elisas place

patience.

2012-02-10T09:10:00.002-08:00

went for a walk this morning and saw that my neighbor's yard, filled with an ivy groundcover, had bloomed beautiful purple blossoms everywhere. this reminded me of hopkins' poem below: "patience." it came as a much needed reminder at this time as my grandmother's health has been up and down and all i want is to be across the country in north dakota with her and the rest of my family... but she took a turn for the better this morning so we are waiting...

PATIENCE, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray,
But bid for, Patience is! Patience who asks
Wants war, wants wounds; weary his times, his tasks;
To do without, take tosses, and obey.
Rare patience roots in these, and, these away,
Nowhere. Natural heart’s ivy, Patience masks
Our ruins of wrecked past purpose. There she basks
Purple eyes and seas of liquid leaves all day.

We hear our hearts grate on themselves: it kills
To bruise them dearer. Yet the rebellious wills
Of us we do bid God bend to him even so.
And where is he who more and more distils
Delicious kindness?—He is patient. Patience fills
His crisp combs, and that comes those ways we know.

I am not a grid.

2011-10-13T15:34:00.004-07:00

I am not a grid.

I am an old dirt road, overgrown,

And the bicycle hurtling down it.

I am the sun-kissed grass that I am lying in

And the earth, round and whole,

Holding me up.

I am a stream, rushing and singing,

Reaching always for the deep blue sea.

I am the stars: twinkling fire storms in the night.

I am a marshmallow, a cup of tea,

An insect and a big bumbling bear.

I am not a grid.

I am a human being.

A wild hair.

the love of God

2011-10-08T12:38:00.003-07:00

light falls slowly,
carefully
in this room
inching toward the corners,
the closets
and under the bed,
unhurried and lovely.
waterfalls are welcomed
the dirt rising on the waves
don't worry,
it is okay.
we can open the door sometimes
the window more often
the trees let their leaved branches
sway closer.
the birds sing.

Mary Karr

2011-09-19T10:43:00.007-07:00

For a Dying Tomcat Who's Relinquished
His Former Hissing and Predatory Nature

I remember the long orange carp you once scooped
from the neighbor’s pond, bounding beyond
her swung broom, across summer lawns

to lay the fish on my stoop. Thanks
for that. I’m not one to whom offerings
often get made. You let me feel

how Christ might when I kneel,
weeping in the dark
over the usual maladies: love and its lack.

Only in tears do I speak
directly to him and with such
conviction. And only once you grew frail

did you finally slacken into me,
dozing against my ribs like a child.
You gave up the predatory flinch

that snapped the necks of so many
birds and slow-moving rodents.
Now your once powerful jaw

is malformed by black malignancies.
It hurts to eat. So you surrender in the way
I pray for: Lord, before my own death,

let me learn from this animal’s deep release
into my arms. Let me cease to fear
the embrace that seeks to still me.

from: http://kingdompoets.blogspot.com/

The Format. On Your Porch.

2011-09-15T12:52:00.000-07:00

Go Outside - The Cults

2011-09-06T12:24:00.001-07:00

i like this song.

Poetry Myth

2011-08-31T11:53:00.001-07:00

Where is my bottle of wine? My café,

My parchment, bloody ink and pen -

Certainly I need them to write

this scratch of words

Painstakingly caught and forcibly held down

From the wild dark birds of emotion.

Wait for the Lord - Taize

2011-08-24T10:40:00.001-07:00

Wait for the Lord, his day is near
Wait for the Lord, be strong take heart.

pablo neruda

2011-08-23T13:04:00.002-07:00

{found this poem today, loved it, wanted to share...}

los nacimientos (births)

we will never have any memory of dying.
we were so patient
about our being,
noting down
numbers, days,
years and months,
hair, and the mouths we kiss,
and that moment of dying
we let pass without a note -
we leave it to others as memory,
or we leave it simply to water,
to water, to air, to time.
nor do we even keep
the memory of being born,
although to come into being was tumultuous and new;
and now you don’t remember a single detail
and haven’t kept even a trace
of your first light.
it’s well known that we are born.
it’s well known that in the room
or in the wood
or in the shelter in the fishermen’s quarter
or in the rustling canefields
there is a quite unusual silence,
a grave and wooden moment as
a woman prepares to give birth.
it’s well known that we were all born.
but if that abrupt translation
from not being to existing, to having hands,
to seeing, to having eyes,
to eating and weeping and overflowing
and loving and loving and suffering and suffering,
of that transition, that quivering
of an electric presence, raising up
one body more, like a living cup,
and of that woman left empty,
the mother who is left there in her blood
and her lacerated fullness,
and its end and its beginning, and disorder
tumbling the pulse, the floor, the covers
till everything comes together and adds
one knot more to the thread of life,
nothing, nothing remains in your memory
of the savage sea which summoned up a wave
and plucked a shrouded apple from the tree.
the only thing you remember is your life.

-pablo neruda

a poet's apology (upon recently moving to texas)

2011-08-08T19:23:00.007-07:00

I suppose it is because
the sun is too bright in Texas.
All becomes overexposed
under such an incessant white light
and we are no longer human,
but steaming ants, paralyzed,
beneath the narrowed focus
of the one burning eye.

Day after day after day after
- yes, another -
day.

So how could I write poetry
when brain, eye and tongue
were stripped dry
melted down
to a dull crackly concoction?

I give therefore the poets confession:
that I need dark storm clouds, heavy rains
green shoots and marshy glades -
pray not solely for the fueling
of my melancholic strain -
but in order that my refuge,
my creative warp and woof,
might finally extend
beyond this sterile air-conditioned room.

Christ

2011-04-04T10:00:00.003-07:00

Christ cries. Christ carries his children
in his arms.
Christ was broken, crushed,
bled and died.
Christ carries his children
in his arms.

Mumford & Sons: Roll Away Your Stone

2010-11-06T10:35:00.003-07:00

Roll away your stone I will roll away mine
Together we can see what we will find
Don't leave me alone at this time
For I am afraid of what I will discover inside

You told me that I would find a hole
Within the fragile substance of my soul
And I have filled this void with things unreal
And all the while my character it steals

Darkness is a harsh term don't you think
Yet it dominates the things I see

It seems that all my bridges have been burnt
But you say that's exactly how this grace thing works
It's not the long walk home that will change this heart
But the welcome I receive with the restart

Darkness is a harsh term don't you think
And yet it dominates the things I see

Stars hide your fires
For these here are my desires
And I won't give them up to you this time around
And so I will be found
With my stake stuck in the ground
Marking the territory of this newly impassioned soul

But you, you've gone too far this time
You have neither reason nor rhyme
With which to take this soul that is so rightfully mine

A New Saintliness: for Simone Weil

2010-06-15T11:40:00.007-07:00

You were a bell, struck,
and still ringing -
out from the darkest
corners of the world
to the edges of its glory
without dimming.

