I’ve been reading a bit of poetry lately so I thought, what the heck, I’ll try my hand at writing one of these things. For your enjoyment (or exasperation, whichever you like):
Broken, I stand;
Made small, subdued
to glow, polished corn kernel.
That which was within — aborted.
Something new swept in
to fill full, plump as
a ripe split tomato, pomegranate sweet.
Salted, not to eat
but to be consumed by the friendly lion.
Neither dead nor alive,
in the in-between land in the inner place
where Wisdom dwells.
Shafts of golden corn in sunlight flowing
in a Midwestern breeze.
Under blue skies, my bare feet on frozen ground,
You spoke, whispered, screamed! —
and what could I do but turn?
Water splashed and blood
dripped, poured off my face,
splattered on my feet.
You clean me with Your white rag.
You hold me in Your holed hands.
Father. Mother. Oh, my God.
You set me on an island in the sea.
You feed me coconuts beneath
You lead me on through
to a church pew
in a city;
in a square box;
in a guitar string.
You want me.
And I — oh, I! — I want You, too.
Not fully, but
turn me round and I’ll dance, barefooted
and holy on