A Poem for Palm Sunday

The following poem was written for the Palm Sunday service at the church I attend. I was so grateful to be asked to write a poem or a prayer for the service, I combined the two. I post it here in honor of Holy Week. (I cannot seem to control the line spacing on this thing no matter what I do, so I am giving it to you anyway. Please, imagine it single spaced, with double spaces between stanzas.)

Palm Sunday Prayer

I come to You with the joy

Of recognition,

You are my Savior, My God,

Lord Jesus.

I gladly wave my palm

And lay down my red coat for you to walk upon

Just as the Palm Sunday crowds have ever done.

We are all the same people.

A little thought more

And I am humbled, Lord,

For we are all the same people.

The same people who sang, “Hosanna!”

With such joy,

Cried, “Crucify Him, crucify Him!”

With disappointment, with anger, with confusion, with fear.

We are all the same people.

When You have not met my expectations,

I, too, have doubted, have turned on You,

And failed You, Lord.

We are all the same people.

A few pages on

I see myself in Peter

Boldly promising to follow You

Even into danger and death

If that be necessary

So great is my love for you.

But we are all the same people, Lord,

And I know I have failed You.

Time and time again,

I have denied You,

When peer pressure, and fearful troubles, and danger crowded in.

We are all the same people, Lord.

Still, You are my Savior and my God, Lord Jesus,

For You know we are all the same people.

From the cross, You prayed,

“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

Through the Word, You counsel,

“Trust in the LORD with all your heart

And lean not on your own understanding.”

After Your resurrection,

In Peter’s dark days of shame

You included him in Your invitation

To meet with You in Galilee.

You called him there by name---

“Tell Peter to come,” You said.

We hear it all in gratitude

For we are all the same

Needing to grow in faith and fortitude

To follow You.

If we fail,

When we fail,

Forgive our faltering ways

And change us, Lord.

Enable us to fail less and follow more.

Call us by name again, Lord.

Call us again and again.

God With Us

In this world we will have troubles; I am no exception to the rule. But I have found Jesus to be so faithful in walking with me. The poem below is about a fleeting experience, but  I have had many longer lasting troubles wherein He was/is just as faithful, just as kind and good, even when I was/am sometimes quite impatient.


They Call Him "God With Us"

It was a necessary medical procedure
Fraught with pain,
And I was caught in it
For long moments
Until the work was done.
No husband could stand beside me,
No mother or father
Or sister there;
No numbing,
No anesthesia applied.
With whispered voice
I called my Jesus,
Who fills all space and time.
Already there,
He laid His words upon my mind,
A chant, a focus point,
"I will never leave you, nor forsake you.
I will never leave you, nor forsake you."
My hand I moved to brush at tears
And gently stroke my brow.
"Again, " He said, "Again."
After hesitating, I complied.
And so the motion I repeated
And in His words and touch co-mingled
I lingered,
In pain, but comforted,
And, not alone,
Until the need had ended.

Small Crisis

When the little son who was my constant companion for six years or so suddenly became my husband's shadow most of the time, I had a small identity crisis. I was happy for my little boy to be venturing into the world of manly pursuits, but what about me...What was I going to do with all this new alone time? During a walk, the Holy Spirit impressed on me that now was a good time to just be still and know that God has a plan. God loves us as we are;  we are his creations.

Walking

I walk a long country black top
My mind vibrating with questions
Who am I now?
What should I do?
Countless possibilities vie to be weighed
Faster and harder I walk
My muscles tensing and relaxing
In turn
Footfalls quietly progressing

The warm breeze touches me
To capture my attention
The feathered grasses lining the roadside
Bend  in greeting
Shooshing gently against neighbors
Shooshing beneath the sun
I hear them
I hear
The sound of grass
Then stop to listen
Hands on knees
Beginning to understand

I will do
But already am
And the Breeze
And the shooshing
And the neighbors
Are important.

The Church Plant

Recently, the church I attend celebrated it's 175th anniversary. I was honored to be asked to write a poem for the celebration. I was asked months ahead of time, which was wonderful. Although I thought about it and wondered what to write and even prayed for some leading all along, I was at a loss for ideas, until two weeks before the event. That was when the anniversary committee hung a lovely banner in the narthex of the church announcing the theme, "Continuing Branches of Faith." As I mulled over this theme in prayer one morning, the words began to fall into place. I am happy with the result, because it is a word of encouragement and hope for the church as we face a time of great change. I hope you will find encouragement in it also.