A rare calling
you touched
that most painful nerve
in the world--
affliction,

and by it
you plunged
into the depths of love.

Though an outsider
to the church, Christ
showed you the way:
his own fragile body,
flesh, blood, nerves and brain.

Do not be ashamed

2010-04-03T21:31:00.000-07:00

You will be walking some night
in the comfortable dark of your yard
and suddenly a great light will shine
round about you, and behind you
will be a wall you never saw before.
It will be clear to you suddenly
that you were about to escape,
and that you are guilty: you misread
the complex instructions, you are not
a member, you lost your card
or never had one. And you will know
that they have been there all along,
their eyes on your letters and books,
their hands in your pockets,
their ears wired to your bed.
Though you have done nothing shameful,
they will want you to be ashamed.
They will want you to kneel and weep
and say you should have been like them.
And once you say you are ashamed,
reading the page they hold out to you,
then such light as you have made
in your history will leave you.
They will no longer need to pursue you.
You will pursue them, begging forgiveness.
They will not forgive you.
There is no power against them.
It is only candor that is aloof from them,
only an inward clarity, unashamed,
that they cannot reach. Be ready.
When their light has picked you out
and their questions are asked, say to them:
"I am not ashamed." A sure horizon
will come around you. The heron will begin
his evening flight from the hilltop.

~wendell berry

music is poetry too

2010-03-27T13:38:00.002-07:00

creation fall redemption

2010-02-08T23:55:00.011-08:00

I dream of rivers - cold and wild
cutting through the capacious countryside.
They are light and dark, full of shadows
yet translucent.

And of the sun
pouring forth its opulent warmth, heat,
from the fire of its heart, onto the world,
bathing it in its light.
She runs her fingers through the delicate
branches and leaves of each tree.
Her nymphs dance and sparkle
leaping from silvery edge to silvery edge
of the waves.
It is beautiful, it is good, once was said.

We walk, our bodies held by the earth's
bright abundant existence. Gentle.
Our rhythm falls in line with a better, older time.

It is to be alive, it is joy. Shouting
our praise higher than the stars
we hold onto one another,
tightly, and smile.

But sometimes, in want, in need,
we break apart -
and wander alone to the dark.

We shall come back
to this place.
To peace.

Making coffee

2010-02-07T11:30:00.013-08:00

This morning, Sunday morning, skipping church
I went to the kitchen to make coffee.
Standing over the dark brown dirt-like
fresh grounds, I stopped and looked
out upon the still dark gray day. Silently.
Slowly round thoughts filled the moments
with a shadowy dream, or memory: it danced around me.
I stepped back, hesitant, then moved away.

Buried for over a year, I found them -
my old running shoes - and ran out into
the cold morning to meet the kiss
of the mist and its dewy embrace.
The earth echoed with song long after
I finally came home, and made the coffee.

Featuring: Kahlil Gibran

2010-01-31T00:18:00.006-08:00

Love

When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams
as the north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.

When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, "I am in the heart of God."
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.

winter places

2010-01-23T14:07:00.011-08:00

there are still many things
buried in desolate cold winter
places. looked upon gently
by the dawn sun, barely touched
by arctic winds.

here ice dances upon the air,
glittering like a thousand tiny jewels.
terrifying in their act of preservation.

we cut through it with our warm bodies
and chirping voices. we watch
as the snow melts in our hands.

featuring: e.e. cummings

2010-01-08T21:29:00.008-08:00

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

this picture made me smile...

2009-11-19T12:37:00.002-08:00

source

2009-11-08T20:09:00.001-08:00

There is much to learn
here by the blue water.
Her soul is ever drinking
in the sky
and she moves
to touch every little thing
with life.

the dream that was the dream

2009-10-22T20:56:00.002-07:00

as the winter wind closed
upon the year,
the clouds wept bitterly above.
i stopped dead, wondering if
it was all a dream,
the fog gathered
round me like a sheath.
still, i went further
to hunt the soft light
hiding behind hesitant corners.
small lambent wings
rummaged for harbor
through the shifting
crepuscular streets.

Featuring...an old favorite

2009-10-08T21:16:00.005-07:00

Gerard Manley Hopkins.

I took a class on Hopkins a few years ago with about 12 other students and one Loren Wilkinson of Regent College. It has proved to be one of the most influential classes I've taken in my life. Hopkins' poetry is no mere feel-good art, nor has it perfect poetic meter. What it does have is the kind of theological depth that when tasted, nourishes for long periods of time. Here is a beauty:

Binsley Poplars

felled 1879

My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled,
Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun,
All felled, felled, are all felled;
Of a fresh and following folded rank
Not spared, not one
That dandled a sandalled
Shadow that swam or sank
On meadow and river and wind-wandering weed-winding bank.

O if we but knew what we do
When we delve or hew -
Hack and rack the growing green!
Since country is so tender
To touch, her being so slender,
That, like this sleek and seeing ball
But a prick will make no eye at all,
Where we, even where we mean
To mend her we end her,
When we hew or delve:
After-comers cannot guess the beauty been.
Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve
Strokes of havoc unselve
The sweet especial scene,
Rural scene, a rural scene,
Sweet especial rural scene.

2009-10-07T21:46:00.009-07:00

its been awhile since i've posted anything on here... maybe it is due to a lag in inspiration, or maybe its been awhile since i had a chance to breathe.

blue lights burn dimly
through the grey shadow of night.
there are children in this city
orphans seeking bread
hunting down the dancing ribbons
that have strung life along
so far.
the darkness would spread
its hand over them, if it could.
but they hold within them the quiet seed
of the morning -
the everlasting morning -
a song that echoes without end
to which darkness has no threat.

sunlight

2009-08-25T12:49:00.009-07:00

Sunlight
rests gently upon my sleeves,
sheltering
then moving
throughout the anxious turning
of the breeze.
A storm will no doubt arise
from beneath the layers of
such warm, dark
summer nights.
Wait
for the cloudburst torrent of rain
coming restlessly to wrap up the world
in its garments again.

the matrix

2009-08-14T18:18:00.006-07:00

It's no a secret that I'm afraid
of a lot of things in this world.
All the right-winged left-brained people
keep telling me
(over and over)
that there is nothing to fear.
However -
because I am afraid of exactly them
- it doesn't help.
Help!

