Christian Poetry -181

 Torn

A gift is everything when you're young, it's the meaning of love.
Not the paper and ribbon, or the tearing open,
but the ingestion of the offering, ravenous for connection
once you're too big for anyone's lap.

Not the paper and ribbon, or the tearing open,
leaving crumpled works of art inside out, flayed.
Once you're too big for anyone's lap,
your spot on the couch is like a hair shirt.

Leaving crumpled works of art inside out, flayed
like dreams of entwined limbs, of losing yourself, eyes shut.
Your spot on the couch is like a hair shirt.
The bed beckons, yawns, offers counterfeit gifts.

Like dreams of entwined limbs, of losing yourself, eyes shut
away from innocence, away from purity.
The bed beckons, yawns, offers counterfeit gifts
leaving you stripped, torn like paper.

Away from innocence, away from purity
you run, and only God's lap will cradle the shame
leaving you stripped, torn like paper,
a crumpled work of art, waiting.

You run, and only God's lap will cradle the shame.
Nestle deep, you with your shut eyes, he sees you,
a crumpled work of art waiting.
His gift is everything, it's the meaning of love.

Christian Poetry -180

Dry Faith

This ambivalence of my heart
is the African savanna.
It's the dry season: still and expansive.
Dull shapes shift in the periphery
like elephants, slow and gray,
reminding me there is other life.
Observation is enough now.

The binoculars are left behind,
jettisoned somewhere along the way.
I pretend they bounced out of the Jeep
during my tortuous drive
and blame it on the wild terrain.
But I remember: I flung them out.

I want to view the panorama with limited sight.
I choose impersonal dome of sky and
blanketing golden haze.
I don't want to see this much of life:
the muscled coil of predators,
the resigned eyes of prey.

The banyans, scattered like flung boulders
resting with heavy hunched shoulders
shelter old miracles I can no longer see.
Dendritic altar stones
each with a story of faith to tell.
If I answer their call to intimacy,
I could own my memories.

This distance comforts like a spell now,
A spiritual sleep potion.
For faith
(no—the need for it)
has kept me awake so many nights.
I want to sleep like the tigers:
Always forgetting.
Yesterday's blood in the grass does not haunt them.

But my spirit craves an anchor, not this lullaby.
It needs a reminder of truth
now more than ever on this arid plain.
There is not enough water in this season
for growing rebuttals to my disillusionment.

In the quiet I hear my boots
swishing over the grass of the veldt
toward a memory, a retelling of my own story.
I feel it lie down under my tread like a sacrifice
and sigh with knowing
as I close the distance.

Christian Poetry -179

Sonnet 1 (Again You Search Me)

Again you search me with your gentle talk
To find my passioned heart that must be hid.
Be not surprised when, answering, I balk
And cover love with anecdotes instead.

For those things hid were once like angels' wings
That soared without a thought of what could bend
Love's brightness into subtler, darker things
And bring a young heart's soaring to an end.

This grace-filled love: a sky our God has made,
Surprises me with stirring of old wings.
Unfolded with them, fears I can't evade;
I soon imagine shadows lengthening.

If you do love me, know you also own
The darker skies these tattered wings have flown.

Christian Poetry -178

If I Had Been Mary

I would have fallen, taken up the dust
In my helpless palms, and ground it into
My skin, the hollows of my eyes, my breast
At least until I also bled, and then more.
I would have sunk slowly down a dirty wall
Watching the stones pass upward under my hands.
Tried to scratch a hole into the dust
Where the wall met the ground and my body curled.
Pulled the wall down to cover me,
Groaned with gritted teeth unto choking,
Fisted my matted hair
And not risen.

Christian Poetry -177

Walking Out

The rocks molded by your hand
sigh out beauty like psalms.
Brown-gray roots at my feet
hard as the law
are arrows to a deeper call.
Razor edged peaks
divide your truth among clouds.

Some call this a cathedral
a note "God was here"
written in a secret alignment
of pine needles
or boulders seen from the air.
And carnal lovers claim to find
You here
projecting You
as a thing to be found
or a feeling.

But the rocks don't beg for grace
as they crumble.
Trees sip at the light above
and suck deep from dark below
too serene for spiritual paradox.
Mountains stumble through the valley
never dreaming of heaven.
Only my dusty soul searches
outside the comfort of Eden

My traitorous roots
already tucked below in the cool
"It's so green here, stay."
They sing to my limbs to become like them,
anchored, secure,
at home in darkness.
Another oasis in the God-mirage
as I follow ancient footsteps
to the desert.

Nearing the gate
I know ravens will be waiting
black and harsh for those who don't recognize
answers and promises.
Behind me the trees still whisper
a siren song of beauty
content just to be within the verdant walls.

Christian Poetry -176

More Than One Golden Idol

Stone accusations carried down by Moses
Numbering the laws for bawdy rebels
Straight from God with squint and pointed finger.
Those ruffians had it coming.
No one looks at Aaron, tattle-tales
On the brother who collected gold,
Gathered earrings and whatever shone
On the suggestion of discontents.

