inspire us to understand and get re-enamored with its pages. You can find the Biblical text here.

The heavens declare the glory of God.
The blue bellows your name;
celestial stars bursting into flame.
They gladly proclaim your perfect goodness.
Rainy teardrops speak of the cross, reminding me
Your hands, which formed the world, were drenched in blood for me.
When the sun soars in the sky, it sings your sovereignty;
when the moon moves over the ocean, it murmurs your emotions,
and I know you’re there for me;
and I hear it in everything.
The world will one day know what we see clearly:
The reality of your reign, the centrality of your Son.
The clouds, the expanse of sky, encircle the sun, like a tent for the day.
Like a lover’s face, awoken to wed, warm rays run round the world rejoicing,
drenching the darkest districts with light, as your love seeks the lowly, trapped in night;
as you pursue me when I run.

Your word waters my wasted want;
your sworn oath makes me wise;
your rules rejoice my wandering heart;
your commands enlighten my eyes;
to crave you makes me clean; to fear you unfesters me.
Your rules are true and right,
like dripping drops of desirable honey;
better than limitless sums of money;
By them, my master warns me.
To remain in them rewards me.

But how can I know all the wrong that I do, and think, and say?
Absolve me of what I cannot see.
Prevent my passions from leading me astray,
from plunging me into prideful disease;
For when I surrender to slavehood, to sonhood,
is when I am found to be free,
when I am crowned and am clean,
clothed with your blood-bought dignity.

Let the words that you wrote turn my all back to you so I do, and think, and say
only what gives gladness to your grace,
what brings favor from your face,
for you are my constant covenant-keeper;
the steady stone to sink my burdens, find my rest;
my ready redeemer, breathing resurrection.

Alone in the Pain

Today we have a guest post from Erica Floret over at Undying Joy!!

The cold pierced my heart,
Bringing sorrow and fears.
My eyes glazed over –
Was this nightmare real?

I went about my tasks in a daze;
I was walking on air –
Didn’t dare look around.
Hope and fear mingled, blinding me.

Then it hit like a bullet;
This dream was no dream.
It was real, it was happening –
Happening to me.

My heart cried out loudly,
Yet to others ’twas a whisper.
“No! You can’t do this!”
I cried as I watched
The tapestry of family
Unravel from one loose thread.

But no one seems to notice
Just ignored it, just kept walking.
I wonder if they realize
That a hug is all I’m wanting?

I want to think they care for me;
I’m sure they’d say they do.
But we all know the truth-
Actions speak louder than words.

Can you convince me that you love me,
That you sympathize –
But no.
Your feeble attempts are barely a help;
How can I reach your heart?

My story of sorrow is met with a “sorry”.
That’s no comfort to me.
My heart now cries, “Care! Would you love me? Be there?”
But alas you turn your back to me again.

Christ is my only true friend, I can see.
He’ll listen and comfort and whisper He cares.
No, I don’t need you. I only need Him.
But would you help me to breathe?
Even point me to Him?


Erin Hill is a 16-year-old homeschool girl. She loves God, is fond of cats, and is passionate about writing, but she is also interested in counseling, gardening, and photography. She has been part of the Young Writer’s Workshop for a little over a year now and loves every bit of it! She also enjoys blogging about the things of God on her personal blog,

Human Rights

This poem is dedicated to each of the over 40 million babies who die every year due to abortion.

If you, or someone you know, is considering abortion, please know there are other options. Call 800-712-HELP to find help.

My child fights with every breath—
Totally, completely helpless.
As we all claim the choice, cry out, “Murder is the only option.”
One day, perhaps we’ll pray,
“Lord, forgive us. Somehow stop this!”
We will feel. . .

Firm indignation at the night,
At the fight that must be fought for human rights,
The fight that we must fight for human life.
Against private lies—
Against injustice.
Our flesh and blood dies;
I demand we be disgusted.
Torture and dismemberment of human bodies.
Our children.
Yet somehow, not yet fully persons.

Surgery is gory, yes.
Medical procedures often make masses nauseous.
But a true surgeon seals the incision, makes it smaller.
These doctors cut our souls and leave us hollow.
Their job: a cure,
Not death!
And yet we all hail Cain’s dark flag.