2009-08-07T00:16:00.001-07:00

How can I tell you how I feel?
You are like the grass,
root and blade
growing into my heart.
You are always new life -
a fresh patch of pasture -
a sure place of rest.
My heart is different now,
green, soft, and ready.
In a world of drought,
You keep sprouting.

a favorite

2009-08-03T10:32:00.003-07:00

The Old Poets of China


Wherever I am, the world comes after me.
It offers me its busyness. It does not believe
that I do not want it. Now I understand
why the old poets of China went so far and high
into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.


Mary Oliver

passing through

2009-06-29T20:46:00.006-07:00

beauty has deep roots
and durable clothes on.
there is something earthy
and eternal in her walk
though we can't know
where she'll go next.
where she might crop up -
in the most unfavorable places,
most likely.
her journey is arduous,
grievous and far,
but the ground beneath her steps
pools with joy, every inch.

graduate school

2009-06-25T18:43:00.008-07:00

my mind is a rake
gathering up
the brightly colored
straying leaves
of other people's
thoughts.

2009-06-23T21:33:00.007-07:00

the field is
an ample flame
reaching for the sky.
its yellow branches of
fire-light lift and lilt
against the blue
leaning of night.
gophers turn somersaults
laughing to cry:
come near sweet showers!
cleanse our world
again.

2009-06-18T21:04:00.006-07:00

It is time to be converted,
once again.
Sell all.
Every last cent
poured out for the poor.
Keep not proud thoughts.
Be clothed in coarse garments. Your
downed head with hair undone,
weep for death's undoing
everywhere.
Then stand
before the cold winds of silence
with your naked open hands.
It is to be human. It is the only way
to be born again.
Receive
the astonishing richness of God.

anniversary

2009-06-07T21:33:00.007-07:00

Flowers flicker light against the sapphire sea,
the sun plays the fiddle and the grass
yawns, stretching its thousand arms.

There is so much to say. So much

that floats

on the soft winds of easy silence.
But only a whisper is heard -
a butterfly brushes past:

"Rest here, rest here awhile, children.
For moments hold and gather
the real. Then comes time."

for S.

2009-05-18T11:24:00.008-07:00

you were a delicate child, so
awake to the life and lives
that danced around you.
a dreamer with a wit
so sharp it stunned.

what night came into your world
when your father was taken
from you
so suddenly?
what hope was arrested from your heart
and where did faith fall to
from all the beauty you held?

you were a delicate child.
touched by every bloom, color,
and breath.
but none can live
untouched by death.
so fear spun each day into darkness
while hope grew frail and aged.
until you couldn't bear
the loving touch
of the world any longer.
or even the belief
that Another held all of its
glory, sharp edges,
(as well as your father)
in his arms.

You couldn't bear it.
you wrote beautifully about it
then you left it.

Sylvia Plath

2009-05-13T20:01:00.002-07:00

"A Better Resurrection"

I have no wit, I have no words, no tears;
My heart within me like a stone
Is numbed too much for hopes or fears;
Look right, look left, I dwell alone;
A lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief
No everlasting hills I see;
My life is like the falling leaf;
O Jesus, quicken me.

Reaching Out

2009-05-12T00:36:00.003-07:00

On a precipice I am
listening to a bow
against string.
Up here,
touching rock and wind,
I am hidden
in contemplation
soaked
in gossamer air.
If only to glimpse
life again!
Far and wholly away
from ruck and wave
and question.

2009-05-01T15:35:00.008-07:00

when i've given up on words
(which is usually
too often and
too easy)

i enter the silence. it is not always
death;
it is a spaciousness
formed by centuries of living

bearing with the earth
over times, transformations,
the history
of human feelings
and actions.

if you listen

if you get to that point that is
silent enough

you can hear it.

the word upon which all else
moves
begotten from the heart of God
and burning

through everything
for
the cosmos and you.

Let it.
and that word will hush other words

incising your heart of stone
til it become flesh,
making it
a fountain, clear and flowing forth.

Now, speak.

2009-04-26T17:45:00.007-07:00

sundown approaches and
we wonder
what it is
we've been waiting
for. all the striving
settles like
dust turning
to damp dirt
beneath our feet.
our lives, like a crumpled
piece of paper
toss and turn unevenly
across the grass, away.
it was for this moment
this one glimpse
where despair kisses
the Great Coming
of All Being.
it was, finally,
for this exact death
we've waited, so to enter
into the hope
of all that Is.

2009-04-18T00:44:00.003-07:00

you are a gentle light
to me. leading to pastures
cool from evening's shade.
i kneel down and wait
knowing your faithfulness
will come and gather
me home.

Mary Oliver: The Fist

2009-04-14T17:04:00.003-07:00

There are days
when the sun goes down
like a fist,
though of course

if you see anything
in the heavens
in this way
you had better get

your eyes checked
or, better still,
your diminished spirit.
The heavens

have no fist,
or wouldn't they have been
shaking it
for a thousand years now,

and even
longer than that,
at the dull, brutish
ways of mankind --

heaven's own
creation?
Instead, such patience!
Such willingness
to let us continue!
To hear,
little by little,
the voices --

only, so far, in
the pockets of the world--
suggesting
the possibilities

of peace?
Keep looking.
Behold, how the fist opens
with invitation.

From: Thirst

obedience

2009-04-05T17:21:00.010-07:00

Obedience
will not suffocate you.

It will break you open,
shatter
that dead shell
you have called living.
It will demand your
(yes your)
presence in territories
unseen
and look to you
for the language
to describe their beauty.

It will birth the shy bird living
silently
inside your being
and make her sing.

wild beauty

2009-03-29T17:56:00.008-07:00

Blooming requires
unselfconscious
exposure. The
fearlessness
that marks the
fragility
of a flower – birthed
upon the coarse face
of an unfeeling world.
Her wilderness
is rife with hope.
She is drunk
with the life of God.

Gethsemane

2009-03-26T23:03:00.008-07:00

One night

you walked

a rock's toss

from your friends' touch.

There, kneeling down, you knew

the weight of separation

of the loneliest.

Darkness'

cold breath.

You knelt down alone

to pray

against the inevitable.

To wait, bear

sorrow unto death:

the fear.

Threatened

with forethought

of rejection

betrayal

death

pain

you cried out!

God-willing, to obey.

The others slept heavily -

the cup remained.

You were crucified in the garden

before taken outside the gate.

Holy One

2009-03-18T20:55:00.011-07:00

Holy One:

who holds this aching cosmos,

I hope

quietly hover

hesitatingly wonder

before your dreadful
beautiful presence

awaiting
broad white wing (Spirit!)

to sweep, gather mightily-

trembling sheep
to Christ
's deep love on earth unfolding.