Whether they were mad, or bored, or spent
With waiting, grumbling never melted gold.
Aaron hammered, muscled out that calf
To please a crowd of shuffling doubters.
And then there was that altar. Never mind,
All the guilt lay on the dancing fray
As brother served them up, saying
"You know how prone these people are to evil."

Christian Poetry -175

A Letter To the Girl I Was

What you need to know is this:
Faith is not an elegant affair.
Not fingered like a string of pearls, or
Slipped into like silk.

If I told you it was not a walk,
But a falling, over and over (and over)
And a needing to call for help
Would you believe it?

Oh, it is true, God will give comfort.
Look it up in second Corinthians.
He comforts his children in all their troubles
And will comfort you in your time, too.

But (silly girl) do not pray for faith,
For life is uncertain in any case
And folly is often mistaken for courage
By the innocent. Take my word for it.

Pray for this, since you won't be dissuaded:
That the stones in the pit of your stomach
And the lumps in your throat
Will be strung with his comfort like pearls.

Pray for this, when the time comes:
That your fractured, frozen heart
Will be cloaked with discernment
And bundled in comfort as you heal.

And thank him as I do, when you've come to this place.
For this crude string of stones, this heavy old blanket,
And the faith that has come from calling out
Over and over
(and over)
They are the answers
To all your innocent prayers.

Christian Poetry -174

New Potatoes

With a weary, routine five o'clock swing
of the hoe, Uncle unearths the Idahos.
They roll brown down broke-open red clay hills.
It is like Easter
to me, five years old.
Just like empty graves
with Life breaking free from the ground.
"Dig some more, Uncle," I plead.
"That's enough for today," he says.
But it isn't enough for me.
"More miracles, please,"
my voice trails his hunching
shoulders covered with red dust.

Christian Poetry -173

From Milk to Meat with Trepidation

It is my hope that if I stare up the robes of the disciples long enough they will deliver a surprise and I shall find a woman under one of them.

Then…

I would be certain; “leave your soup ladle” wasn’t any harder to say
to a mother-in-law than “leave your nets” to a fisherman.
I would know; it was just an oversight that
invitations to tax collectors were “‘Come’ follow me”
and commands to adulteresses were “‘Go’ sin no more”.
I wouldn’t worry about the mindset of a man
that would attempt to walk on water
but refuse to sit with one that bleeds rivers.
I wouldn’t wonder if it was easier to raise Lazarus from his grave
than to liberate Martha from her kitchen.
I would stop asking why a Roman Centurion was praised
for his faith, requesting blessings on his child
while a foreign woman seeking the same was called a dog
I would not question why Judas a brother-of-betrayal
was chosen when Mary a faithful sister stood longingly at her gate
Wouldn’t even mind not finding my own woman pattern
in the array of whores and cooks and virgins
wouldn’t care so much that I’m a wife like Peter’s
not worth mentioning.
I would reject the thought that maybe, the “bride” is made of men
and I might end up in the kitchen doing dishes
at a same-sex marriage feast.
I would look at my hands and not see an apple.

Christian Poetry -172

Faith and Doubt at Counterpoint

I trip on stones in a parched wilderness and cry
“Turn them to bread, people will flock like sheep
their obedience for sale.”
A Real God wouldn’t miss this holy ground.
A Real God would bake bread serve it with butter
would not call it sin when the crime is hunger.
There is certainty in bread.
There is certainty in a God that can produce it
fresh from the oven baked like your mother’s.
I choose the bread then throw it away
fed and burped I need not only to live
but to have something to live for.
There is more than bread.

I climb the church steeple and cry
“Jump! Hear them shriek doctor, watch them dial lawyers.
Worship is for sale at each testing site.”
I jump anyway.
A Real God would be right there on the heels
of my hysterical echoes.
A Real God would wash my wounds, tape my chest,
wrap all my damage before it is found out.
I would not have to look for some Word to save my life.
I would not lie bargaining for a miracle
tempted to die just to breathe and sleep.
There will be no enslavement by miracle.

I think through this glass darkly but I see clearly
I see the document and the pen “To own the world, sign here.”
You will not wear Caesar’s purple, will not
disguise justice in a toga and a meter of royal silk.
I sign where you will not and tour
through Europe, fly from Hong Kong to Mexico
all their temptations are ready for me.
You can have your elect if they wait for you
I’ll join the millions.
A Real God wouldn’t put up with that.
A Real God would pump a few rounds into me
for wearing that T-shirt,
“If God doesn’t come soon, I will”
There will be no sacrifice of freedom.

I find there is a God that remains God
even when my Real God disintegrates.
Doubt warns me to hold silent
I will receive no meal, magic or miracle
only the burden of free choice and mystery.
It is through courage Faith is earned.