The Church Plant

Jesus is the Vine,
The Life and Spirit
Of an ever-growing church plant.
You are a branch.
I am a branch.
We are all gently grafted into the Vine,
Nurtured by branches who came before our own.
The Life of the Vine,
The Spirit of the Vine,
Flows through your branch,
And my branch,
And many others,
Quickening each,
Bringing forth buds and fruit,
And still more branches
Are grafted to ours.
And the Spirit flows through all the branches.

Jesus creates and calls the branches,
Grafts them into His Vine,
Directs all growth.

Jesus waters and feeds
Each branch,
Loves each branch,
Tends the fruit of each branch,
Sees and cherishes
The love, joy, peace,
Patience, kindness, goodness,
Faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control
He finds on each fragile limb.
Jesus trains and prunes each twig
For still more fruit.

You are a branch,
I am a branch
Thriving in the Vine,
Growing side by side,
Even intertwined,
Humbly interdependent,
Together joyously dependent
Ever and always
On Jesus,
The Vine.

I am strengthened by the Life in you,
You are strengthened by the Life in me,
As we live and work in the great plant,
Our roots in the Father,
Our life in the Son and the Holy Spirit,
The Vine and the Gardener.

We sway in the wind of voices saying,
"The church is a dying institution,"
Even as we feel and see and hear
The Spirit and the Life
Flowing through our branches,
Even as we hear Jesus calling,
See Jesus moving in the lives
Of our brothers and sisters
In the great plant.
We know Jesus lives.
We know He is eternal.
We know we must thrive on in Him.
He wills it.
We will it with Him.

We live and work and pray in Him,
Let us live and work and pray in Him,
"Nurture our branch, Oh Lord,
Tend Your church plant.
Train and prune each limb, each twig.
Increase the beauty and bounty of our fruit.
Graft in,
Do graft in
New branches.
Let Your life and Spirit
Flow through us to nurture them.
Let there be
No dying,
No end."

Bleeding Heart is one of my favorite plants. It's name and heart shaped blooms remind me that Jesus loved us so much he was willing to shed his blood and die to save us.

The Housewife's Challenge

I have found as a homemaker that there is a certain tension between the creation of beauty and the keeping of order. These two aspects of homemaking need each other, and enhance each other, if we manage to maintain a delicate peace and balance between them. The effort is one of life's worthwhile struggles. Giving expression to that struggle is the theme for this poem.

Sister Spirits

Two sisters lived together,
Though they moved from house to house,
One the soul of Beauty,
The other Order's spouse.

Order, quite capable could carry on alone
And sometimes left, in anger's grip,
Crazed by chaos,
The wake of Beauty's walk.

But once alone, her value fell,
For everywhere she looked,
And in the mirror, lonely,
All she saw was straight and plain,
So aching, sad, she'd amble home.

Beauty, on her own, worked long,
And made a tremendous mess.
Somewhere she'd created a sumptuous cake,
But for flour and sugar containers, icing bags, and colorings,
Books of inspiration and sketches on scraps...
Where were those frosting flowers,
And where was that lovely cake?

Somewhere she'd crafted a carpet
Of jewel-like silken scraps,
But now she couldn't find it,
For all the pieces she'd considered and discarded
Were piled high and tangled
In silver threads she'd laid aside,
While stitching a tapestry she'd started,
Before finishing the carpet.

Beauty, all in tears,
Tired and disheveled,
Wandered room to room.
She worried, "Where is Order?'
She was tense and distraught.

This was the scene Order found,
All the color, all the clutter,
Scraps of silk and velvet,
Heady scents of sweets and cooking,
Passionate activity written everywhere she looked.
Her face relaxed into a smile.
Lines of pain smoothed out.
Sparkling joy danced in her eyes,
And a question,
"Where is Beauty?"

Order moved quickly all about the house,
Setting things to right.
She tidied everywhere she went.
She found the cake and frosting flowers
And put them together on a stand.
She found the jewel-toned carpet
And tenderly spread it out.
She sorted the mountain of scraps for future works.
She set the tapestry, unfinished, on display,
And gently laid untouched skeins of thread
In rainbow fashion
To soothe the artist's way.

And just as she was finishing this
Last and loving task,
She looked around the room
And there was Beauty,
No need for her to ask.

i

A Different Perspective

I saw a fabulous photo recently on Facebook, which has had me ruminating over a new poem for a few weeks. Working on the poem this morning, I felt the need for some boundaries. I was thinking along the lines of Haiku, sort of, but what I ended up with was something that borrows a little from Haiku, a little from the Limerick, and obeys neither as far as subject matter is concerned. I have decided to use my artistic license and call it Free Limku, which has 5 lines, a syllable per line pattern of 5,5,5,7,5, and reveals something.

