As a goal for 2026, I have decided to try my “hand” at writing poetry. Yes, it’s novice‑level poetry, but an old man must start somewhere. Writing seems to me to be a natural progression of our desire to read. As we read more, many of us begin to expand our genres and, in that expansion, we eventually venture into poetry.
Many of us have probably realized that we already have ventured into poetry through our exposure to the Psalms in the Hebrew scriptures. The Psalter is a whole book of poems—cries of grief, songs of praise, and everything in between—written in a compact, image‑rich style that invites us into reflection. We sense that poetry does more than simple prose or storytelling; it reaches past the logical mind and tugs at the heart.
I’ve come to think of poetry as a cousin to painting. A poem doesn’t dogmatically require us to “figure out” what the writer is “telling us.” Instead, it offers an image, a sound, a turn of phrase, and invites us to stand there for a while and see what rises in us. This makes poetry feel far more conversational and hospitable than many of us were led to believe in school.
There are many resources that can help someone get started writing poems. One such book is Mary Oliver’s, A Poetry Handbook, a slim, practical guide for beginners that focuses on the craft we can actually learn—sound, line, image, revision—rather than on some mystical idea of “genius.” But it is by no means required reading. You can simply start with the kind of rhyming poems many of us grew up hearing, then slowly branch out as you read and write more.
What I like most about writing poetry is the challenge to say as much as possible with as few words. A good poem is lean and intentional. It asks us to pay attention to sound and rhythm, to let verbs do more of the heavy lifting than long strings of adjectives, and to shape a line so that its break and its music help carry the meaning. It’s a way of training the mind and the heart to notice.
If that sounds a little intimidating, let me offer a different picture. Think of writing a poem as stepping outside on your porch to feel the weather. You don’t need a meteorology degree to tell if the air is warm, the sky is orange, or the wind is picking up. In the same way, you don’t need a literature degree to notice what’s happening around you and put a few lines down on paper.
So, here is my invitation, before you read my poem: pause for a moment and look at whatever is in front of you. It might be a parking lot, a kitchen sink full of dishes, a bare winter tree, or the way afternoon light falls across your living room floor. Let yourself notice one color, one movement, and one feeling that scene stirs in you. Then, in four to six short lines, try to name those things without worrying about whether it’s “good” or “bad.” Just give yourself permission to play.
You might be surprised by what appears on the page when you do.
Today I want to share a poem I recently penned at the end of a stormy day at the ocean’s edge—watching a sunset, with a strong wind blowing, and a sea crashing to the shore.
Weight of the Setting Sun
A sky of orange, sea of white,
The wind exhales its boundless might.
It speaks of those who meet their strife,
And guide the storms that shape their life.
Past storms that shape but do not break,
The heart learns all the soul can take.
When sunrise clears away the pain,
What once was loss becomes great gain.
If you just wrote a few lines of your own—even if they feel clumsy or simple—I hope you’ll hang on to them. Try standing among your own “flowers,” to borrow Mary Oliver’s image: look again, revise a little, and let the scene deepen as you return to it. Your poem doesn’t have to be perfect; it just needs to be honest.