Christian Poetry -171

How Abram and I Moved From Ur

               Ur, an opulent strawberry field
               rooted in Babylon
               We, mere seeds of contentment
               in the pre-dawn

Saffron fingers caressed laden stems
massaged dewy-secrets
the day star demanded succulence,
fresh fruit in its burning basket.
Tender vines sun-stroked
sought refuge under leaf shadow.
               We green and afraid of its hunger
               clung tightly to familiar flesh
               beneath a juice stained sky.

Heat, a phoenix, swelled in power
searched its carnage
devoured limp red carcasses.
We, embryonic sheep in wolf-guise
bared black seed fangs
under sun's dentures.
               Became cursed irritants,
               spit out into spirit wind
               destined for holier ground.

Satiated-sun, now throne-high
mocked us in garish greens,
challenged storm-scrolls of royal velvet.
Immersed in God-defying ambition
it dismissed the idea of covenants
under greater authority.
               Seed-comatose we felt the darkness
               draw close, eclipse the usurper,
               rain down hope and power.

Awakened to the promise
of a milk-n-honey adventure
we clung tenaciously to goat skins
were borne along the desert's edge.
We laid our first fruits
on altars of sacrifice
under the oaks of Mamre.

Christian Poetry -170

…and Jesus was baptized
   (Matthew 3:13–14)

why
did he stand
in that Jordan River
if he was fully God
why
didn't he stay
on the dry riverbank
present and accounted for
a dense and nuclear loneliness



instead like an ordinary person
he stepped forward
against John's counsel
in need of conviction or a sign
why
is there more fear than relief

when the truth
descends    
do I not want him

fully man

do I wish he stayed

clearly delineated God

waiting

letting doubts rise

in muddied waters
with the rest


do I push him ashore
not want him quite so close

Christian Poetry -169

In a Civilized Society an Adulteress Isn’t Stoned

She is taken inside the city gates
to a cavern of the hallowed
and fixed, legally and properly
                    under rubber-glove treatment
                    her fruit-stone is removed
                    —a pip, flesh and juice-slippery
                    that will never be rocked to sleep
                    sterilized-silence decrees
                    its beginning and end
                    will not be engraved.

She is granted three wishes
—‘the’ pill or needle—a widened license to practice
—a crypt for her label and shame
                    rejection makes its gravel bed
                    in a pelvic nest below her heart
                    stone-faced she turns from newborn cry
                    broken by lovers ‘not-interested’
                    —skipped gemstones leave bare fingers
                    and widening ripples on amniotic waters.

She is stonewalled by her sisters
with fruit in the melons of their belly
HIV and genetic warts not being table conversation
                    nor the trade she plies
                    with their bed-rocked spouses
                    mineral deposits pour down her legs
                    in a monthly cycle of no sons
                    her womb a marketplace
                    of peril and liquidation.

                    sorrow leaves through her crevices
                    molten lava erupts and scalds
                    she hardens merciless,
                    an igneous solid
                    her metamorphic meat
                    a cold marble slab

She is the granite weight
of a society
that prides itself on being
civilized; beyond the age of stoning.

Christian Poetry -168

April Winter

Wire-strung words transmit requests for prayer.
The assassin returns, aims, strikes vulnerability,
recalls your mother caught in the crosshairs,
sights daughter pain across soft milk flesh
targets an inheritance the size of a plum.

Telephone sadness flat frozen words-hang.
I melt them in outrage.
We're the same age.
What is plum-sized? Metastasized?
Is it life-sized or death-sized?
How dare this sniper stake out these hills
hide landmines along lymph-routes
to your song-caves below?
How will you conceal scars or disguise flat notes
of half-breasted hope?
What do you ask of me in this pole-to-pole silence?
Should I full of doubt, challenge this skilled marksman?
I'd rather you request that I train as a spy,
wear camouflage, search the net for cures and surgeons.
Instead you desire my faith,
will me to stand out-stretched
between you and our arsenal of weaponry.
I allow my sobs and syllables
to become audible whispers on your behalf,

Gently I cradle your words
hand-held cellular proof
prayer has twisted into melody lines
engraved in tissue its measure of praise.

Christian Poetry -167

Endgame

Self is a strange enemy.
She eats grapes between the sheets,
setting my teeth on edge. Often enough
I could have snuffed her out, appeased hostile forces
with her blood. She was weak then
and there were plenty of takers.
Love begged me for her life.

                                             What does he know?
                                             He doesn't have to put up with me.

I've heard you can't properly kill a baby Self anyway.
She'll eat the bullet and mutate,
burrow into bunkers you didn't know were there.
She'll suck your whole house underground,
take jealous potshots at all your guests
and booby-trap Love.
You'll never get rid of her.

                                             He scares me! Calls me his little grain of wheat.
                                             What's he up to?

"Let her skin a knee," Love said, gone all avuncular,
"give her room to hone her edge, nerve desire." But I knew,
one day when she was strong her life would be required of me.
I'd be the enemy of my past.
She moved back home.
I was suspicious, but she rubbed my feet, brewed tea,
and paid the mortgage. She even got along with Love.