Used with permission from Unreal Hawaii. Thanks, David.

Rainbow Trilogy

Reality

Forty-six years passed
Acknowledging the bow,
Accepting the gift,
Then a photo, startling,
Flashed the depth of Truth.

Fidelity

God named the rainbow
For my partial view,
But He always knew
The token of His promise
Was a perfect ring.

Humility

How my own doubts swirl,
Questions pray God-ward,
Salty tears fall, vain,
From earth-bound partial views, while,
God croons, "Faith, believe."

In Remembrance of the 9/11 Tragedy

I wrote the following poem for a church service on 9/11 this year. The theme for the service was finding God in the events of the day. When I was preparing to write this I thought the theme was something like, "How did the tragedy of that day change us or make us better people?" I did not really have an answer for that, but God knew what the theme really was. I made a few notes about the ways I felt called by God to act in response to the tragedy. I live very far away from New York and Washington and Pennsylvania, so I felt I hadn't much to offer God, but I offered it to him anyway. I had no idea what I would write. Amazingly, when I laid pen to paper the thoughts started to flow very easily. I felt God taking my very little and making something special out of it. When the poem was finished, I offered it to the worship committee and they decided to use it, and ultimately the poem was shared in two worship services that day, once at our church and once at a church in another city. When we offer our little bit to God, we never know what He will do with it.  

Jesus Calling

Twin towers and a pentagon,
Hi-jacked planes,
Explosions,
Clouds of smoke,
Powder and ash falling like rain.

Suffering, death, injury, trauma,
Pressing grief
Falling like rain.

God.
Still God.
Still calling, "Follow Me."

Acts of bravery,
Acts of love,
Acts of service,
Words of faith
Flooding darkness and disaster
With love and light
At the center,
In the spotlight,
On the site.

Even here, far away
We hear His call,
"Follow Me."
Pray for these lost, these injured, these mourning.
Love these enemies; pray for their salvation, their transformation, their good.

Thank Me for the good you see.
Thank Me for new heroes
And Godly examples.

Open your hands;
Give to these who are in need,
Help these neighbors.

Go, go into public places
Unafraid.
Do not hide in fear.

Does this one resemble your enemy?
Could this one be your enemy?
Meet his eyes with compassion,
Smile, nod,
Greet him with kind words.
Remember how I love him.
Remember how I love you.
Follow Me.
Love him, too.

God.
Still God.
Still calling,
"Follow Me."

Poems for My Little Boy

When my little boy, John, was a baby, I decided to write some nursery poems. He was wonderful inspiration then, as he still is today.


Pinky Dinky

Pinky Dinky, a little gray mouse,
Came as a Christmas present into John's house.
She has big round ears, all pink inside,
White wiry whiskers,
And a tiny pink nose.
She is stuffed with soft fluff
From her head to her toes
And she's ever so sweet
To hug in one's sleep.

My sister, Joyce Cole, drew this fine picture of Pinky a few years ago. When John first received Pinky, I named her Mr. Pinkney, but as soon as John could talk well he let me know that her name is really Pinky Dinky and she is a girl. Joyce and I stand corrected. Pinky now sometimes flies and loves to have long conversations with John, when an adult is willing to give her a voice.

Musings

Mr. and Mrs. Goldfish swim baby into dreamland
With night-lit bubbles and watery sound.
Then rainbow hued butterflies
Flutter round and round,
To meet his drowsy morning gaze,
While kittens just finding their mittens await on the wall
Right below Mr. McGregor's garden gate in paint.
Nice things for baby's musings---
All.


John, the Adventurer

John, the adventurer, takes to the lake.
He crawls through the cottage
Like lightning on knees.
He delves in the toy box
For pull cars and blocks
And sand pail and rake.
He splashes in pan-baths set out in the sun,
And babbles and squeals with excitement and fun.
He dons bright blue swimmers
To challenge the lake.
In his own yellow float,
He rides on the waves,
Kicking and giggling,
With Mama real close.
He eats all manner of interesting new things
That aunts and uncles to the table bring.
And when he grows tired,
He sways to and fro
On a carriage seat swing
With his Nana, who sings;
She sings all about John,
John on the water,
John on the lake,
John, the adventurer,
Out riding the waves.

