Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Postcard Challenge #4: Forest Poems

So here is the next porcupine adorned postcard from Canada: a challenge to escape to a forest, real or figurative and write.


You know it's been cold when the forest that ends up sparking your imagination is on the side of a mug. Seriously. We've been drinking more tea than the Boston Harbor. 


Something about this image of a tree stirred me. The reflection seemed intriguing to me, the idea that there are two parallel trees growing at the same time. I thought a lot about the tree growing underground, seeking water like the tree above soaks in sun. 

I started reflecting on how that tree grows slowly in the dark, how it moves deeper through thick mud toward what it needs to sustain it and the tree above. It made me, somehow, think of motherhood. 

Sometimes, I'll admit, learning to be a mother who loves like Jesus feels like breaking through clay in the recesses of the earth: slow, hard work that feels like a thousand small deaths to self in seeking real life. 

However, He invited us to drink. As I seek him, I'm finding what I need to sustain me and provide Elisa with the life that will outlast my life and my love for her. I wrote "Roots" to explore this journey a bit. I follow it up with a poem I wrote in the summer for a friend's wedding since it's also about the forest, sort of. 

Enjoy and drink deeply this week, even if it feels like pushing into the dark. 




Aspens
For Michael and Noelle

There is water below land
our feet may have wandered,
the earth laced with veins
flames will not set ablaze.
Tongues of fire crown each dancer
as hectares of hands clap,
jubilee spun and spread
from an old rugged Tree.






Saturday, December 14, 2013

Advent Poetry


We're half-way to Advent and tomorrow the joy (candle) comes in the morning!

I thought I'd share a piece I began a few years ago and just finished. It really is meant to be spoken and would be best with several voices, but I hope you enjoy it.

As Patrick and I have contemplated the longing and waiting of the Advent season this year, I think it's important to remember the long story of rescue that began in Genesis, that was missing Someone for so long, that Jesus broke into at Bethlehem. I think it's beautiful the way God wove it together and just sought to trace it's threads.

Advent
I.
Cold dirt, hot blood streams.
Abdicated brother’s keeper
keeps secret deeds done in darkness,
(The bite was small, but, oh, how the venom spreads)
wanders now, weary.

II.
Cold dirt, hot blood streams.
Worn nomadic desert father
sees seeds sown in womb of night skies.
The cut is deep but shows now the promise stands:
Centuries. Standing.

III.
Cold dirt, hot blood streams.
Consecrated nation's leader
lays hands, knife on hair, flesh.
The law hot thirsts but death cleans their scarlet hands,
until tomorrow.

IV.
Cold dirt, hot blood streams.
Desecrated-Zion’s poet
breathes this yet: dawn in death’s land.
The Man will mourn, but somehow His wounds will heal–
Exiles scream, Servant!

V.
Cold dirt, hot blood streams.
Long-awaited Word Incarnate
writhes helpless. All our hope fleshed.
The weight will crush, but hush now, the virgin sways,
Ransom rocked, finally

sleeping. 

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

New(er) Poetry

Hello, friends, I haven't been inspired today in any particular direction, so I thought I'd share some of my more recent poems. I'll have to think how/when to post earlier work. I continue to find great joy in writing this way...I recently read that poems take us out of time for a little bit, much like the few hushed, warm days after a baby is born. What a lovely picture!



What Is It?
These shallow breaths are not
milk and honey I'd hoped for,
praying strength to spread
cream cheese on toast
what I'd planned.
Yet these rapid heartbeats burn
wisps of incense
in a place I am finding
is holy.
The smoke from your cloud today
singes my throat but this
manna strange somehow still
fills me.
                     -Winter 2012



Metamorphi
This cocoon closes
bloody. I can't tell
what flows thick 
from these knuckles
banged senseless and
what seeps 
from your womb-walls,
hot-cradling me. 
                     -Spring 2012


I Have No Poems About Jesus

I realize this paging through my pittance of black pixels
strewn across white pages in hope
that some will take root.

I read of redemption, communion, the kingdom;
there is Moses, my father; no Rabbi in sight.
The New Jerusalem seems safer,
stained glass and sand sufficient.
No need to touch nail holes,
struggle to name the One
who offers flesh as food,
who tells me I must hate
the one who bore me
but who lets whores
kiss his feet before
he dies.

I have no place to lay His head.

I touch the hem of His garment for healing.
To get closer means His smell might
mingle with mine.
                                 -Summer 2012