                                             Let's fix up the Coach House for him,
                                             scent it with gardenia, warm it with melting beeswax.

She settled him in with cushions and footstool, posted visitation hours,
and came back home. Then Self sat me down with a schedule
of Good Works and Important Causes,
and changed the lock on the door.
She'd hid a gauntlet in the paperwork,
and one beneath Love's cushion.
From kitchen and Coach House the battle was joined.

                                             No, I haven't heard from him.
                                             It seems it's just the two of us. More tea?

I spilled it down the sink and seized the key.
She grew tempting-sharp and slender before my eyes,
gleamed to the hilt, and fit my hand for Works and Causes;
was what Love had waited for
but liked herself better;
then hid from me,
afraid I would blunt her edge.

                                             Silence.

I'd have happily run Self through but she was the rapier:
glinting spine of steel and too interior to kill.
I hoped Love would take me in without her,
but the Coach House is empty.
Muffled sounds of combat beg the query:
will he kill my enemy or does he love her more than me?
Self---dazzled and soft---must've heard my heart pound:

                                             He's peeling grapes for me
                                             here between the sheets.

I can taste them in a dream, sweet as peace,
pressed to my tongue warm from the vine,
round as mystery
and juicy with life.
I sleep where strife dissolves
in a silken fog of whispers,
and I awake there gleaming, fit to his hand.

Christian Poetry -166

Looking for the Lamb

She's looking, looking for the Lamb, my Son.
The thicket-ram, the Pesach blood declare
the lover We betook ourselves to spare
expects You: grieves, pines for the heart she's won.
She's waiting, waiting for the Word to stun
silence long endured, leap down from his lair,
speak comfort to his bride, her burden share:
taste her bitterness. Go, My Glory---run!

Ah Father, my delight's to speak your heart!
Your sore creation aches within Me, pleads
till Truth untie the lie tied at the start.
I run! Your Word made Flesh, your Mercy speeds
to soothe, to woo this bride, the lie outsmart,
as Flesh made Lamb takes on her wound and bleeds.

Christian Poetry -165

Many Mansions
(John 14: 2–3)

Don't listen to me, Lord,
when I slump, hungry, outside your door
and beg for You like a lovesick girl.
Don't take me at my word and draw me,
gasping for thinner joy,
over this new threshold.

It's my will You want,
a drink from that fresh running stream: my freedom.
I don't begrudge, but owe You that,
and want so much to grasp and hand it over
in quantum leap, like angel, once for all.
But quick and slippery as it is, I leave You thirsting.

Where are You, Jesus Christ, gone on ahead into the dark again?
I was at home, aglow back there. Wasn't that the place prepared by You?
Why quit me while I sleep so in your hand
to steal away behind this other door?
You drive that soundless word of yours like some sleek nail into wood.
It strikes my heart: "Follow Me!" and I am good for nothing else.

But fit for You?
I am not cured and ready, even ready for the cure.
I pick at my scars, favor my limp, sleep and awaken
(now that You have put me down) unsure and unsound.
Turn me away; You have mistaken me.
No, wait! "Burn me today or burn me later"?

Take me many mansions deep and deeper, Lord,
where eye is blind and darkened
by the fire of your unseen glories.
You are many mansions deep, O God,
the first of which are purgatories.
Hear me, hush me Lord-—a beggar at your door.

Christian Poetry -164

Call Out of Exile

Come home!

I have not cast you off, my vagabond.
It is I who have borne you from your birth,
and to gray hairs I will carry you.
Why then must I seek you among foreign flocks,
and through caravans of imposters cry out your name?
Have I wearied you with tending, that you wither far from Me?
Is the tent of my Name too threadbare to enter,
that you do not call upon Me?
Look up! Look up, my poor one! Where have you fallen?
I come wounded to bind you up, thirsty to refresh you.

Come in!

Don't be a stranger to your Father's feast. It is I who Host you,
I, who crush the wheat and press the oil. It is I who mix my wines.
How long will you linger by half, little sister?
Here, I send out your brother with meat for your mind.
Open and taste! See the passage I make for you,
the ground I've leveled by the weight of my waiting?
Arise and come! Put on again your everyday jewels that blaze
with the light from my hearth, and come with Me to the kitchen.
Let me tie your apron for the work at hand.

Come here!

Have I held my peace too long, restrained Myself past the measure
of your freedom? You cup your will like a brazier for Me.
No more will your memories shame you, my little one,
nor fear alarm, nor doubt cry out, "Where is your God?"
One look at you, and the fury of my Love is stirred up against them.
I make them tinder to kindle your sparkle,
and a sweet-smelling smoke to console you.
I am a Man of War for you, an Army of Love;
and I am the wakeful Governor of your peace.

Come closer!

