Poetry

exhale

If I throw out these words, will you arrange them?

If I scour these flakes off my thoughts, will you x-ray them?

Am I lazy, or just tired? So tired

I want this pain psychosomaticly fired. You’re fired. 

It’s time to find

the coloured pencils again,

and I want those ones

with the erasers on the end.

Is that a thing?

It should be. 

 

But maybe, instead,

a soft, downy bed,

and catholicons that rhyme,

making perfect the climb

out from cellular breaths,

releasing those deaths

that long to be free.

 

(Good night ❤)

 

 

Standard
Christian, Poetry

what are the words for mothers’ day? (revisited as a Christmas meditation)

a day that’s already bled in
(365 times Hallmark)
to our psyches’ movement
through mountained plains

perpetual translating
of the countenanced refrains
that echo
after birth.

The depth obfuscated, unsung
fully,
we play punctiliously with undone
really
and the cardium layers hold hands
tightly
tremoring with the ache
of a thousand forms.

And there’s no way to finish these lines
kaleidoscoped mystery of a Child’s eyes…

Standard
personal, Poetry

what are the words for mothers’ day?

ponders myself

a day that’s already bled in
(365 times Hallmark)
to our psyches’ movement
through mountained plains

perpetual translating
of the countenanced refrains
that echo
after birth.

The depth obfuscated, unsung
fully,
we play punctiliously with undone
really
and the cardium layers hold hands
tightly
tremoring with the ache
of a thousand forms.

For nothing is what it seams
we wake from wrongly so/ewn dreams
in that cold sweat of generations
we honour with strange venerations
those undeserving.

And there’s no way to finish these lines
kaleidoscoped mystery of a child’s eyes…

 

IMG_20170515_141250_588

My beautiful mother in the 60s before she was married. Always loving on everyone. One of my biggest regrets was never recording her angelic singing voice. She won’t let me now! We’ll see…

 

Standard
Christian, personal, Poetry

onominapia 137

My soul in sympathy

to those expressing grief –

I marvel at the articulation

of WordPress poets

who graciously lavish beauty

beyond horizons.

But all I can do

is exhale

the outline of a sigh,

knowing they will fill it

with words lit by transcendence

and an ancient promise,

because my own soul is heavy,

and this snow falls in

like the sighing watch of the night…

Romans 8:26

~

photo: Chase Miller

 

prayer

Aside
Christian, personal, Poetry

hikikomori

I had the most interesting conversation with a dear, elderly friend recently. Every time I do, it makes me lament even more how our culture doesn’t value the wisdom of the elderly. There are times when I truly grieve over stories lost forever.

We talked about the fear of man…

the fear of God…

the misunderstanding of the fear of God and how radically it is exacerbated by the growing fear of other humans, the context being, that we believe humans were created in God’s image.

The astonishing kindness of anonymous bloggers, their anonymity injecting poignancy straight into my veins.

I told him about the phenomenon of hikikomori which fascinated him, but he immediately responded with words straight from his mature, listening heart, ‘no wonder people are afraid of God. We are forever doomed to create him in our image…’ or something to that affect. Ugh, my awful memory does not do him justice.

And this post does not do this issue justice. but I want to get in the habit of writing more regularly so this will have to do for now.

 

Standard
Christian, prose

saudade

alex-at-maslins-2015-1
It’s been a word on my mind for years. Well, not the word, actually. Because I don’t speak Portuguese. (And in case you don’t either: saudade)

But we all know its colours and its scents and its sounds. We all know where to go to find its vividestness.  Perhaps, some kind of closet…

(And we all wish it were a word in English, because, I mean, Saudade!) 

One of the things I love about CS Lewis…he can take a heartwrenching word like this one and give it resolution. Not by his own invention of course, but in his descriptions of Christ realities – whether he’s taking it to another heavenly/”far-off country”/Christ longing level in the Narnia series, (hidden in a closet, no less) …or in brilliant descriptions like this one The inconsolable secret.

I so love the word. I’d love to honour it in a poem. But I can’t. I’ve tried. I blame it on everything but my writing skills. And the experts tell us that if you try and it’s too hard, then you should give up… um, is this decaf?

Besides, as much as I love the truth in negative spaces, and torturing myself with it… I much prefer what Lewis has done…you know, reminding us of what Christ has done, is doing, will do: the consolable longing…

(*Note to self: I seriously need to learn another language…
*Note to you: I may still attempt the poem…just as a warm-up, there is this: nepenthe of nepenthes)

Ephesians 5:31,32

Photo credit: my husband

Standard
Christian, Poetry

nepenthe of nepenthes

Compelled to her feet
He reminded her of the Garden.
It kept her walking…

Breathed to her healing
the Leaves’ Scent from the Garden.
She exhaled
running

to Light
piercing through dimensions
outlining her shape

the distant memory of tears
welling up
and spilling
on the River drenched Fruit.

She was flying …

the-light-the-light

 Gen 2:7-9
Ezekiel 47:12
Psalm 34:18
Luke 10:33-35
John 19:34
Rev 22:1,2
Isaiah 40:31

Photo credit: Chase Miller

Standard