A Poem - The Tasty Morsel

                                  (Open your mouth wide and I will fill it.
                                                                         Psalm 81:10)

She gathers the thick white robe, yellowed
by time, repeated washings, and cheap detergent,
around her and feels the encircling warmth Mother’s arms.
She arranges herself in the overstuffed
caramel-colored leather chair.
At her right hand, on Mother’s table,
sits her morning cup of coffee,
on her lap the open Book.

The cells of her body remember.

Many mornings in seasons past have begun this way,
but not for a very long time.
She opens her mouth to pray familiar but long unspoken prayers,
and is surprised by a lump in her throat.
She hasn’t sat with God and Scripture for a long time,
but her mouth opens and she waits,
like a baby bird,
for the tasty morsel that has fed her so often in the past.

“God,” she prays,
“It’s been a long time.
I don’t know what to expect,
but I just want to be with you.”

Something inside her breaks open.
Her heart is warmed and made tender.
Tears fall making tracks on her cheeks.
Already the Lover draws near –
only waiting for her invitation,
and she, his.

A Poem - Her One Regret

She wrapped him in swaddling clothes

And laid him in a cradle.

She wasn’t Mary.

He wasn’t Jesus.

Still, she suffers his pain in silence as his enemies:

Blame, Regret, Bitter Disappointment and Guilt

daily curse, rob, beat, then leave him for dead.

And all she can do is wait,

 weep, and feel each blow, each accusation

in her own bones.

10/18/14 A Poem, SHADOW

Shadow

(an area of darkness created

when a source of light is blocked)

Her back to the sun

light obscured,

shadow dances on the ground in front of her,

curiously connected to her feet,

leading her toward the unknown.

Always out in front, leading.

The sun moves across the sky.

Light now leads her way,

and shadow follows along like a puppy dog

nipping at her heels.

These types of shadows are easily discerned,

but there are other shadows not so easily seen.

She opens her hand wide and gives to a stranger in need.

Kindness is in the Light now,

leading her to the truth of who she wants to be,

but the Shadow of Unkindness nips at her heels.

Later that same day,

she speaks of loss and betrayal by a friend,

with anger shaking her voice,

and her fist raised,

then mutters

how unkind she is.

But the Shadow of Kindness lurks nearby,

unseen by Light.

She is both kind and unkind.

It all depends on where the Light is,

what’s visible at the moment,

and what’s hidden from view

lying in the shadows.

A Poem, I WANT

I Want

(I wanted

the past to go away, I wanted

to leave, it like another country…)

Except, I want the past to stay.

Not all of it, only snippits:

his warm, wet little body slipping out of the tub 

and into the big fluffy towel,

him giggling,

me rubbing him dry

until his skin almost shines.

His laughter as he peddles his little feet,

maneuvering his shiny red fire truck,

or fifth hot wheel bike,

up and down the sidewalk and around the block.

GI Joes, convoys, vampires at Halloween, and

Christmas morning glee.

Smores around the campfire.

Him burrowing down under the covers in his flannel pajamas,

his tiny arms flung around my neck

and his whispers, 
       “I love you Mommy”.

And there are grown up snippits of our past that I’d like to stay, too:

family dinners at Christmas time,

presents under the tree,

“Merry Christmas”,

“Happy birthday”,

his deep grown-up voice declaring without shame, 
       “I love you Mom”.

And his children laughing and playing games,

running in and out of the kitchen,

asking for fat buttered rolls, hot out of the oven,

sleep overs at Grandma's,

our special breakfast of cinnamon-sugar buenelos and milk.

Today there seems only to be a hole in my heart 

          where the past used to be.

(Also, I wanted

to be able to love. And we all know

how that one goes,

don’t we?)

That was my prayer too.

I asked to love without condition,

with no judgment or expectation.

The cost has been high.

(You don’t want to hear the story

of my life, and anyway

I don’t want to tell it.)

Again.

I’ve told it far too often.

What I’d like to leave behind for real this time

is the treasured loss,

the re-collecting of all those moments,

the stories that sit in the corners of my mind

like all that straw locked in the room with her.

She kept spinning that straw hoping it would turn into gold.

That only happens in fairy tales.

I want to be free

to live and laugh and love

what I have today,

at this very moment.

At the same time,

I want my kids

and my kids’ kids to come home

– just for a moment –

to play.

(The lines in parens are from Mary Oliver’s “Dogfish”, from Dreamwork.)

Leave it Behind

Treasured loss

Melancholy

Irascibility

Leave them all behind

Press forward

Hands and heart empty

No expectations; instead, the “clean slate”.

(Prayer response to The Troubadours, Etc., by Mary Szybist and Confessions in the Key of Kenosis, by David Wright)

Listen

Listen

One

single

solitary

sound

announces

the wind has shifted

“North”.

The Battlefield

The Battlefield

It’s on the battlefield that crows gather and are heard most often.

Like the great booming of cannons

and the repeated staccato of the automatic rifle,

the singular Crow sounds its familiar incessant cawing

Over and over and over again.

Nothing stops it.

No amount of focused attention or controlled breath,

not even the familiar mantra with its sweet rhythm

silences Crow’s voice

until Kingfisher swoops in.

Dressed in a robe of royal blue,

his sword of peace tucked beneath his belt,

he plants his finger firmly on Crow’s forehead -

right between the eyes, and

leaves his signature mark, sanctifying

and baptizing Crow with holy water.

For a moment now, as Kingfisher tarries,

all is still and silent.

Our last assignment of this weekend retreat was to write an ekphrastic poem, a poem based on a piece of art. This work, Kingfisher and Crow, is a collage/painting done by an artist friend of Richard's, Robert Jensen. Richard gave us a few poems to read and to meditate on, then I came home and "slept on it".