How have I not noticed that gleam in your eye?
What numb thirst is sealed up in you against all taking-by-surprise,
that I may come and slake it? what delights concealed there
that I might relish, should you return the favor and I be taken too?
Stay with Me a moment in the parlor. Don't dart away
to peek at Me over your books and prayers.
Promises I whispered long ago into your secret ear
are kept here in this ivory box under the hidden stair
for just such a time as this. Open it!

                                the whole fruit from tender buds,
                                poetry in foreign tongues,
                                dancing lessons,
                                banquet graces,
                                the end from the beginning

Promises I made to you in a fit of love when you were young
now come to term and seek the light.
Will you join your poor Partner in the garden now
that He may keep his word to you? Let's dance!
Every move a metaphor—restrained, oblique—a gloved touch
I keep in custody till you awake
and I can take you to the edge of light.
There forget the limits of desire
when my glove has touched your craving
and you awake past day and into night.
Hold still, my love, hold still when you awake past day and into night.

Christian Poetry -163

 Tree Jazz

I used to sing songs to my tree.
I would make them up as I went along
like jazz players do, like Miles Davis did.
Swing my body around the Dogwood
trunk and belt: bare-footed day
climb to the top: the clouds are just my arm away
jump to a limb swing
                               monstrously
                                                   down: let me feel the rushing wind!

These aren't the real words to my songs.
I can't remember them.
And now that I have gotten so good at planning,
scheduling and memorizing beats and measures—the tree jazz
has faded into classical acuteness and individual picks of
high-strung strings creating predestined melodies
fervently practiced to prevent failure at all costs.
Even at the cost of not being able to
sing anymore.

Christian Poetry -162

Silver Dove

Silver dove
Weave ma a halo
With your wings
Above my head.
Silver dove
Spread me a table,
Bring the grain
To make my bread.

Call my friends
To share the banquet
Where we break
The bread of love.
As we drink
The wine of healing,
Spread your wings
Dear silver dove.

Christian Poetry -161

One In a Hundred

What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it? And when he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing. Luke 15:4,5

Like the pulse of the metronome
she falls soft into the cadence
of an undulating hip,
allowing the tick and tempo
to guide her.
With glazed-over eyes
she peers in the mirror
recalling five o'clock shadows
milling her cornflower cheeks
to dust—
leaving the chaff for the wind.
She knows hard weathered hands,
and the swollen grate
at the arch of her back.
Sweat covers her
like a membrane,
crushing her chest.
Life grinds between her teeth.
She is a lamb
captured in thorns,
shorn of her warmest parts
which lie heaped
in corners of her.
Soft bleats score the night air,
woeful sighs blister the wind
in rapid call
to the Shepherd.
He pricks His ear
and races swift-footed,
to wrest her from the snare.
Rejoicing, and with easy grace
He gathers her up
round His shoulder.

Christian Poetry -160

Hard Blessings

Hard blessings remain in men
when softer grace
is soon forgot.
They are the berry rich,
found beneath the thorn.
Like holding onto dying hands,
feeling the fainted step of the wrist
and the warmth of the palm
all in one breath.

Hard blessings are best.
More remembered than softer grace
more coveted.
Like walking upright,
on broken limbs.

Hard blessings
are an unguent, unseen balm
that grinds the faith
into a wondrous golden web.
And they remain in men
when softer grace
is soon forgot.

Christian Poetry -159

Grace

Within my core
Lie dead leaves,
Worthless cresson pulp,
Frail fallen bits
Burnished with grumose tears.
Het up winds
Mound them in corners of me
Where they cling hard—
And meld with my bones.
Grace descends easy—
Gliding inward,
And crimps me close around,
With a snowy mantle—
Clean,
Pristine
Imparting warm
Gratuitous promise,
Of Endless Spring!

Christian Poetry -158

The Pines

I come down
To the quiet place,
My hushed cathedral,
Secluded beneath the pines
Where silent boughs
Let me rest.
I see the sun stretch
Golden ropes,
Tying back the limbs
Of old giants,
Trying to reach me.
The pines heave their incense,
The grass moves in whispers
Revealing muted storms ahead.
Rough wood scuffs
The chanting zephyr,
Soft rains drip down
Their jagged edge,
Like sacred streams of sweat,
Melting me to moss.
They hear my echoes,
My prayer.

Christian Poetry -157

A Fountain in Jerusalem

Silver fruit
Of a hillside spring
Gathered from mossy cachements
By this clay pipe
Fall free
For seconds only.

Water drops,
More than a trickle,
Sweet and cold,
Chatter
Breeze-blown into
A stone bowl.

Stone bowl,
Perhaps Roman,
Worn smooth by
Countless elbows
Resting
In the day's heat,

Amber pool,
Where children splash
And some say
Jesus
Bathed his feet,
Is full again.