2009-03-05T22:50:00.012-08:00

Night falls
on our faces
so we close
our hoping eyes
climbing down
to give the weight
of our bodies
back to the earth
once more.
Trying not to remember
day's arduous length when
we earnestly gave the wind
wanting
compensation
for our 'labor.'
And didn't know their names
or
the inconsequential thing
they dreamed of
or needed.

eternity

2009-02-24T17:31:00.005-08:00

There might be
beyond this
dark present unknowing
something
quietly beautiful
waiting
with open hands
past the inconstancy
of existence.
So,
when the last glass
falls and breaks ---
it will not all give way
to
emptiness.
Gentle life will endure,
a seed,
planted.

autumnal dandelions

2009-02-08T19:11:00.008-08:00

I walk through fields
to leave,
hand what is left,
over.
autumnal dandelions turn white
thousand-stranded
when Indian winds
finally call them home.
It reveals meaning a heart
perfectly knows,
in summer
sometimes
it snows.

2009-02-03T22:37:00.017-08:00

A long distance runner once, I loved
the feeling that I was on my way
somewhere, passionate and alone across
landscape and time. Leaving it all behind and pressing
forward into an unknown hope. The beauty of it
was that I was not, in fact, alone at all.
Together we descended into wind and breath.

It wasn't a fool's freedom from pain -
it was fueling movement with ache,
as if arms and legs could paint upon the air, upon
the ground and fields we passed - impressing
upon the world the rhythm
of a beating heart.

Always a circle or
out and back.
We return to the place we left, softly
to gather past's orphaned pieces once again:
a mother lifts her child after rest
love's well springs, out of depths
incomprehensible, afresh.

Can't Go Back Now

2009-01-31T13:37:00.003-08:00

Has there ever been a song that touches you every time you hear it? "Can't Go Back Now" by The Weepies does it for me. and yes - every single time. It means something new each time as well.

The lyrics:

Yesterday, when you were young,
Everything you needed done was done for you.
Now you do it on your own
But you find you're all alone,
What can you do?

You and me walk on
Cause you can't go back now.

You know there will be days when you're so tired that you can't take another step,
The night will have no stars and you'll think you've gone as far as you will ever get

But you and me walk on
Cause you can't go back now
And yeah, yeah, go where you want to go
Be what you want to be,
If you ever turn around, you'll see me.

I can't really say why everybody wishes they were somewhere else
But in the end, the only steps that matter are the ones you take all by yourself

And you and me walk on
Yeah you and me walk on
Cause you can't go back now
Walk on, walk on, walk on
You can't go back now

2009-01-26T00:01:00.008-08:00

miracles hit
jolting the heart
see dragonfly blue
over sun-fired pond.
it startles to waking
with refreshing reprieve --
Grace!
comes in fountains
to water,
bide trial,
and reach.

2009-01-06T20:44:00.004-08:00

memory spins like a pinwheel;
colors stream, in spite of
grip on cool reality.
and - for such love and pain
darkness and glory -
I cannot, I cannot keep
heart from breaking.
I could not hold them, they fell
through cracks in this old
wooden floor of my soul. I
could not say - how could I say -
how can we find the right words to say??
how beautiful are souls -
how we long to dance for hours,
years, in joy's dim light that
clothed us in moments.
I can only pray as they go away
that love will trail them and I
through life's inconstant night.

bald winter moment

2008-12-26T14:06:00.016-08:00

Today I sit on frozen rock
waiting
watching
the white lake of snow spread out
wings gently beneath my feet.
Slowly the cold seeps in. It
keeps me awake. Alive enough to witness
what life would subtly concede.
Today the white arms of winter
hold up the horizon - the world is open,
inviting, free.

This is a window. One of the edges
I am drawn to.
At the edge there is wilderness
and release
the death of concern.
Standing upon this border
one knows at once home's solace
and adventure's beckoning.
A birds eye view of paradox
reality.
Here I breathe,
begin to be.

I am standing here!
It is the edge of my being!
and I am a tree - rooted -
but branches dip, rise, sway
as potent silver winds break
through leaves -
with unrestrained embrace.

It is baptism. It is seasons.
It is what life would cry given
tongue to speak.
But we are pioneers
to whom the task belongs
to discover and believe.

finally...

2008-12-18T22:10:00.004-08:00

After the seas are all cross’d, (as they seem already cross’d)
After the great captains and engineers have accomplish’d their work,
After the noble inventors, after the scientists, the chemist, the geologist, the ethnologist,
Finally comes the poet worthy of that name,
The true son of God shall come singing his songs.

-Walt Whitman
Leaves of Grass

to one and many

2008-12-07T20:32:00.011-08:00

you are a hunter
in the field of your
soul's loneliness.

day after night
after evening after
dawn - endlessly
you are driven on

in search of a harbor
for your cry.
your 'greatness'
hides you - both
disguise and dilemma
- all too oft
betrayer of need.

but, in summer's green embrace,
open up your eyes. see
the shadow of your beloved
draw near
bending down
to touch your face.

not a poem but...

2008-12-05T11:46:00.005-08:00

beautiful -
from Blaise Pascal:

"The Christian's God does not consist merely of a God who is the author of mathematical truths...but the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of Jacob. The God of the Christians is a God of love and consolation: he is a God who fills the soul and heart of those whom he possesses: he is a God who makes them inwardly aware of their wretchedness and his infinite mercy: who united himself with them in the depths of their soul: who fills it with humility, joy, confidence and love: who makes them incapable of having any other end but him."

Also,

"The way of God who disposes all things with gentleness, is to instil religion into our minds with reasoned arguments and into our hearts with grace, but attempting to instil it into hearts and minds with force and threats is to instil not religion but terror."

mercy

2008-11-23T22:37:00.027-08:00

mercy is
deep
as twilight
and as broad
as prairie sky
drop a few coins in her
well and watch
thoughts sink
to new depths
overwhelmed
but gone after given.
all that lives on in the distance
are small copper fires
floating
with occasional
impetuous
eternal glisten.

2008-11-18T19:11:00.010-08:00

some things are received
more soundly
unsaid.
we grate against the void

~~(loss of understanding)~~

that threatens death
upon we who live to know. but,
in the severe movements of silence,
idol gods die.
hearts burn - bear fire -
and grow.

2008-11-18T18:46:00.003-08:00

2008-11-15T23:37:00.009-08:00

winged bird of hope
return to my breast
with gentle song
tarry
within my heart,
build a nest.

2008-11-10T23:37:00.025-08:00

Sabbath has become strange to me.
I rest in corners, clutch at shadows
write poetry on the floor of
library avenues.
Feeling as if I set a table for rest
it would be unwilling come, or
it wouldn't be fresh.
So I gather up scattered
flowers of sleep
into a fragrant bouquet born,
alas, from uneven peace
send up a prayer, set down to hope
til Sabbath return
upon my broken busy world.

