Like to many shadows at the end of a long day.

Are the words of my mind as I try to write.

Beyond their fence, pulled and made tight


An attempt to create something of value.


For they hold as much water as a fisherman’s net

So I wonder, if my time would be better spent

With a fishing pole than a net.


A pole at rest between the fingers awaiting a bite.

Toes in the sand, branches in a ring of fire.


Looking up at the now starry night.

Just content for the friendly conversation

On such a fine night.

While I await better words from a finer bite.

Good by to Goshen

How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart you begin to understand… there is no going back. Frodo Baggins; The Return of the King.

There is a lot of wisdom in what Tolkien wrote and I have thought of this comment many times over the last few years. It rings like a voice on the wind in the corners of my mind as I reflect on the fifteen year road I have taken that has brought me to this place.

Fifteen years ago my wife and I were raising dairy goats, had a garden around two acres in size. We got our years firewood from the forest and had a small prophetic ministry that later became a church. At that time, due to the spiritual climate of the area we lived. The Lord led me to join MorningStar’s Fellowship of Ministries. Continue reading

Apart of Me

Apart of Me

Five years for grace with an extra for man.
Hard and long, endure to the end was that the plan?

Clean and ship and write that report for the man.
Oh look, another new boss I don’t like that plan.
Twist and turn, I think I have seen to much.
Talk and teach, maybe I care to much.

Ministry or corporation that I work, the line is way to blurred.

Box after box, pallet after pallet what do I see?
Pallet after pallet, box after box something is forming near me.

In the center of daily do’s, a new thing is forming anew.
When did I see it?
Did I know?
Look a new set of friendly faces do grow.

One over here, one is over there, the laughter is never old.
An old face, a young face. One wider, one thinner did I know?

Hair white as Merino wool or dark as furnace coal, pure white are their souls.
Gathering now, some smiles with some bodies they are many of these old souls.

Goodbye hugs and handshakes from the room.
A tear here, a tear there, many from the soft southern heart of one.
Like a hidden surprise song that slows your steps.
These move my heart more than the smell of oven fresh bread.

Many I miss, two shall be more than most.
Peach tea with old books, My daughter and a brother, I think I shall remember the most.

Many images and words now invade my thoughts. As I see the road ahead.
Of tail lights and grassy plains with moon light over the canyon highs.
Of Hawks over the Mesa and Antelope field races.

A part of me I left here.
A new part I have taken.

To the long heart talks with Peach tea & Old books.
Over all, it was far better than I could have bought.

Robert Foster

To all the Old Roads

To All the old Roads

For a person who is planning on at least trying to make a living off of words. I find it a struggle some days to put together the words to describe the last several years of my life. After many years of being remotely connected to this thin lifeline during hard times. My mind now plays tricks on me as I wonder how much was real and how much was an illusion of miss-placed hope. Now after a decade and a half of this adventure with a third of it being on staff, a lot has happened, too much to document. But still, I wonder about the value of it all.

The first two-thirds of this saga I gladly defended the ministry as I lived in two different locations in the west. Read nearly all they ever printed and learned many valuable things. To me, it was a “breath of fresh air” compared to the rest of the church at large. Powerful, strong and moving forward in the things of the spirit. It did really seem to my mind to be the strong wall the Lord was raising up in this age.

So I pursued this, gladly without hesitation. Not that all I had experienced before this was somehow wrong, I mean, I have attended several John Wimber meetings, experience a Vineyard church plant and the music of Rich Mullins had introduced me to The Ragamuffin Gospel. So with what I had now found in MorningStar ministries, I seriously felt like I had found something that took off where the teaching and experiences of the Vineyard had changed after Wimber died.

Continue reading

What have we become?

What have we become?

A continuation of last years post, “Whatcom County Prophetic”

About a year ago I did a blog post called the “Whatcom County Prophetic.” {Click here to read it} In it, I reflected on a trip my wife and I took back to the land we grew up in. In that article, I talked about the

general spiritual condition of the region as well as some insights I felt the Lord gave me. In it, I asked a simple question, “where were your prophets?”

This was in response to decades of attitudes towards people who had a touch of the Prophetic in there lives that the churches miss understood. People who if they had been encouraged and trained could have maybe changed the unfortunate course the county is now on. Continue reading


Like a herald of the evening sky is the dawning light between the pine trees.

Gone is the work of day, moving aside for the campfire of the night.


For life is bigger than the back yard of the house.

And brighter than the twinkling of the night lights.


One by one I count them until I’ve lost count.

For who can count all those little lights?

One by one the sparks of the campfire find my legs.

For I twitch at the pain of those little lights.


So I drink a sip of cold tea and dream of worlds yet to write.

Gone is this old place, as my mind dances between worship and worlds yet unseen.

Run away

I shall run away to the land of Home

Of cool water drops and morning misty dew.

Of Chickens underfoot and new honey-do too do.

Of Firewood in rows laid before the silence of winter falls.


Watching for the times of Harvest and Planting

while milking the steady few.


Fading are the memories of older ways

Of inventory games and warehouse ways

Of ministry games and self exalted plays.

Of tiny human kingdoms with playdoh knights

I shall run away to the Land of Home

And write with a little life

for those in the land of the Lost and Lonely.