Christian Poetry -156

Something Beautiful

Write something beautiful, she said

write how the red fox shines
standing on the river bank in the morning sun
luscious in fur against late winter's
granular snow and bitter wind

Write about the water wheel
broken at the old mill
frozen in ice
wooden flume empty
but for last year's golden poplar
and red maple leaves
pasted at constellated intervals
by melting snow and wind
on black winter-soaked wood

Yes, nearby a brook surely mumbles
to herself in dreams under ice

A solitary junco flits twig to twig
syncopated peeping in the underbrush

Write about how far away
sun-sails floated by wind-mills
slowly turning
cast cross shadows East
distant bicycles crawl home
along windy canals
past fields where tulips blow
and cattle low

Write about how
somewhere sure as the setting red sun
an apartment tower is built by One
that convulsions of planet
or malevolent beast
can never topple down
nor fire burn
safe for home and bed

Something beautiful, she said.

Christian Poetry -155

This Evening

This evening
I picked ripe,
red, raspberries
   in a gentle summer rain.

The hay was new-mown
and baled in fields,
golden green,
gently rolling
hillock by hillock
down from my raspberry
   bordered garden

to where silent spruce
and tall cottonwoods
stood dripping in rows,
trailing up,
like tired swimmers
from the river,
the clear, swift flowing,
   salmon swollen river.

And gentle rain fell.
I picked
ripe, red, raspberries
   in the rain.

Somewhere, they say,
   is a drought,
somewhere a war,
somewhere,
   a rout,
somewhere, they say,
children are dying,
   I know nothing about.

Could I be allowed
this gift tonight:
the deepening twilight,
the red raspberries
   I picked ripe,
   in this gentle,
      summer rain?

Christian Poetry -154

Monsters and Ghosts

We play a round of Patty Cake,
her fingers dwarfed by mine.
Cat's Cradle erupts in claps of joy,
surprise in her smile.

Together we search for monsters
in closets and under the bed—
'til night waltzes circles around us,
dances me back to my internship:

           to a child of a woman,
           face eclipsed by draped knees,
           ebony skin, pink through the speculum,
           scarlet in the surgical basin.

           My mentor whispers: Hold the curette
           like an artist's brush, the razor bristles
           slicing down to muscle. Scrape.
           Feel the grating resistance. Scrape.

           Then a tiny hand emerges, nails painted
           with blood, fingers clutching
           the teeth of the cold curette and I learn
           how some stains never wash clean.

Tender palms cradle my stubble,
tremble like the voice in my ear:
Daddy! Daddy! I can't sleep.
Our fears are left unsaid—

muted by moans in the closet,
monsters shuffling under the bed.

Christian Poetry -153

Wine and Roses

Even as you spent yourself on this ungrateful top
It had the gall to keep spinning
Flinging the ocean at skiffs and fishing towns
Upsetting boats and local economies
While cruelty crept across the human face
Like a shadow across a rock
And what with the sun beating down
Day after day
And the moon at night
Some took up the skeptic's cloak
And forged doubt into daggers
Meant only for the back
Of the One who found me
Hidden like Gideon's threshing floor
In want of shape and heat and light
And something called hope
And why the scandal I'll never know
When the door flung open
And I fled that room
To a hill of all places
Into the warmth of Divine embrace
Into the union of Maker and made
And the great great dance
Until helpless in your arms
I whispered, "Why me Lord—
The Prodigal's teacher—why this mercy?"
But I heard nothing
Except the sound of a calf falling
And me standing robed and speechless
Showered with wine and roses

Christian Poetry -152

The Shape of Things to Come

God’s army rises from the earth
  Prophetic word commands
To prove its mettle and its worth
  When Spirit-filled it stands

The hordes of darkness will take flight
  And dread the final hour
When saints of God will walk in light
  And demonstrate His power

His timeless temple now takes shape
  Untouched by human hand
And men will stand in awe to gape
  When glory fills the land

No sound of hammer will be heard
  As stones are put in place
No earthly mortar will be stirred
  For living stones of grace

When body members fused by love
  With hearts that beat as one
Are fitly formed by God above
  The work is almost done

For living temple must ascend
  When trump shall raise the dead
Archangel voice the air will rend
  As body joins its head

Christian Poetry -151

New Leaf or New Life

While walking down a lonely path
In forests of my mind
I saw a leaf lie at my feet
My thoughts to it inclined

It seemed to symbolise my life
So weathered brown and worn
There was no flicker flame of hope
That it could be reborn

I stooped to touch it tenderly
To search its other side
And see if elemental rage
Had somehow been denied

My eyes took stock and stayed to stare
At all the horror there
The side that lay upon the ground
Had perished without air

And then I knew what I had known
But didn't want to see
That any leaf from any side
Is dead without a tree

I cannot turn my life around
And hope new life will be
For I have finally realised
There is no life in me

Then as my thoughts began to swim
And drown in deep despair
My vapoured vision cleared to see
A Stranger standing there

He held a promise in His hand
And stretched it out to me
That He would take my shaky leaf
And graft it to His tree

You have no life or strength in you
By now that's plain to see
Come lay your burdens at My feet
And find new life in Me