2008-10-30T22:51:00.010-07:00

October rain falls with an icy overture
summoning bright leaves
from branches
to stony disintegration
beneath tire and sole.
Eyes fix upon ground which
once were held high.
The weary world wonders
at this last ripple of laughter
gently yielding
to beauty’s rustling murmur.
Though death stands nigh
ankles are blanketed with light.

A response to "Wild Geese"

2008-10-27T15:40:00.016-07:00

I am not able to be good, anyway.
So, I think I may have to walk on my knees
for a hundred miles through the desert,
repenting
(not because I warrant or am
capable of extraordinary suffering)
but because I am called after One
who sought my self-bent despair to relieve.
Whose Love compelled him
to walk a hundred miles through the desert
through the wilderness of fallen
faithless humanity to Calvary,
where the soft animal of his body
was nailed to a tree.

All because he loved what he loved!
the world.
And we loved what we loved,
darkness.

Meanwhile the world goes on.
Unfeeling, unseeing,
As God draws near
having paid the desert's wearisome toll
of reconciling.
So when I hear the wild geese cry – harsh and exciting –
and the beauty of created things encloses about me,
I will listen, allow my imagination to be held and borne
upon the wind of eternal invitation.

Do you think lightly of the riches of His kindness
and tolerance and patience, not knowing
that the kindness of God leads you to repentance?
Romans 2:4

Wild Geese

2008-10-27T15:39:00.001-07:00

by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours,
And I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving
Across the landscapes
Over the prairies and the deep trees,
The mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clear blue air,
Are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
The world offers itself to your imagination,
Calls to you like the wild geese
Harsh and exciting –
Over and over announcing your place in the family of things.

A response to "The Journey"

2008-09-23T18:54:00.044-07:00

It was a wild night
The wind cut - so cold
it froze warm blooded breaths.
I wrapped the red cloak tighter
around me thinking, "Yes it is wretched
but it is better. Ah! how good and sweet
it is - at last - to feel."

Feel what? Something.
Anything real. Anything
other than the dull, heavy drumbeat
of ought's to do and ought's to be,
should have done, should have been.
Something softer, something cooler -
than the fiery agitation endlessly driving
the crowd toward suicidal comparison.

At first it was tempting
to see it as an emptiness
a desert of vast loneliness
(departing).
But further down the road alone I discovered
I was being discovered.
And feeling those hands
Carefully peeling off my masks
touching things buried, long putrid and dead
I gave myself wholly over to
this holy unknown friend.

I was stripped down to my nakedness
but no longer did I feel the icy wind
Possessions melted to nothing but
the edges of eternity before me
did beautifully extend.
And as the night gave way to dawn
my whole being gave birth to song.

A Poem by Mary Oliver

2008-09-23T17:29:00.001-07:00

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save

sky

2008-09-15T21:00:00.009-07:00

The blue sky above me is breaking
into fragments of sun, dark gray, and green,
while I lay with my back upon the grass
looking upward through the trees.
Cracks from branches stretch jaggedly
as if they were jaggedly stretching,
scratching, the insides of me.
There is no method or madness to their beauty
and although they appear broken
they carry life to tender leaves.

Wilderness God*

2008-08-24T21:57:00.032-07:00

It was your idea to take me out of the city,
hedging me in with thorns
so I would not - desperate -
cling to lovers who did not love.

You led me to the unknown

Out of ignorance into wilderness
where my cry no longer was suffocated
under striving, smoke, or steel.

To stand alone before you
to bow, to learn only
that it is You alone I should fear.

To a barren place,
starving me out of compulsion, craving
inner prisons that made me slave to
what the city needs and that upon which it feeds.

I heard an unexpected voice: a Bridegroom!
His presence, faithful, protecting, providing -
Love. speaking tenderly as if to a Bride,
a language fully alien
to my harlotry and the thirsty gods
of a land and people given over
to devouring.

Words came like the wind
A storm all around me
then they came like the rain
cleansing, restoring, remaking
and lastly like the dew
gentle covering of mercy.

You led me to the wilderness
but your love caused it to become a spring.
From former waste of pain,
Rises hope
and I lie down in arms everlasting.

*see Hosea

humility

2008-08-21T21:45:00.012-07:00

Humility, forgotton virtue
forgotton
for we are far gone now, so
high with our own estimation
we cannot even touch
the hem of your garment. Reality.
To come down, to draw near...
First we would have to love our neighbor.
Well, lets be honest, see our neighbor,
and then esteem them for their worth
which is: better than ourselves.
Who is my neighbor?
My brother? No - even my sister?
Really? Come on,
you cannot be serious.
They don't know how to think
and well, they're not all that pretty
and if thats not enough, its clear
they aren't even close to as virtuous
as you or me.
So you, humility, handmaiden
of inner beauty,
remain untouchable and unacceptable,
cinderella sweeping.

gift

2008-08-20T18:57:00.025-07:00

you are small. full of light.
having a seriousness bigger

than a 3-year-old
but an openness that is ever responding
wonder-fully to life.
you are strong, built like your father,
with a gentle spirit,
and a jig in your step, like your mother.
you still have that reservation
i remember from the season i took care of you:
turning from strange voices and too many faces.
and i, ha, also was only too eager
to exchange formalities for that greater wisdom
of love, simplicity, fun, and courageous vulnerability
that you, and every child, keep teaching me.
you speak much more clearly and intelligently
than you did back then.
but...i can't help but be playful,
leaving "education" for a moment, to the wind.
today we laughed, shaking randrops from branches
that splashed on our clothes and faces.
somehow this brief time
profoundly renewed my heart:
a spring watering dry places.

2008-08-05T21:23:00.013-07:00

Please, wade in these waters.

gently

dip toes,

foot, ankle,

knees -

learn to bear the initial icy jolt

that shocks

your independence but touches

deep joy - that is,

warm hope of the soul's refreshment.

allow the plaguing illusion of control

to slip utterly beneath the swift stream's current

and get lost in its enigmatic dimensions of blue.

Go deeper! waist,

stomach,

chest,

neck - deep

enough for your body to give up the heat

of all its striving,

relieved from false demand.

and (finally!) put down thy head. Feel

waters rush over, through,

your face,

eyes, lips,

hair -

and let yourself be carried

below and above the waters

in this one and only stream called,

"the clear merciful love of God."

more wendell berry

2008-07-12T21:42:00.003-07:00

Sabbaths 2002 (Given)

Teach me the work that honors Thy work,

the true economies of goods and words,

to make my arts compatible

with the songs of local birds.

Teach me patience beyond work

and, beyond patience, the blest

Sabbath of Thy unresting love

which lights all things and gives rest.