Windows

Many a beautiful stained-glass church window has somehow spoken to my heart and lifted my mind from considering ordinary thoughts to being aware of God's presence. I never stopped to analyze why this is so, until I was discussing with a friend some lovely old church windows that, regretfully, had to be left behind when our congregation moved to a new site. I was not present then, but I empathized with the sense of loss this must have created. He pointed out that there was nothing sacred about those old Victorian floral windows. Happily, the new site was outfitted with lovely, newly created stained-glass windows that tell the stories of the Bible.

I remember driving along one night and thinking, praying, "Why do those windows touch us so?" And then this thought came to me...

Church Windows


What is it about church windows
That speaks to us of God?
There is nothing sacred in them,
Just glass and lead,
Dark and cold,
'Til God-made sunbeams
Flow through
Dazzling witnesses below
With purpose and meaning,
With radiant color,
And streams of light.

Why do human spirits sense the Presence
In a light-flooded, jewel-toned spectacle
Arranged in Gothic portrayals of saints
Or Victorian florals
Or modern undulating, geometric shapes?

Unspoken intuition or soft-spoken Spirit
Bathes us in hope-filled affinity...
In our kinship to the glass.
We, too, are cold and dark,
We, too, need God's Christ-Light
Flowing in and through
Before we come to Life,
We, too.


Sometimes one poem leads to another... this time about the windows of the very first church I attended as a small child.


Jesus Windows


Jesus windows:

The royal baby sleeping in the manger.

The good Shepherd
Carrying the errant lamb.

The Savior standing on water,
Pulling Peter
From the waves.

Jesus praying in the garden.
Jesus dying on the cross.
"Father, forgive them,"
Unfurled below.

The once-doubting Thomas
Touching Jesus' wounds,
Worshiping at His nail-pierced feet.

The living Lord
Knocking softly
At heart's door,
Waiting to come in.

The durable story rendered in fragile glass---
Silently singing.
Simple representation,
Pictorial telling,
In lush detail
For all to grasp
At will.

Translucent panes,
Brittle, liquid, temporal,
Splendid by sun
And firelight,
Flooding darkness with
Color, story-glory
And all this---
Merely a shimmer
Of the Christ-love reality


God reaching out through
Artful hands,
Scientific minds,
Generous hearts,
Faithful voices,
The church combined,

An invitation

I love you.
Come, come to Me.
Come hear the Word.
Come read the Story.
Come find the Way.
Come see.
Come live for Me.
My instrument
Illumined
Be.

Creation Speaks

God uses nature to speak to us in so many ways. Sometimes it is the beauty of color, line, and texture. Sometimes it is the awesome power of wind or rushing water. And sometimes the message comes through what isn't said, drought, for instance. The poems that follow all have to do with nature speaking to the soul. Summer Sunday was written in the midst of the drought of 1988 (makes me feel  a tad old to think how long ago that was now), and Rain was written during the storm that ended that drought and brought such welcome relief and much rejoicing and thanksgiving.

In Harmony

Your voice, it moans and moves and soars
In low and hallowed tones,
While I, your captive audience,
Find happiness in hearing,
Drowning in a harmony
Of song, and sound, and thought.

Crashing on the shore,
Gentle---falling leaves,
The trickle of the rain...
Your voice, my soul,
The music.


Summer Sunday

It was a summer Sunday,
Hot and dry as too many before had been.

The choir sang.
Announcements were made.
We turned to the Word.
With each reference came
The turning of pages---
Rustling...Ruffling...Tapping...
Tapping...Rustling...Ruffling...
The gentle shower
Of whispered impression
"I have food of which you do not know."
"Ask Me for living water."
And then we prayed.



Rain

A maze of tiny trenches carved by sunbeam heat
Fill and fall and flatten.
Roots rise to meet their sustenance.
Roses droop as tiny weights collect.
Rain.
So quiet falling my ears ache.
Suddenly the sound BREAKS and CRACKS,
Startling, gratifying,
And then resumes the quiet,
Drenching the land drop by drop,
Low, constant, cool, soothing mercy.

Mixing It Up With Some Oldies

I hope your New Year is going well. I am jump-starting mine today by looking back at some of my older poems---ones I really like. I think it is wonderful the way looking back on good moments can fill us with energy and sometimes inspire new projects.