I am the Vine you are the branch
I'll share My life with you
All power is given unto Me
And I will see you through

Christian Poetry -150

3 a.m.
(for my mum and dad)

out of the night I came, all in black
dressed already like a thief
daring to interrupt their life once more
when I needed them, when their home
was the one within reach

so about 3 a.m. I knocked
on the translucent window next to the door
knocked gingerly, bobbing on my freezing toes
knowing the dog would wake them
which she did, her tan patches appearing
in the window as she howled
between barks I held my breath

until a white flame appeared
dad's fist on the other side of the window
rearing up, slamming back at me
two angry thumps, the glass
quivering like a shout
for of course I am thief, intruder
with no right on this doorstep

I swallow, gasp out "It's me"
the words hang in black air

silence
the flame in the window dies
dad calls my name
the door opens
in the hall the dog dances around me
immediately the door is shut behind me
locked against three oíclock in the morning

in bed then, window light glowing
on what I now feel instinctively
is the wrong side of the room
my sleep-deprived, caved-in heart
finally grasps it:

the silence between my declaration and his cry
when he was deciding whether or not to open the door
that silence held my whole life in a single puff of breath
held in it my first declaration
first flailing entrance into homeless night
as I came into the world unplanned
and lay screaming in a sort of cosmic three a.m.
a lightless, breastless emptiness
as birth attendants receded, leaving me exposed
on the hillside of my own brazenness

outside every door I am thief, miscreant
my very existence an intrusion
on the rightful business of the world

and still they take me in, every time
let me cross their threshold
adopt me again and again
forgive my outcast state and call me daughter.

Christian Poetry -149

This Usurping Beauty

The trees beside the way are beautiful,
sun-glassed, breeze-licked.
This road passes the best beaches,
the ones with perfectly round rocks,
the driftwood climbable
and shaped like cunning animals.

Make straight the way of the Lord,
make straight his way, because right now
it twists like hell. It veers too close
to the cliffs over that sea,
to the seeming sky-bound jump-off
into foam like a swimming school of pearls
that would lodge in your eyes,
a-shine you as you hit the waves,
rush you into sea-song, siren suicide,
destination the gilt-grit bottom.

Everywhere off our path
seems a breathtaking place.
Every mossy greenness calls,
every blood-coloured cloud
over mountains knows my number, knows the way
to whisper to me, every stone and crocus,
every stem and leaf's jagged edge.
They know how to rasp my name.

Am I so worthy, to be wanted
in all these grown-over places,
these ring-shaped dells dripping
with moonlight and elfish toadstools,
these pathless, vine-covered thorny hollows?

Or is their call a trick—
wind across a hole,
air at the right angle across a bottle's neck?
The mix of winds in that bottle would be poison,
would kill me with sweetness,
a bloody tang like thorns
piercing the tongue.
My voice would be choked off
extinguished, strangled
by this usurping beauty, these ill-transplanted flowers.

Christian Poetry -148

 Starting Sunday Morning

The week begins with one day of rest;
with the reverent colloquy
of mourning doves;
the quorum of sparrows
who observe him with impunity
from the budding maple overhead;
daffodils dancing on the head of a pin.

All pleasure and all pain
turned and disked in broad fields
of brown loam. It is easy enough
to sink downward into the deep soil.
Easy enough to let the furrows,
the harrows, and the headlands
shape destiny for him; or at least his week.

By Wednesday he finds no comfort
in the passions of the sun
the moods of falling rains.
There is no hint of prophecy
in this, he sees it for the fact
it is; another calculation, square footage,
pounds of seed, measures destined for his soul.

Truth, salvation, eternal spring scents,
locust blossoms and lily of the valley,
mingle and dissipate among the nesting robins,
the casual juncos and golden-crowned kinglets.
In his window box the herbs and hymns mingle;
lemon balm, bee balm, There is a Balm in Gilead,
as small foxes drift among the hedgerows.

Saturday evening he watches as his neighbors choose
between sin and Sabbath. He is weary.
But he stands with a sword of truth, a shield of faith,
with the deliberate lessons patiently cultivated.
His work has taught him. His weeks have shaped him;
the plowshare has beaten him,
honed his spirit into an instrument of itself.

Christian Poetry -147

 White Noise

“Low levels of white noise can be used to cover up other random noises”

I.
They were expecting a Latino woman
A woman of dark hair and swirling colored skirts
A woman of sun baked adobe, cactus and meringue, samba and salsa
A woman with jalapeno peppers and a sombrero
With a mariachi band in her pocket
Who would wield the Virgin de Guadeloupe
Like some massive castanet
And croon a rosary in the language of conquistadors

II.
They were expecting a Pacific Island woman
A woman of exotic eyes and flowered lai
A woman of native ancestors, palm huts and coracles, cockatoos and coconuts
A woman with a ukulele and grass skirt
With a volcano in her pocket
Who would have joined the foreign missionaries
Like the pounding ocean surf
Zealously instructing and re-telling her conversion

III.
They were expecting an African woman
A woman of coffee beauty and powerful presence
A woman of righteous anger over bus seats and apartheid, ghettos, famine and genocide
A woman with a Kofi hat or Kente cloth
With an elephant in her pocket
Who would shout unto the Lord
Like the rhythm of a beaten drum
While angels echo her “Hallelujah! Amen.”