Sabbaths 1999 (Given)

II.

I dream of a quiet man

who explains nothing and defends

nothing, but only knows

where the rarest wildflowers

are blooming, and who goes,

and finds that he is smiling

not by his own will.

Bookstore poem

2008-07-03T17:24:00.009-07:00

I am drawn to bookstores...

for the company! I suppose.

They are all there,

waiting, as it were,

like long-time friends - ready

for enriching and provocative conversation.

They are gentle, unassuming, as they wait

for me to reach, to touch and open

and wander through their leaves.

Many of them are old.

While I read, I can sense their strength -

more: maturity - from their travels

through life, the world,

and back again.

They smile generous like the sun, to see

their gift unfold to the world, to

my own small but curious heart.

The young ones often pierce me

with bright angles. The rawness of their

emotional insights. They paint in brighter colors

awakening me from too much comfort or sleep

but are lacking the aloe to soothe my fears.

The bookstore exists as a garden of thoughts

bearing both aesthetic and pragmatic fruits

or like a mine, small cave in the side of the earth

where you dig, make diligent search,

delighting to extract gold, precious jewels.

The company here is soft at first, colorful and diverse

like the land in which we live.

They speak in tongues, in mysteries,

in laments, in praises,

they speak the language of humanity

and my soul is thirsty for solace and understanding.

2008-06-30T11:52:00.012-07:00

I think Thoreau was right when he implied
That if you want to live deliberately
you better go to the woods.

We better go to the woods!
or perhaps out to some desert, or garden
maybe not entirely unlike Gesthemane -
in order to bury our willful straying self in silent soil
under leaves of repentance

held deep, in dark earth, but also the arms of Christ’s everlasting forgiveness.
We need to bury our tears there that are falling
heavily to the ground, full with the weight of this world’s pain,
ours and others’ we were never meant to be separate from.
The salt will dissolve in the ground and spread out to the roots of plants
Seasoning their juices, readying for life to come balm for the journey:

recollection of those before who battled will and tears
in aching hope reaching for rest and light,
who are gone, but in joy, us and others await.

We also need to bury there our fears that freeze us.
Kneeling down to the power greater than ourselves
which is burning, like the sun, with the warmth of such love
that alone can (and wills to) thaw us.
And once we are all buried we’ll lose the emptiness that clung to us
And come back, return home more ourselves than when we left.

Life Together

2008-06-19T21:23:00.008-07:00

It is quiet and cool, breath catching

upon the breeze, up! Somewhere

into the high heavens - Somewhere

we feel but cannot see.

It is quiet here. We do not speak.

But our roots gently, slowly, carefully

begin around each other to weave.

We look and breathe out onto the night

stars shine above us like promises

that came as old as Abraham upon this

world and still, brightly stand.

We do not speak. But Something is speaking

and in our silence, we are responding.

A Poem for My Mother

2008-06-12T12:36:00.012-07:00

We only get one mother.
One heartbeat that God chooses
To bring us into being
Beneath.
One voice that shapes us
As we hear her talk, laugh, sing,
Whisper to herself as she walks
Alone among the trees.
And later she became the fruitful tree
Under whose shade we would take refuge
From storms, bullies, or bad dreams.
And her wisdom, vision, inner convictions,
Became the fruit we were so blessed to eat.

I am thankful that God chose you, mom,
To be my mother.
You have given me more than I could dream.
Your down to earth-ness, kind humility,
Gave me the roots I needed
To ground me in wonder
At the gift of life, loved ones,
To tenderly behold and care for,
The world around me filled
with God’s rich and mysterious glory.
Your ability to see, create, and bless
All the beauty around you
Comes from your graciousness
Towards the Creator and every created thing.
Your faith gave me wings.
You believed for the best when waves
Of darkness and confusion were crashing over me.
And I know, in the face of the world’s darkness
that you, too, have weeped.
But always, you always found joy –
And your contagious laughter!!
As many of us so well know, catches
everyone near you up into some kind of
hopeful heavenly glimmer
of delight. A glimpse of that Day
when from hardship and suffering
We shall be delivered.

And one more thing – your strength
Taught me how to fight.
To not give up, to wait for the dawn
Of every night.
For example, with your store, “Back Porch Antiques”
The hours, days and nights, you put in,
Miles you traveled to get that perfect piece,
In the end you worried it wasn’t worth it all,
But what I learned was courage, as you gave
A piece of your heart to the world.

We, your children, were fortunate enough to receive
Your heart in its entirety.
We are grateful
To have listened to your heart steadily beat
To have heard your laughter brightly ring
To have grown under the shadow of your life
Blessed by your example of love and grace.

I love you mom! Happy Birthday!

Denise Levertov (3 poems)

2008-05-31T13:10:00.004-07:00

Variation on a Theme by Rilke

A certain day became a presence to me;

there it was, confronting me -- a sky, air, light:

a being. And before it started to descend

from the height of noon, it leaned over

and struck my shoulder as if with

the flat of a sword, granting me

honor and a task. The day's blow

rang out, metallic--or it was I, a bell awakened,

and what I heard was my whole self

saying and singing what it knew: I can.

The Prayer Plant (Maranta Leuconeura)

The prayer plant must long

for darkness, that it may fold and raise

its many pairs of green hands

to speak at last, in that gesture;

the way a shy believer,

at last in solitude, at last,

with what relief

kneels down to praise You.

Poetics of Faith

'Straight to the point'

can ricochet,

unconvincing.

Circumlocution, analogy,

parable's ambiguities, provide

context, stepping-stones.

Most of the time. And then

the lightning power

amidst these indirections,

of plain

unheralded miracle!

For example,

as if forgetting

to prepare them, He simply

walks on water

toward them, casually--

and impetuous Peter, empowered,

jumps from the boat and rushes

on wave-tip to meet Him--

a few steps, anyway--

(til it occurs to him,

'I can't, this is preposterous'

and Jesus has to grab him,

tumble his weight

back over the gunwale).

Sustaining those light and swift

steps was more than Peter

could manage. Still,

years later,

his toes and insteps, just before sleep,

would remember their passage.

A Wren Flies in Vancouver

2008-05-20T17:00:00.031-07:00

A leaf turns

like a weighty sheaf of paper
chapter of life
over.
part of me could not believe
that winter would ever turn to spring
that life, love, the Dawn
would pour in over those dark hills
of yesterday.

but here are her hands - watch,
they're painting
spreading color out before us
filling our eyes with honest dreams
our souls, our hearts
with her bright heat
as we are called to "come forth!"
to live, play, walk slow, be.

Sabbath Poem

2008-05-11T21:38:00.029-07:00

Rest awhile here, in hallowed spaces.

Here.