He Helps Me

Kneeling now before You
Surrounded yet by color, with closed eyes,
I offer up to You---by spoken word, by silent thought
What small portion You have given to be mine.
Conscious now of You---and then the color 'round,
Some memory, some shame,
Then again to You with speed and gravity and hope---
You will surely meet me with Your wholeness
And with Your Word, forgiving,
Present my portion full.


Watch the Comet

Watch the Comet
Burning through the dark, it seems,
Passing by her friends, the stars,
As seen by man, Romantic.
Still she is an icey one,
Covering her core with a coat of light
She borrows from the sun.

Watch the woman
Moving only for the day light,
Too cool and too composed for nites,
Un seen by man, Romantic.
Still she is a burning fire
Covering her core with a cloak of modesty
Which was a gift to her.


Passages

Blue porc'lain and tea,
Author's bridge of blackened leaves;
Far away at home.
Magic silk screen images,
Never real, nor ever fade.

Merry Christmas

At the church's 2010 Christmas Eve service, I shared the following poem as a reflection on Jesus' birth. Writing and sharing it was a sweet experience that I will always treasure. I hope you may be blessed by it too.

Mary Pondering

Jesus, Jesus,
My baby, soft and warm,
Dear Joseph sees my eyes in Him,
I see my mama's brows,
My papa's nose and chin,
My brother's long and sturdy fingers
In His small and dimpled hands.
I wonder, Father God,
How will I see You in Him?

How will this baby born to me
Become a king?
How will He reign forever,
What can that mean?
The Angel said He is your Son,
The Holy One;
Surely He will be good in every way,
How then will He bring me sadness,
A sword to "pierce my soul"
As Simeon said?
How can a lowly maid like me
Rear God's Son, so great a king?
Oh, please, don't take Him away from me.
How shall I sleep; how shall I rest?
I love my Son,
Your Son,
My Lord,
This little one,
My baby, soft and warm.

How will a Jewish king
Mean joy and peace, good will to all?
That's what the shepherds say the angels sang.
They said a host of angels sang.
They visited my little one the very night He came.
They knew just where we'd be,
They found us easily.
In the stable
There was room for them
And no one to bar their coming in.
They spread wide the word,
My little Jesus is the Christ, a king.
Now many people come to see.
They come and go.
We welcome them;
He is their king,
My baby, soft and warm.

Some wise men came,
These wealthy men, richly robed,
From far away,
To our humble house today.
They said a star had led their way.
They offered gifts of splendor,
Their like I'd never seen,
Surely gifts chosen for a king.
They worshiped Him
On bended knees,
My little one,
My Jesus,
My Lord,
Your Son.

Father God, we worship only You,
And here you brought these foreigners of means
To worship at our little Jesus' feet.

Lowly shepherds, wealthy foreigners,
All men worshiping a Savior King,
All full of joy and peace, good will You send.

Jesus, Jesus,
My baby, soft and warm,
Joseph sees my eyes in Yours,
I see my Papa's nose and chin,
I see, I see Your Father, God,
I see You have His...identity.
They worship Him,
They worship You,
You are His only Son,
His little Holy One.

Father God,
We will trust,
We will sleep,
We will rest,
We will keep
In You.

Oh, thank You, Father God.

Years ago, my mother gave each of her three daughters an ornament of Mary and Jesus. We have enjoyed them. I like to put ornaments on the tree that keep the true meaning of Christmas ever before us.

All About Jesus...

Once, a good friend of mine asked if I felt God spoke to me. I said, "Yes," which was true. Then he asked, "How do you know it is God talking to you and not your own thoughts?" Sadly, I had not at the time considered this question and I had no clear answer. I am glad he asked, however, because I have been thinking about it often since, with mind and ears open to answers from within my own experiences and those of other people.


I think most of the time God speaks to us through the Bible and the quiet, internal whispers of the His Holy Spirit. Because we hear His voice from within, we can sometimes be confused if it is our own thinking or His message to us. Sometimes we need to compare those new thoughts to the whole message of the Bible and look for agreement with the fruits of the Spirit (love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.) Very often His thoughts are so surprising, so very good, so new, so persistent, and/or so opposite of our own will or natural tendency in a matter, that we really feel little doubt He is nudging us in a new direction. Sometimes He speaks to us through other people and /or circumstances. Sometimes,  more rarely, He speaks in surprising ways like visions or otherwise inexplicable experiences.