IV.
They were expecting an Arab woman
A woman of veils and oasis
A woman of countries embroiled in war, harems and tapas, camels and oil
A woman with hanging gardens and desert views
With pyramids in her pocket
Who would face Mecca seven times a day
Like the ever turning dervish
And walk behind her husband saying “Allah, be Praised.”

V.
They were expecting a White woman
A woman of pale skin and immigration
A woman of feudal systems and Shakespeare, Gutenberg, and persecution
A woman with canals and Guinness in her veins
With the Eiffel Tower in her pocket
Who would sit in a stiff Sunday pew and listen
Like a good soldier
Who will scrub your soul and behind your ears with equal determination

VI.
They were expecting what they thought they heard
A woman of a certain race or creed
A woman of accepted guidelines
Consistent with a culture or ethnicity, stereotypes and definitions
Who folds her spirit neatly in the expected box
Keeps Christ quiet in her pocket
And wears the low hum of humanity
Like a veil across her soul

Christian Poetry -146

Market Day

"Foghorns in the field, Nanna".
The boy woke me from my nodding
so I would know and fill my ears with cotton wool.

For forty years the old man has taken
calves to market come September.
And for twenty-five I've stopped the sound.

Cows crying sound like foghorns the boy said.
They did, so: low and deep, their loss filled our
ears for three days and nights.
Then stopped. The mourning over.

Early on they were no bother.
I even watched as man and dog
separated calves from cows,
to the trailer and away.

Their pain was nothing to me,
until the war. And my own lad gone.
So quick it was: He hopped the bus,
blew me a kiss and turned away.

It was market day and the cows bellowed
for the soft rough tongues on teats;
Their udders sore and full of milk not taken.

That day I heard them.
And my keening mixed with theirs
to fill the fields and valley, echo off the mountains
and float out to sea.

Since then, it is the cotton wool
that keeps me sane. The old man knows
and stays away until my weeping's done.

Then, he makes the tea,
touches my bowed shoulder with one
gnarled hand and with the other, gently removes
the cotton for another year.

Christian Poetry -145

Market Day

"Foghorns in the field, Nanna".
The boy woke me from my nodding
so I would know and fill my ears with cotton wool.

For forty years the old man has taken
calves to market come September.
And for twenty-five I've stopped the sound.

Cows crying sound like foghorns the boy said.
They did, so: low and deep, their loss filled our
ears for three days and nights.
Then stopped. The mourning over.

Early on they were no bother.
I even watched as man and dog
separated calves from cows,
to the trailer and away.

Their pain was nothing to me,
until the war. And my own lad gone.
So quick it was: He hopped the bus,
blew me a kiss and turned away.

It was market day and the cows bellowed
for the soft rough tongues on teats;
Their udders sore and full of milk not taken.

That day I heard them.
And my keening mixed with theirs
to fill the fields and valley, echo off the mountains
and float out to sea.

Since then, it is the cotton wool
that keeps me sane. The old man knows
and stays away until my weeping's done.

Then, he makes the tea,
touches my bowed shoulder with one
gnarled hand and with the other, gently removes
the cotton for another year.

Christian Poetry -144

The Relic in the Weeds

A curious whim brought me back home to find
Pa's double-bottom plow. Its blades gleamed bright
In summers past, harsh-burnished by the grind
Of turning sod from dawn until last light.
Behind the barn, this relic hides in weeds,
No longer bright, nor hitched to Belgians now,
Fully retired—no commerce left with seeds.
The same with Pa: he's resting like his plow.
They struggled breaking ground that gave them life
Till Pa himself became a bright plowshare,
Knife-sharp, deep-honed with sun and rub and strife,
Devoutly plowing on, as if in prayer.
"Don't look back," Jesus to the plowman said.
Pa set his mind on furrows straight ahead.

Christian Poetry -143

Evidence: Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness

"And God saw all that he had made, and it was very good. Genesis 1:31"

As far as I can see—water. It sits
beneath spring's greenest hills, still and cold,
holding the thoughts of early travellers.
A paddle's stroke stirs them and they surface
in drips. I let them run. Like heavy sap
they come to me, and as tamaracks, old
as creation's cliffs, creak, the voices speak.
Those who've been here before me knew.
                                                                                         In back
woods, under shadow of the hills and trees—
a whisper, faint against the loon's low cry,
comes to me in the night. Asleep beneath
the red pine, I breathe the lonely whistle,
wake to shore reeds' rustle above a night
frog's song. An owl's flush grows distant, the loon
and moose are still. The night responds with
voices of men who never questioned God.
They heard and saw as I do, and they knew.