Where the sunlight dances

like a sprightly nymph upon

the green brushwood

mingling through afternoon shade.

Itself - dark and gentle.

Safekeeper of what is quiet,

every fear or lonely whisper.

Holder of songs of wait.

Your weary heart

will find refuge.

As you lie down, held

by the light and sight

of an arm-filled sky of trees.

Wendell Berry

2008-04-17T00:49:00.009-07:00

is incredible.

This is a poem by Wendell Berry. It is a favorite poem of one of my friends and has become one of mine too! Read it out loud, and slowly, on the beach (or other nature setting), for the best effect ;) The world needs more WB.

"How to Be a Poet"

(to remind myself)

Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill - more of each
than you have - inspiration
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your work,
doubt their judgment.

Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.

Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.

- Wendell Berry, Given.

2008-04-14T21:00:00.023-07:00

i tremble as i stand on the edges of you.

i have been the wind, since i was a child,

but you - you are a tree.

and your words are like the leaves of autumn

ripe with the wisdom of age,

Flames of beauty

as they fall so easily

from your lips.

having been nourished by that deep

place in you where the God of fire dwells.

i pick them up with my hands.

all around me they begin to sway, float, dance.

O i am humbled by the beauty

of these brothers and sisters,

who combine all that life is, with a smile,

in a kind of comic, majestic, tragic mystery.

church history

2008-04-09T21:33:00.019-07:00

I am walking in these old tracks

leading to some Wild Haven

pressed into ancient hills where

the wind's breath bears

the voices of saints.

They lead me to places most humbly ordinary
where long grasses, sour plums,
and thistles abide.

But once in awhile, they steal me off

to a star strewn height

where I'm blinded by pure
goodness, beauty, or love:
where I touch
the edge of an angel's wing,
fiery white.

Exploring the Artists

2008-04-08T18:47:00.021-07:00

"As I understand the gift of the spirit in art, so I understand prayer...
At their best, both become completely unselfconscious activities; the self-conscious, fragmented person is totally thrown away and integrated in work, and for moments of such work, be it prayer or writing, I know wholeness, and sunside and nightside are no longer divided."

Lately I've been more fascinated by other writers than attempting to write for myself. Fortunately, this is a good thing because as I immerse myself into their hearts and minds and words, I resurface with new creative inspiration! So anyway, I am thinking of posting other voices in addition to my own for awhile. Maybe, if you check this, you were hoping I'd say that a long time ago! ;)

To begin, the quote above is by Madeleine L'Engle, from The Irrational Season, p. 122. I believe prayer, work, art, and love are all things that draw us out of our "fragmented" selves into something greater, a greater prayer, a greater art, a greater work, a greater Love... but what the source or inspiration of these things is, is key. We can have many motivations to do the things above that may be escapist. But when God is our motivation and our inspiration, they become good, beautiful, and blessed. And we, unhindered, discover joy, freedom, and fruitfulness.

Damien Rice - Grey Room Lyrics

2008-03-23T20:42:00.007-07:00

Today I was touched by the lyrics to Damien Rice's song, "Grey Room."
Its kind of a sad song, but not without hope. My pastor gave me a cd
and this song he related to Lent... my favorite stanza is the
"have I still got you" bit, and as we have waited for the Lord during Lent,
Good Friday, and Holy Saturday we remember our longing for
His Presence, our hunger for reunion. And today is Easter Sunday!
Today we celebrate His Resurrection, His victory, His promises fulfilled to us.
The grave is empty, the door to heaven is open - its "opening time."
Music is poetry! I love it....you gotta hear this though, not just read it.

Well I've been here before
Sat on the floor in a grey grey room
Where I stay in all day
I don't eat, but I play with this grey grey food

Desolate, if someone is prayin' then I might break out,
Desolate, even if I scream I can't scream that loud

I'm all alone again
Crawling back home again
Stuck by the phone again

Well I've been here before
Sat on a floor in a grey grey mood
Where I stay up all night
And all that I write is a grey grey tune

So pray for me child, just for a while
That I might break out yeah
Pray for me child
Even a smile would do for now

'Cause I'm all alone again
Crawling back home again
Stuck by the phone again

Have I still got you to be my open door
Have I still got you to be my sandy shore
Have I still got you to cross my bridge in this storm
Have I still got you to keep me warm

If I squeeze my grape and I drink my wine
Coz if I squeeze my grape and I drink my wine
Oh coz nothing is lost, it's just frozen in frost,
And it's opening time, there's no-one in line

But I've still got me to be your open door,
I've still got me to be your sandy shore
I've still got me to cross your bridge in this storm
And I've still got me to keep you warm

Warmer than warm, yeah
Warmer than warm, yeah
Warmer than warm, yeah
Warmer than warm, yeah

2008-02-20T23:39:00.052-08:00

Moments fly with gentle quick about me
Subtle grief harmonizes oncoming melodies.
But my heart is full of blood.

It is beating
through this small and insignificant
tree-body.
Saying:
I must love--run--run--love
another time 'round this track
til lungs burst and limbs give way
(branches break)
in order to give all I have;
breath; will; life;
-O God-
for Your sake.

2008-02-15T12:20:00.024-08:00

my heart bursts like the first bite of an orange
exploding in my chest like that citrus
supernova's delicious turbulence in my mouth.
and in these moments I am unable to think,
sometimes even breathe
mesmerized til this reckless storm passes
and I can crawl back upon my knees
to wait on heaven - painful part -
but my eyes still laugh unable to contain
such bold and blazing hope.

2008-02-11T18:14:00.005-08:00

love underlies this present wilderness
catching weariness with its branches
ocean waves gently bear off heaviness.
dry places are watered with dews heavy drop
on my head making me smile out loud in my heart.
paths that wind and voice occasional near
there is love, though somewhat hidden, here.
it's call hearkens of Spirit, new birth,
life, sisters & brothers, golden worth.
O Morning desire dispel evening's mist --
and in your wake leave your exiles blessed.

2008-02-06T14:49:00.001-08:00

Come once again, thou cool winds
that blow from Calvary!
Wash over this child,
draw her home
to undying streams of mercy.

In my sorrow, Lord, You mingle your tears
In my emptiness, God, Your cries echo in my ears.
In my sin, Lord Jesus, You stretch forth a nail-scarred hand
In my lameness, Holy Spirit, You empower me to stand.

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.

2 Corinthians 1:3-4

Hunter

2008-01-23T23:59:00.001-08:00

I looked to the stars, mid winter's night air
I walked with the pines, wilder fare.
I knelt beside the waters, rocks struck and washed clean.
I placed my hand on green pasture to feel the heartbeat of earth.

Then I heard...

It is in Me. I give it to thee.

