#whyisitcalled a hashtag?

and not a number sign
as in "#3"?
(or n-o period 3?)

For that matter,
why is it a "pound sign"?
(as in "Please enter your password,
followed by the pound sign?"
(my son did not weigh
7#'s 3 oz.
it was lbs., thank you.)

You're calling it a hashtag
for tweeters who
twitter (or tweet?
yes, tweet........
but that's a bird)

Maybe it's a hashtag as in
corned beefed hash--
in front of the tag?
as in, "tag, you're it?"
as in....oh, I give up.

just tell me
why is it called a hashtag?
Adding some 'tricks' to the mix, a smile perhaps.  This poem was first posted on my Facebook page in a response to someone who had just joined Twitter.  Now I think I can see the benefit of this social connection--even the NYC Mayor used it last night! 
Linking up with dVerse Poets for Open Link Night 68 and praying for all in harm's way.

Strong Trees

Josh Groban is
heavenly hollering
"Jesus, Joy of Man's Desiring".
The sweet and gentle
resolution of the violin and oboes
slows me down to hear your
soft love.

Not the out loud from
the rooftops kind,
but quiet as the roots of
a tree digging down
in the dark,
seeking support
where we need it.

You tether and train the branches
so I can build a tree house
for all the world to see up top,
waving bright flags
to the busy, noisy world
calling, "Isn't life grand?"

But your towering quiet
reminds me
a tree is beautiful and strong,
growing not just up and out
but down as well,
anchored in what matters--
the soil of who you are
living with the leaves of
who I am,
splendoring the world
with shade and space,
quiet, strong, sure.

You stay put and
I'll climb up,
letting the banners fly,
declaring these words,
"Isn't God grand?"
Three months ago when my husband was getting ready retire I was not looking forward to the transition. A friend who prayed for us gave us this verse, which was a little odd at the time, but it actually fits perfectly. To my surprise and delight my precious husband has the kitchen clean when I get home from work, vacuums the floors (his idea) and sorts our clean laundry without me asking. AND, he doesn't mind when I listen to Josh singing his heart out with the volume way up while I cook. Yes, my husband is a gift. And yes, our God is grand. 
(This poem originally appeared over at my blog Three Way Light, linked with dVerse Poets.)

Looking for Life in the Garden

There is no flower on the
zucchini--I guess there will be
no more fruit.
It is time to put the garden to
bed, as Margaret says.

Fruit only comes in the right season
and we are not to be always producing.
there is stillness,
rest, tearing out,
covering up (mulch helps).
There is quiet, it is cooler
and less sun to see by day.

But the days are no shorter,
we still have the alloted 24 hours,
same time, just
a different direction defined
by deeper chores
putting down roots in the soil
of the Word.
Searching for living water
(no more drinks from the hose--
ever ready)
but putting forth the effort
to savor draughts from that well--
that is the work of the winter
months to come.

drinking deep in the darkening
waiting through winter
to Spring.

Atticus to Zeppelin

Three of my grandchildren and their mother, April 2012

"Recess teacher!!"
(That would be me
and anyone else over 3 feet tall
who has a whistle).

"Hey guys, just so you know,
my name's Mrs. Collins",
flashing my cartoon-y fish
logo with my fancy-ish name.
"What're your names?"
"I'm Atticus, this is

"Well, those are some pretty big
 names," I remark,
and proceed to untangle the
playground problem.

They walk away while
I'm musing
the challenge of the names
they are saddled
embattled with
in the spelling
from K through twelfth,
and I wonder
what parents--
readers of classics?
rock and roll fans?--
would do that
to a five year old,
giving them,
not a name to grace them
to fit well
but letters too many
to spell
when you are five
and all you want to
do is play on the
and fly..........

Linking for the first time with LL Barkat for On, In and Around Mondays
and with dVerse Pub for Open Link Night 65.  More good stuff over there.

Truer Gifts

Twelve minutes after two
the blinking red face
confirms as I waken
wondering, why?
I was so very tired
and now I am N O T.
the pulsing numbers push me
back—a book, a bowl of cereal,
a bending black case
with another glowing face
and I click and read,
peruse the people saying
something I didn’t say.
consuming comments not for me
circles where I do not live.

I land with sleepful hope pillowside
thinking, blinking
full and empty at once--
full of other words,
lifeless feasts for my soul
empty in great part because
of this vision and mind meal
feeding nothing.

The hours pass--
red lights proclaim 4:30.
"Perhaps now," I think,
closing my wordful eyes,
the manna I never tasted.
And I remember,
"By day the LORD directs his love,
at night His song is with me,
a prayer to the God of my life."
                     Psalm 42:8

I declare in the dark
and drift off,
dreaming of truer gifts--
water that quenches,
bread that satisfies,

"Next time," I say,
"I'll sing."