A Christian story-teller, poet, and thinker writing from Three Hills, Alberta.

Mirth, n. joy, lightness of mind, from OE myrhðe

Subscribe to my newsletter, Mirth, to receive regular updates about my writing, including sneak-peaks of upcoming releases, new poems, and articles that deliver a behind-the-scenes look at my writing process. Mirth Newsletters are typically divided into one of three categories, corresponding to days of the week (though not all three are guaranteed to appear on any given week). On Mondays, I offer critical reflections on the poetic process with a short essay. Tune in Wednesdays to read one of my new or unpublished poems. Fridays I provide a reading (audio only) of a poem from various historical periods. Below you will find an archive of past newsletters.

Mirab, With Sails Unfurled

Zenrox, tilling his field in the spring Shaka, when the walls fell Zinda, his eyes red Zinda, his face black, his eyes red Zima at Anzo Zima and Bakor Sokath, his eyes uncovered Uzani, when the light came over the mountain Temba Temba, his arms wide Temba, at rest Mirab, with sails unfurled Todd Anderson…

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Pie

My left eye wanders as I write, Drawn away as a boy from chores Distracted by cherry red muscle cars, Trimmed and caked over by frost Delectable as after-dinner pie, Which signals to us all long before The oven door groans open And, back bent, a round rump low Hunts midst the heat for gold.…

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Angels at the Harvest

until wheat gathers in a wheel long lanes of brisk stalk rise alone like so many saints at vespers who sing and solitary kneel Todd Anderson (Stuff of the Rind, Sand and Sail, The Reluctant Prophet) writes the newsletter Mirth to share a behind-the-scenes look at his writing process as well as to offer readers…

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Shout

I stepped into your shout and wrapped my arms around your shaking chest, as tears dropped to the silent floor while the nurse hung her head. Todd Anderson (Stuff of the Rind, Sand and Sail, The Reluctant Prophet) writes the newsletter Mirth to share a behind-the-scenes look at his writing process as well as to…

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As I Step Home

walking is heel work soft ground compressed soon sets in frost’s grip unyielding inhospitable still heel must lead and foot follow back to front mile on mile wildflower left or right sky heavy with late light yet knee bends dutifully slow sequence of steps remembered from door to door this tree weeps over her fallen…

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To My Children

Pickety pack your stuff Leave out all the fluff Toys go here (for the garbage, I fear) And all your father’s guff! Todd Anderson (Stuff of the Rind, Sand and Sail, The Reluctant Prophet) writes the newsletter Mirth to share a behind-the-scenes look at his writing process as well as to offer readers the first…

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Small Town

These towns aren’t small They recover space in our heart If we let our feet out the door The nothing we might wander into Keeps our aspirations honest A jug of milk swinging at my side Refreshes the sidewalk What else has been carried Upon these crumbling paths? I must unlearn the driving eye Fixed…

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The Refuge

Unsought miles of land roll down from mountainsideAs children nestle ‘round their grinning fatherAnd strive to show their lineage to all.A skad of Saskatoons await the dawn,Entangling Poplar, Spruce, or barbed fence posts.I see the dark stain of purple berriesUpon my daughter’s hands.  She has feastedOn each small wonder in this restful place,While I, without…

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These Tears Are For You

Cedar grimace in cold summer showersWhile lonely pools drown out the undergrowth,Exposing ragged roots to somber air.The storm has passed but its wild mark remains.Birch and Hawthorne, skewered by tongues of fire,Lay spent in the mud, never more to rise.Rain obscures our memory, washing outYears of triumph or trouble with urgentSummons to attend the trials…

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Mrs. Dombey and Daughter

The window stood openThe window which lay forever closedNow stood open to the twilightAnd the child pressed against her cheekSpoke no sound nor cried outNor would she moveBright cheek against a pale cheekNeither moving but all quietHer hair golden shining in candle lightAgainst her mother’s cheek just soAnd nothing to be doneWhile on rolled twilightWhile…

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