Ultimately, hearing the voice of God is something one has to experience to grasp fully. Thankfully, Jesus offers everyone that opportunity. He loves everyone.  He promises to be found by us, if we seek Him earnestly, and the best place to begin looking for Him is in the Holy Bible. If you haven't met Jesus yet, you can. Ask Him simply in prayer to show Himself to you as you read His word. The book of John in the New Testament is a good starting place. Pray and read a little every day (30 minutes is a good goal) and before long He will meet you there, I'm sure. I dare say He is waiting for you.

That is my very long introduction to the following poems about my best friend, Jesus.




Easter

Underneath the marshmallow chicks,
And colored eggs, and jelly beans,
Nestled down in the green grass
Is a small jewel box,
Bearing a silver chain and pendant,
A tiny cross within a heart,
The best gift of the day.

Thirty years later,
Underneath the schedules, and lists, and jobs,
And needs, and wants
Is a real cross
Within a beating heart,
The best of hope,
The Truth, the Life, the Way.



As A Child At Play

As a child at play
I used to say,
"I throw the ball up to God
And He throws it back down to me.
I throw the ball up to God
And He throws it back down to me."
I didn't know it then,
We were playing a game He made up
Called gravity.



Visitors for Jesus

They were Kings of the East
Who, in spite of wealth and power,
Perceived they were not
The Beginning and the End.

So they became wise men
Searching the scriptures for One
Who could be all they were not.
They found Him promised
And His time declared by Isaiah,
Themselves described in Psalms,
And in Numbers, their sign to watch for,
A brilliant new star.

So they became astrologers
Searching the skies
For a bright new herald,
The sign.
Diligent, they did not miss
His awesome and heavenly light.

Then they became travelers
Packing camels with provisions
To last the long journey,
Food and fine clothing for servants and kings,
Tents and utensils
And other necessary things,
And valuable gifts carefully chosen
For the new Servant King.

Leaving Tarshish and Sheba and Seba
They came
Resting by day,
Traveling by night,
Driven by faith,
Led by the star.


When the light halted over the place,
They came close,
Inside,
And fell to their knees,
Mere men
Worshiping.

Then solemnly, joyfully
They brought out their gifts
To honor the babe,
Bright gold for the King,
Sweet frankincense for the God,
And pungent, precious myrrh for the Savior.


They were kings
Who waited and watched
And journeyed long
To find Him
And make Him their King.

And now,
Because He loved us so,
We no longer have to go
Or travel far
To find Him.
But only search
And He is there
Everywhere
Within.

Some  little drawings I made one Christmas while staying at my parents house. My Mom always makes everything warm and cozy there.

Time for a Little Romance

The next four poems all have something to do with my wonderful husband.

A Better Answer

You are too good a blessing
To be put into words.
What words could carry
Enough meaning
To say how dear you are,
How much an answer to my prayers you are
And so much more?

With you
I am convinced
God listens to our smallish prayers
And answers
From the depth
Of His greater
Knowing.



The Love Letter

Your family had spent a century here
And you were much attached,
But for me the little house grew smaller
As time  passed
And Building seemed a monumental task.
I wandered, restless,
To the garden.
I touched the rough trunks
Of Osage Orange trees
That form our pergola.
"These will be standing as long as we,"
You said to me.
My eyes traced the path
Of twining tendrils of Wisteria,
That scourge to your farmer mentality,
And yet, you planted them here anyway
To please me and provide our shade.
Down the path
In the night garden,
Sweet Autumn stars,
Pure and white and true,
Shone in the sun
As brightly as they
Glisten by the moon.
These were your gift too.
And then I came to the roses
Whose thorns you braved
To put them into place
According to our plan.
All this you wrote upon the land
To say, "This is your home."
And sighing contentment, resigned,
I knew we'd never roam.

My little drawing of some of our Wisteria, fading but still lovely to see.

Love Everyday

Let me kiss you at least one kiss everyday,
And touch you somehow as we fall asleep,
Maybe you will spoon with me,
Or just our legs will tangle like two vines.
Or maybe just our feet will touch
To say, "I love you so,"
But let us say it everyday.
Love's little luxuries these are
I waited for like someone parched and thirsting.
But now I live beside the brook,
I shall not neglect to fill my cup
And drink and drink and drink you up.



Security

In your nightmares,
I  sometimes walk away.
In mine, you disappear.
We are so much one now
We share our common fears.
Even when dark nightmares
Toss us to and fro
The worst we can imagine
Is to see the other go.

From the Stuff of Life

Some summer reflections...


Composite


Water blue,
Sky too,
Greens true,
Sun bright,
Waves white
Splashing on the rocks
And Forget-Me-Nots
Along the shore,
The tiny signature.

