Hello!
Before we jump into today’s post … welcome!
My name is Tanner. I am an author, spoken word poet, and speaker. Every week I share a few hopeful poems, prayers, and reflections. If you enjoy the words I share, I’d love to have you support this ministry at the monthly, annual, or founding member level.
Welcome to the Wednesday Poetry Club.
If you want to know more about Wednesday Poetry Club, scroll to the bottom for all the details, but all you really need to know is that Wednesday Poetry Club is for poets, readers, and anyone who loves language. It lives entirely on Substack. Every Wednesday, poems are shared, inspiration is sparked, and a sense of community grows.
Today’s poem is titled, Come Back to Yourself. But before we get to that poem, I want to share a few from one of my favorite writers,
. Rachel is a Christian poet, author, and editor living in South Dakota with her husband, Pastor Evan Welcher, and their longed-for children, Hildegaard and Richard. If you aren’t subscribed to Rachel’s Substack, today is a good day to do so.
Storm Garden
From Rachel's book, Two Funerals, Then Easter
Most days,
I drag the hose
from the side of the house
to the backyard, but
some mornings, I wake up
to find that a storm has
already watered my garden.
..
Indigo and Violet
By
The toddler is raging, there is
more snow predicted next week
and I am unsure if I will make it
to spring. It’s not that life isn’t
beautiful, it’s that it is also so very
hard. When I was young, I was taken
with the idea that certain animals
could hide using their skin. I made
it a point to look carefully at every
green leaf for a tree snake, at every
brown branch for a stick bug, and
in every ravine filled with mud for
the possibility that I might find a
shy salamander, the kind disguised
under auburn back, keeping his
fire-red belly a secret beneath him.
But now, my long fingers, stretched
toward heaven, become invisible in
this endless flurry. I try to find the sun,
the Son, the sun, through these brooding
clouds that love to break open but never
heal. It might be time to move. Or to dig
my “happy light” out of storage, or maybe
I should paint my body in hazy stripes of
red and orange, indigo and violet, to blend
in with the promises of God while I wait,
and wait, and wait for sunshine and new
grass. For the chance to let my one-year-old
outside without hampering her down in
heavy coats and scarves and boots. I would
that she would run free, barefoot and giggling,
so that we can give Winnie the Pooh a rest and
find our own honey in the sunshine of May, the
tangle of August, and the tomatoes of July. Why,
oh soul, are you so disrupted? Hope in God. Or else
I will have to remind you again: Hope in God. The
sun will not remain hidden forever.
Today’s poem is an invitation to pause in the middle of the mess.
Life often feels so heavy, or maybe like we’re always trying to keep up, always carrying more than we were made to. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think it’s just me. The noise, the pressure, the endless scrolling and striving—it all piles up until we start to forget how to simply be. But even in the middle of all that, beauty keeps showing up. Softly. Quietly. Offering itself again and again.
And I don’t want to let beauty just pass me by.
I wrote this poem as a reminder to myself, but maybe for you as well. Words inviting us to slow down enough to notice. To breathe a little deeper. To remember we’re alive, and that being alive is a good thing. It’s not about fixing everything or figuring it all out. It’s about stepping outside, feeling the ground under your feet, letting the wind brush your face and remembering: you’re not alone in this. God is near, even when everything feels overwhelming.
There’s freedom in letting go of the need to keep pace. There’s peace in no longer trying to hold it all together. In stillness, we begin to hear what’s always been true: grace is real, mercy continues to meet us, and God is here.
This poem is for anyone who feels worn thin, anyone who needs permission to rest, to breathe, to come back to themselves. It’s a reminder that we don’t have to hustle to be worthy. We can just be here, in this moment, with God. And that is more than enough.
Listen/read the poem below.
Come Back to Yourself
By Tanner Olson
Put down your phone, that lifeline-turned-leash.
Step outside.
Shoes off.
Bare feet on welcoming ground.
Let the grass preach peace to your skin.
Let the air touch your face,
like it’s trying to tell you you’re still alive.
You are.
Come back to yourself.
You’ve been somewhere else, haven’t you?
Buried under lists,
lost in endless headlines,
suffocating under the pace of it all.
Let yourself breathe.
Slower.
Slower still.
And then slower again.
Because rushing won’t resurrect you.
Drop the weight your shoulders are carrying.
It’s heavy, isn’t it?
This whole thing:
Living.
Waiting.
Enduring.
Trying to hold it all together
when you hardly know what “together” means anymore.
Silence the noise.
Not just outside, but in.
Turn the volume down on the fear.
On the “what ifs.”
On the “not enoughs.”
Cut through the static.
And listen.
Listen.
Do you hear it?
The birds,
the wind,
the whisper in the leaves?
They're singing something ancient.
Something holy.
Creation hasn’t forgotten how to worship.
Maybe we just forgot how to listen.
Remember:
Not your failure.
Not your fear.
But this:
faithfulness,
love,
forgiveness,
heaven,
the empty tomb,
grace upon grace upon grace.
Look around.
Goodness, right there beside you.
Mercy, moving in the margins.
Life is still happening, still unfolding,
even here,
especially here.
So be still in the silence.
Not because you're stuck.
But because stillness is sacred.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Repeat.
Speak like God is listening, because He is.
Listen like God is answering, because He is.
Be still like God is with you, because He is.
With Hope,
Tanner Olson
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What is Wednesday Poetry Club?
Wednesday Poetry Club is for poets, readers, and anyone who loves language. It lives entirely on Substack. Every Wednesday, poems are shared, inspiration is sparked, and a sense of community grows.
A few things to clarify about Wednesday Poetry Club:
Some have asked, what time on Wednesday does Poetry Club meet?
There is no time. You just share a poem on Wednesday.
There is no meeting. You just share a poem on Wednesday.
So, it’s really simple?
Yes, we don’t have to complicate everything. Just share a poem and tell people you’re part of a poetry club that shares poetry on Wednesdays.
The whole point of the Wednesday Poetry Club is to write and share poetry. On Wednesday’s we want to flood Substack with poems! So, if you care about poetry and want to be part of something creative and meaningful, you are part of the club.
How do people know I am part of the Wednesday Poetry Club?
We have some logos you can add to your posts or images to show you're part of the club. You can also include this line in your post:
“On Wednesdays, a group of writers share their poems as part of the Wednesday Poetry Club.”
You can also make it part of your Subtitle in your post.
Something like, “Wednesday Poetry Club.”
So it’s really simple?
Yes. Maybe too simple.
Does it cost money?
No. Who has money? It’s free to join and participate. We do have merch, but anyone can just be part of the Wednesday Poetry Club.
How do I join?
Write a poem. Share it on Wednesday. Post in here on Substack. Mention that you’re part of the Wednesday Poetry Club. Tag me if you’d like. Add the logo to your post. Tell people about the club. That’s all it takes. You’re in. You might be writing on your own, but you’re not doing it alone.
What if I miss a Wednesday?
That’s totally okay. This is about showing up when you can and letting poetry be a joy, not a burden. But if you write a poem, why not share it on Wednesday?
Why Wednesdays?
Remember in Mean Girls, when they said, “On Wednesdays, we wear pink”? Well, on Wednesdays we share poems. It’s just what we do. You can wear pink if you’d like.
Also, it’s the middle of the week a little poetry pick-me-up might be just what we need.
So — want in?
Next Steps
 | A guest post by
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Beautiful poems Tanner and Rachel.
Thank you for these, Tanner and Rachel.