Daughter, you're just one more seeker
of what is lost to the many,
but it is not My desire
that it be lost unto thee.

My hands have created that you may loved-be.

Blue and Purple Hues

2007-12-27T12:34:00.002-08:00

Words were always this. Color-drunk waves
Raining, Rolling
Through air breath and sky
Capture a glance of passerby
In wild winged
wonderful flight.

They stole warmth above the tundra,
Tore triumph from ungiving hills,
Danced through darkness in the cavern,
In heavy wood whispered faithfully still.

But wait, soft. heavy worth
trustful eye'd watching for sound

of bell-strung verse

once more, to ring.

echo reaching
beyond the tyrant sea
to receive heart
(a harbor)
peaceful.
singing quietly.
like deep sea diving.
words rang, there they came
to rest and wander
find meaning.

These - a dream were these?

Waves to sandy beach, greeting me--

laughing raspberry and olive green?

Blue and purple hues

this is the song I never wrote

2007-12-20T23:16:00.000-08:00

Landed. With soft thunder
on the cushion of snow and countryside.
It washes with its whiteness, with cold brightness
Words that were muddy, experience unguided.
I sleep,
listen.

Look.

Wait.

Til stress’ yoke is fully broke.
And melted snowflakes roll
down my cheeks.
When heart begins to thaw
it aches.

But Joy remakes.
And Christmas' wished for prayer
for peace quickly is brought to bear.
We rest not alone, but in presence Divine
whereupon muted lips and closed eye
Glory intimate and beautiful shines.

for the Ποιμην

2007-12-19T15:21:00.000-08:00

“Peter”

by Madeleine L'Engle

Lord I love you.
I have tried to feed your sheep.
Shepherds have a lonely job.

I have gone out searching for you
into the tumult of the midnight sky –
the swirling life of stars too many to count,
and have been deafened
by the rush of the wind.
And now you ask me to look within,
away from the vast and echoing sound without.

So I go down and in,
into the deepest, narrowest,
darkest, most brilliant
places of the heart.
I am battered by its beat
throbbing in my veins,
tension, release.
In the small space
between the beats,
the rhythm is yours, not mine,
yours is its time
to keep me here, in time,
in, deeper, deeper,
to the beating of my heart,

So I end where I began
and once again I start
to learn that my disgrace
is ripped, is torn apart,
and mended by your grace.

Sunday Morning

2007-12-16T10:22:00.001-08:00

Sunday morning praises

voices, to God, are raising.
On earth the Holy Spirit amidst
the weak and lowly
blazes!
That with a joyful shout,
exiles might be embraced
transcendence bows down and
profoundly breaks
power of blindness, fear,
all that isolates
God has replaced
doubt with heaven's door:
a Savior, Lamb, and Lord.

pressing in

2007-12-09T22:54:00.000-08:00

peace in clement pieces scattered 'cross the sky
like stardust, making way to heart,
through eyes.
peace poured proliferant in place brimful of prayer
soul bent, aching deep,
desire heavenward.
peace - golden burden gained on heart, mind and hand
living portion reverent glimpse
trace of promised land.

paper-writing prayer

2007-12-03T10:18:00.000-08:00

right now you are, dear poetry,
the only tune i care to sing
anesthetizing other things in me.
although i need to write and think
profound thoughts with profound beauty--
you don't mind my bad grammar
or vocabulary,
as long as truth and meaning
are made visible through thee.
grant me more grace, God,
and make my prose a poetic offering!

communicate

2007-11-25T15:33:00.001-08:00

Stirred if I am inside but not outwardly

expressing soul impressions, will wind still

bear sweet message one was born to blaze?

Or is it only just to join tongue and lung and breath

to air: red splash on blue water sail

rising on amber wing of sun.

Speaking of,

can a dream live amidst earth and dust

and will one day words link up revealing

a radiant jigsaw castle between us?

Maybe I could wait 'til words bend down

meeting, lowly, my own - unwilling to come out,

nor cry out, in the darkness, blind, careless,

or rash; hoping for the best.

Yet for hope's sake a word I'll cast

like water's bread remaining faithful to

the light and truth of bridges,

I believe from eternity are built.

nap sonnet

2007-11-21T12:10:00.001-08:00

this poem is dedicated to naps everywhere.

I almost wrote you an ode
but what I really mean to say is, 'hello!'
(I guess I got confused -
like the time I said "chillow.")*
Because when sleep is lessened
thanks to a three hour time change
you alone can come to my rescue
making busy days more restful.
So I finally learned your value
forgotten since I was about two
because everyday this week
you've given me what I need!

*on a trip to nyc my sis & i got into an awkward conversation with a bellman who invited himself to our thanksgiving dinner. when he offered to bring a chair or a pillow to sit on, i responded, a few seconds later, with: yeah, just bring a chillow! to say the least it didn't help the awkwardness of the situation, but to say the most, i think he thought i was making a joke so he laughed. yeah, thats exactly what i intended to do.

Hebrews 4:15-16

2007-11-18T15:01:00.000-08:00

There is no healing

apart from the holiness of God.
nor hope,
apart from His mercy.
nor love,
apart from His friendship.
nor salvation,
apart from His blood.
Rejoice!
for He is not far from you!
He is not alien
to your humanity
nor to your infirmity.
~
For we do not have a high priest
who is unable to empathize
with our weaknesses,
but we have one who
has been tempted
in every way, just as we are—
yet he did not sin.
Let us then with confidence
draw near to the throne of grace,
that we may receive mercy
and find grace to help
in time of need.

brief exodus

2007-11-17T00:29:00.001-08:00

beauty bore the day when november rain waited
behind breathtaking clouds that separated pain
from sky like the red sea - upon us daylight streams
plundering men's faces from sadness and grayness.
and for reasons not fully understood comes
grieving & sorrow for hurts and wrongs i've done
and though seeking to cease, tearful do.
yet thankful songs from the inside also raise
thundering, lightning, darkness-breaking, praise.

2007-11-09T18:38:00.001-08:00

Love.

agape
phileo
eros
affectio
charity
storge
all that i know
can be summed up in
some haunting feeling
unletting of me
to go. not because of control.
'cause i fell into an ocean and walking
steps feel so easy.
yet fearful - like a haunting.
what sort of thing does this?
cartwheeling through life
and i'm upside down crying
for the reasons.
but love
like a jewel is not forthcoming
but like miracles,
exists
with God~
Who makes us right side up
turning turvy straight unto Himself
souls learning death
in order to know love
and therefore live
by only one profound meeting
a Lord upon a Tree
even he'll see
what scattered love-pieces
when freedom giving
and receiving
have meant
to me.
O Lord, how i
need
trust
long for
& love
Thee.