Seems like being at the lake in the summer gets creative juices flowing somehow. One year my sister, Joyce, and I read a book called Twenty Wishes, by Debbie Macomber.  We decided to make 20 crazy wishes of our own and then make art tags to illustrate each one. It was a lot of fun. Back at home, I turned my tags into a little art installation in my study. It makes me smile.

Weaning Us

You cry because you want something
I can't give you
And I feel sad because
I want to give you something
I should not.

I kiss you and hug you,
Distract you with toys
And milk from a cup.
You smile.

We'll get through this weaning process
And we'll share other joys,
I promise.




The Path

A path is comforting,
A sure thing.
When you're on one
You know you're going somewhere,
And even if you don't know its destination,
You feel sure you'll know when you've reached it.
The path will open up
And there you'll be,
Not lost.

Our path leads from the waterfront
To the backyard clothesline.


I remember when my sister first read this last poem, she didn't get it. "What was that?" she asked. So if you didn't get it, you are not alone, but I include it because I still like it. It reminds me of  our family's place on a lake in Michigan where we spend a good part of our summers. It is supposed to be a little humorous---such a short, rather insignificant path, following all that truthful musing.

When September rolled around, I had something much more serious on my mind...


9/11/02 or A Year Later

What will happen
To the firemen,

Who led people to safety,
Who lost people,
Who lost safety,
Who lost brothers, and fathers, and sons,

Who wept,

Who returned,
Who dug for survivors,
Who found too few,
Who returned again and again,
Who sifted through dust and ash for remains,
Who found too little,
Who accepted dust and ash for the remains of many.

Pray God, forbid
Nightmares of human rain,
Flashbacks of fear, of pain,
Of roaring motion,
Of chaos,
Of pieces, and powder, and ash,
Of fallen friends, and funerals, and mourning.

God save the firemen.

Please, God,
Save the firemen.

The Poet Year: Some Fantasies

While I was writing The Poet Year, it occurred to me that I almost never spent time just fantasizing anymore. So I thought I'd give it a go. Here are some of the results.

Blue Window

I'm ambling in Monet's garden.
I recognize these metal arches crowded with blooms
And the flowers reaching out from beds below,
Greeting passers-by.

How I came to be here
I do not know.
I am afraid to fly
And my Illinois home
Is a world away.
Here I am, all the same
And glad.
How and why do not press me for answers.
I am calm.

I marvel at the colors in this haven
So lovely against today's blue sky.
Monet's pink house and green shutters
Rise up as the perfect foil.

The sun is warm on my shoulders,
I wander on listening to bird conversation
And the sound of my own footfalls crunching on the path.

Looking for cooling shade,
I take a turn toward tall trees and find the pond.
I sit along its edge to trail my fingers.
I am content.

Water lilies are blooming,
Resting their beautiful faces upon the glassy surface,
Dangling their bodies in the depths.
I am jealous.

The water settles mirror smooth
And my own attire catches my eye.
The filmy white blouse, long blue skirt and odd shoes
Are not mine,
But I might have chosen them myself.
I am pleased.

I hear footsteps on the walk nearby
And look to find a straw-hatted old man
Gesturing kindly.

Mystery solved.
I smile at him,
Nod and wave.
I am to have an art lesson now
In a two-way exchange of fluent French
I never learned.

This is sugared French toast
Relished before waking;
A light-filled, bursting blue window
Created by Chagall,
Stepped into and through by me;
A sweet sleep
All cream
Dream.



I love to dance, but my dear husband is a little bit inhibited on the dance floor (maybe I am not inhibited enough), anyway one can imagine what it would be like to be of the same mind on the dance floor, just having fun, not worrying too much about doing it right or wrong, the occasional stepped on toe, etc. I have some married friends who share all kinds of imaginative fun like this together. This poem was inspired by them. The names have been changed to protect the innocent. Heehee.

Margie

Margie
Married
Another Leo,
A lion to enjoy her as lioness.
By day
They bask
In each others projected sun
And by night
In black-tie moonlight.
They move through a whirling
Instinctive dance,
Laughing at stepped on toes,
And that is the way
Two Leos
Make a
Marriage go.


Lilac Queen

Only me
Cutting lilacs in the Spring.
Feeling the sun on my cheeks,
Hearing the snap of the branch,
Then the brush of cool petals against my skin.
Breathing deeply in
Their purple, heady scent,
I am amazed by this perfectly regal perfume
Made mine
By a common bush.
Thus elevated,
I carry my basket of blooms
Back to the castle.

