for S.

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

"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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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.