May 5, 2016 § 2 Comments
When you are shrouded, how does one go? Who am I, that which beget me? Love which holds the universe fastened together,
where do I pass and are you mindful? Why, if you are?
That such intricacies exist which we do not know: a caterpillar chewing a green leaf, a frog dying in a pond alone, baby chicks hatching in a needled nest, me by myself drinking coffee. Such personalities! Such extravagance, and I’m more interested in what’s for dinner.
Expand our hearts so that we might see — the universe within us, and without. Show us your radiance in it all, in an early morning sunbeam and the minuscule growth of a fingernail.
These images, pasted together, amount to a glimpse, but still you remain hidden behind layers and layers of starry black cloth. It doesn’t end here. There is more to be given, and received. Fold us into your shadowy veil.
*Photos from my recent trip to Texas Hill Country.
January 12, 2016 § 6 Comments
Lately, I’ve been enjoying reading and, on occasion, writing a bit of poetry. Right now, I’m smitten with the poems written by contemporary poets in Image Journal and Ruminate Magazine, two lovely quarterlies that explore the relationship between art and faith. I’m also flipping through Caroline Kennedy’s She Walks in Beauty: A Woman’s Journey through Poems, which is a wonderful anthology of poems about the joys and sorrows of being a woman.
Here’s a poem I wrote as a writing exercise several months ago. I discovered it on a crinkled piece of notebook paper while clearing out my closet, and thought I would share:
Sour, the taste of lemons,
Sweet, the taste of chocolate white,
Sacramental bread and wine is
something, but nothing you taste like.
Sorrowful, holy voices rising,
Sonorous, organ boom,
Saint-like, I kneel to listen, hearing only
silence from an empty tomb.
Soft, a child’s bare arm in summer,
Squishy, the wet sponge in my sink,
Sheep’s skin, dew-covered, a
sign nowhere near the brink.
Sunset, a golden-hued death.
Sunrise, a purple-streaked birth.
Son of God, haloed and holy-hands
standing, but a photo before the broken curse.
Steaming, bitter coffee in a cracked mug,
Scented, the candle on my porcelain tub,
Smell of blood and water flowing,
salient story, though crass.
December 27, 2015 § 2 Comments
Stop. Unless — can you bring it back?
Because thinking about it,
I’d rather suffer here in the dark than
stand in the light of an unknown sun.
Memories more vivid than present day
seared on my mind and waking nighttime
ghouls. Forgetting is hemlock and don’t
tell me Truth or whisper some cultural cliché.
The grief of goodness lost is a purple fire;
it’s forget or burn.
I’ve drunk cold water and learned to be content;
I’ve taken lessons from stoics, meditated cross-legged
on flat rocks, prayed to a dead god on a cross,
and yet — there, it rises, flickers again,
red-flamed and forgotten.
October 16, 2015 § Leave a comment
I will fold your heart gently in a white paper packet. I will crimp the edges to tuck you in. Like a child in bed, you’ll be safe, surrounded, encircled in smoothness, protected within.
With soft white sheets I will surround you, so fragile, in the palm of my hand. You’re my tiny walnut, my baby apple seed, my uncrackable lady, my Me more than Me.
I’ll open the cage of your heart oh so gently. I’ll hold your caked blood in the center of my hand. I’ll kiss it away sweetly, new warmth to be given. I’ll heal, I’ll straighten, every wrinkle within.
I’ll twine you up, like spun cotton candy. I’ll blow you away, like grass in the wind. I’ll fold you up in a white paper packet, set you inside, where no thing can get in.
March 12, 2015 § 4 Comments
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