Here you can find some of my current poetry collection or check out my 
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Wander and Roam In all the world my world is right here, the hope of creation, this wilderness sphere. Three days’ need tucked up in our pack, enough room in my heart for takin’ memories back. My tribe before me on the trail laid down, and all my cares left behind in town. Wind whispers carry the birds’ sweet song. I am content for I know I belong. The light is pure when you’re up this high, and who can measure that curtain of sky? When night falls soft and the stars proclaim, from heaven’s high throne each one has a name. Three days’ footsteps on mountain peaks, down into basins, and kneel by a creek. We climb to the top where we are called, caught up in His goodness, we are enthralled. Creation sings praises and so must I. We soak up the glory and our spirits fly. Our task is simply to wander and roam, then out of the wilderness, bring glory home. Treasures of the Wall Vagabond and wanderlust Charcoal sketched and framed Thread through the lives of each of us With treasures of the same Down under dreams to Tetons high The ‘Great Land’ of the north Siam’s orange sun lit up Kindred hearts went forth Ladder rungs and mountain snows Carved out Ketchum home Labored long for dreams to fill In vintage spines to roam Wee tokens, wooden box Carved and turned again Sheepskin slippers, mittens warm A nod to what had been All is nought save this one hope Two legacies aflame Adventure born, creator storm And water color name.
Big Leaps of Faith Take big steps, big leaps of faith In this rat of a thing we call a race Nothin’s too hard, nothin’s too small Step off the curb so you can fall. If the first foot down doesn’t knock you out Keep pressing on through every doubt. Check your speed, set a pace` Take big steps, big leaps of faith.
Nineteen in New York The leaves are changing in your park As they are in mine Two thousand miles away you are From our aspen and our pine To know you are three days away And even two worlds apart Does not dismay or overwhelm Our connectedness in heart You take the train to go downtown Then walk back up on Fifth I’m coasting south on 75 Wondering who you’re with I’ll lay my head down tonight And breathe a prayer for you. A mother’s love wrapped up tight, If you only knew.
Misty Morn Misty morn I followed you, Tears the same caressed my face Angst awash within my heart All I sought was peace and grace. Still you led up steps of stone Whispered come, above the fray Here you are...the path is straight Come and kneel and find your way.
Season lost in Time They’ll be no music in the mountains Wafting over the rivers rush No echo up through the canyon To Baldy’s sunset blush No dancing in tangled blankets Cheering gliders in the sky No harmony among the stars For a rocky mountain high Just a soulful sadness pining For a season lost in time And a melody of the summer That could have been yours and mine.
Dancing Aspen Have you seen the quaking aspen Dancing leaves upon the breeze? A joyful whisper in the mountains Swaying, waving happy trees. Though the grey of clouds do grumble And the sky spits raindrop tears, Still they quiver and they shimmer Forest murmur builds to cheers.
Feelin' like a Roadtrip I’m feeling like a road trip I’ve got lots of stories to tell Out in the middle of nowhere You hear my thoughts so well. Miles that fall behind the wheel You there in captivation Makes me smile to know I’ve won For now over PGA station So I’ll ramble ‘til whenever Yackin’ dreams and talkin’ spin And it’s cozy in the cab When you look at me and grin.
Just Oregon Foggy mist upon your face Ethereal this time, this place Grey blue skies and agate sand Barefoot walks go hand in hand Pacific rain gives forest sheen Purple sea star, shells to glean Sunset lifting spirits high Kites aloft with windy sky Seals barking ‘midst the rocks Campfire glow and moonlight talks Dolphins flirting off the shore Myrtle wood, antiques galore Skimmer board and sketch book too Sandy castles with a view.
Lost River Bluebirds Sits a cabin at the feet of the Lost River Range. A haven for the weary, and for those who need a change. An old wooden outhouse decorates the yard. A broken down pickup truck acts as sentry guard. It was in this rusted relic once painted bright bold blue Where two mountain bluebirds snagged a room with a view. I suspect that it was somewhere under the beat-up hood, For I watched them enter through the grill, and then I understood. A truck’s engine housing a proper dwelling didn’t make, For momma and daddy bluebird and the family they’d create. So late that winter I installed a strong boxed house for the pair, And nailed it on the outhouse wall to entice them to settle there. Spring slipped in, I held my breath, one morning I looked out. There they were at the crafted box to set up house, no doubt. And as I walked beside the fence that ran along the lane. The bluebirds spun and swooped and called out each other’s name. Bluuuuubird! Bluuuuubird! They dipped and swirled along, Preparing their boxed nest and singing the season’s song. Then one day a tragedy! The birdhouse was on the ground. Fallen off the outhouse wall and tumbled upside down. There in destruction lay the perfectly shaped nest. Four cracked little eggs of the five they’d been blessed. I was sick with despair; had my hand played a part In the awful twist of fate? These birds had won my heart! I’d failed them with intruding, now tried to set things right. Was there hope they would return to the destructed nesting site? I hung the box back on the wall, and secured it with a screw. To my delight, here came the pair, the birds in brilliant blue! A-flitter and a-flutter, they came to check it out. In and out the entrance, making sure that it was stout. I observed their goings on, and compared it to my life. They stayed the course and persevered, even through the strife. They’d returned to carry on, undaunted, started over. Held together in His hand, what a comfort to discover.
Sunday Morning Race Sunday morning hustle on Back and forth before the dawn Here the mirror, to the closet Down the coffee, a deposit Dad’s got pancakes at the table Pass the syrup if you’re able. Don’t have time to sit and ponder Out the window over yonder Morning sky has turned to pink But you missed it, saw you blink Back and forth down the hall Please don’t brothers, start a brawl In the corner over there Dad sits down in his chair Pulls the bow against the string Begins to make that fiddle sing Amazing Grace breaks up the din Mirrored faces start to grin Hustle bustle simmers down And all we’re left with is the sound Of sweet and pure and time so rare The Sunday race is now a prayer.
Lori Williams | Idaho-based writer 