My child? Who will hear her will?
Holding on for breathe.
Pleading for protection.
Designated for dissection,
At the altar of autonomy and self-actualization.
A corpse—the future of our nation.
18 weeks into gestation.

Our destiny? Simply a glob of flesh, a clump of tissue?
Aren’t we all—living, breathing, complicated, clumps of lost carnality–
Chosen, called and claimed for eternality?
Yes, we can buy a lie in exchange for true reality,
Yes, anyone can choose to do what anyone wants—until there isn’t anyone left.

Or we can fight with every breath—
To help the helpless.
Not so totally, completely helpless after all.
We can claim the choice, cry out,
“Murder is no option.”
One day, perhaps we’ll pray,
“Lord, forgive us. Somehow stop this!
“Help us feel.”


Moonlight spreads an icy haze across the land,
Sunlight ends this with its blazing backhand.
A cheetah sprints across the Sahara to strike down its prey,
Underground there’s a worm inching through day by day.
High above the ground dwellers, a mountain rises in the sky,
But here comes the winding river to cleave across its side.

All powerful, oppressive kings cause revolting peasant gangs.
Here is the interweaving, white, black; Ying and Yang,
One is always necessary to keep the other in check,
You reach for happiness, choke, there’s a noose at your neck.
Fire rages across the forest, destroying everything in sight.
But the rains may come eventually to bring peace in the night.

When we talk about people, we say opposites attract.
Each has attributes that work together and counteract.
Other times we misname the positive and negative.
Our view is correct, ignore them, they’re crazy and alternative.
Different kinds of people lead to different ways to hate.
Can we see past our own needs, try not to frustrate?

Sometimes we think the world is balanced on a scale;
You are wronged, there’s supposed to be a result like blackmail.
The universe owes you justice, everything else is in your debt;
List your wrongs one after the other like the alphabet.
We get angry at the world for not giving us what we want.
We scream at people, text our frustrations in bold font.

An equal and opposite reaction for everything that happens,
Like inevitable discouragement to douse the passion.
Undeniable good results in an unbelievable evil.
Unachievable dreams breed unreasonable people.
There are millions of smiles lighting up this dark place,
But just as many crying children who believe they’re a mistake.

Opposing desires conflict inside my soul,
Do I want to feel entertained or reach my productivity goal?
Do I try to initiate, participate, or introvertly dissipate?
Every day it’s a struggle to rejoice; In hurting, celebrate.
I am living in this paradox full of judgment, skewing, contradiction,
Manifested fully in a pure lamb’s crucifixion.


Today we have a guest post from Essie-Marie Weigt.

It’s reality,
No diversion or duality.
Life is a fading vapor,
and we are crumpled up, like paper.
Do we think of the Cross
as we watch the clock?
The hands march,
staunch and starched,
‘round the sphere, through the arch.
They may stand still,
but their message will
march on, for good or for ill.
I wonder if my witness spells
out the urgency of heaven and hell.
I have so little to give;
A drop in the ocean, what I have to live.
I was meant to love and forgive.

Have I done what I was redeemed for?
Have I measured up? What’s the score?
It’s not even close.
I suppose the number should be some kind of joke,
but no, let it soak in.
All the times you lost, didn’t win.
When you felt the urge to tell,
but slew it and ignored the bell,
tolling judgement on that poor soul.
You could’ve said something, could’ve told
them of a love so insane,
of how you resisted, but He loved you anyway.
It’s worth being called sick in the brain
when an innocent deity was slain
for your vile hide;
Don’t you know it should’ve been you that died?
Think about that
the next time you see Buddhists praying on their mats,
Or hear a shofar’s solemn blast.
It’s not just their culture;
It’s a path to their sepulchres.
Their destination is one of burning;
Horrid screams, stomachs churning.
They meet their fate, every day.
You were there once, but since it’s not you today
I suppose you’ll just keep walking away.


Essie-Marie Weigt is an 18-year-old Canadian who loves the Lord, writing, and spending time with her friends. She is a freshman at Liberty University and is pursuing a degree in psychology. Her ultimate goal is to show others the love of Christ in in every aspect of life, including writing.

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