Admittedly, none of these flowers are lilacs, but aren't they wonderful? I love flowers.

When I was in college, I learned in English about the hidden observer in all of us, that part of ourselves that sees our lives as if from above at a slight distance. This part of me has always been pretty strong and time conscious, though previously I hadn't a name for it. Sometimes it needs taming, so I can really enter into the moment and enjoy life without worrying about that clock ticking, thus the following...


Bad Dog Shopping

Can you help me, please?
I need a leash with a muzzle
Or perhaps a curtained cage
With only a peep whole in it.

I need it for my very wayward pet.
You can see her here, I'm sure,
My harried Hidden Observer,
Resting her heavy paws on my shoulders.

She keeps stepping out of her den
Into the brightness.
See, like that, jumping
And barking,
"Night is coming."

I would turn her out,
I think I would
If I didn't need her so
To help me write
And perhaps to see and grasp and hold
Some of now for later.

Maybe I'm in the wrong shop.
Maybe what I need is a rain coat with a hood.
Then I wouldn't feel the wet
When she spills her bowl of sadness
Over moments so completely good.

Never mind.
I'll take care of it myself.

Oh, Me!
Stop dogging me!

Speaking of "bad" dogs, here is our beloved Josey after having a joyous moment of mischievous fun.

And this where I do a lot of my daydreaming...


Free Ride

A front porch swing is a lot like an airplane.
You can get in it and ride,
You can read,
You can fall asleep if you want.

It will take you places
You've been to before and want to revisit
Or to places you've never been
And can't wait to see.

Of course,
A swing is more convenient,
No packing,
No fees.

The Stair, etc.

The Stair

I'm standing in a dank and shadowy machine shed
Breathing in its earthy smell,
Gazing at a wonder,
My own spiral stair
Leading no-where.

I wished it here, I think.
Once on a rare trip into the city
I admired another such stair,
Somewhat grander of marble and metal,
But a similar curving, antique thrill.
I said out loud foolishly,
"Maybe someday,"
And amazingly before too long
My hero husband
Was rescuing a twirling "damsel in distress"
From a dying 1870s farmhouse.

God must have been listening
And took my wishing
For a prayer.

A year now
This wooden relic
Has been the stair for my air castles.

If it were to stay here
What odd fantasies might it incite
In later owners of this place?

It is too large for any earthly home
We can afford to raise
And so, I'm sure
We'll sell it to other dreamers
With deeper pockets.

I am satisfied to have owned it
For these many days,
To have imagined its possibilities.

Now practicality has spun out more realistic
Hope and plans,
I can relinquish the spiral stair
To other hands.


Gray Day

Ice
Thick and glistening gray
Weighs upon the branches
Of every tree.

Every tiny frond of evergreen
Encased, stiff and cold,
Drawn downward by its load.

Ice lays
Like sadness on the heart,
Oppressive
Heavy
Scarring

And melting away
In tears.


The Shoulder

"Writing is not a lady-like activity.
It reveals too much of who we are.
A woman needs a silken wrap of mystery
To fascinate a man,"
Advised Mamman.

But youthful, feminine
France wrote on,
Musing...

After all,
A soul can never completely
Disrobe.
A woman is forever
Modestly, mysteriously
Clothed
In newness,
Is she not?

Heartfelt words on a page
Might be just the tantalizing
Smooth, white shoulder,
The shapely bare ankle,
The very little seen
Which conjures the thought,
"If this, what more?"
That men adore.


Ice, or (Frost on the Window)

Design in one inch repeat.
Colors: Silver and Gold.
Curling feathers in crystalline print,
Feather to feather to feather,
Just touching,
Row upon row.
Perfect,
Ephemeral God cloth
Made of water and sunshine and cold.


March

The poet year is slipping by
And I
Don't want to let it go
Without the written words that make it so.

Terror and loss and war
And a possible interstate
Winding by our back door
Worry my mind.

Baby smiles and cries,
A loving husband,
A gem-house,
And extended family
Fill my time.

Still,
Only words on paper
Make the poet year
An actual happening,
History over fantasy.

March was a vacation.


Snow

Amazing to watch the snow,
Tiny flecks blowing in a white sky.
Many millions of them
Have been waylaid by our snow-fence,
Building up a crystal wall.
And many more, I see,
Passed it by
Drifting free
Across our drive
And country road,
Building up a Snow Day
To keep us home.

Our lane during a snow storm, looking back toward the old barn.