Writer’s Break {a #poem}

I’ve been awash in words

of late, missing out on the

wind waving through steel

branches, blue and white

sky. Eyes too crowded to

take note of the weather

which goes on without me,

whether I watch it or not.

A glance through the dining

room glass speaks loudly

in all caps.

I am listening.

“There is no earth-changing

work worth writing that

can compare to the lines written

in the night sky on an early

March evening.”

Memory safely deposited for

another day, I bank on the Holy

Spirit’s call to tug at my downward

eyes next time I am consumed

with my own importance.

I will myself to remember–look up.

~:~:~:~:~

I’ve been soaking myself in poet/writer/editor John D. Blase’s poems in “The Jubilee”, a collection recently released for his 50th ‘jubilee’ birthday. Each piece packs a wallop in the words; if you enjoy poetry, may I suggest you run, click or drive to get yourself a copy? 

When Your Workout Includes Wait Training

P1200354I want to fly these dumbbells

up, down, up, down

quick! The momentum of each

lift rising at my side pushing past

perhaps what’s safe or wise

in the name of what? Speed

or yes, the checklist-exercise-

done! When I slow instead,

face the window and raise

these weighted arms slow,

slow, slow-up; slow, slow, slow-

down-the strain increases but the

work muscle-wise is longer lasting.

I feel the wait and wonder if speed

is highly overrated. Aware of the

answer, I rest into the process

lifting again, lowering at my leisure.

Repeat.Relax.Rest.Return.

And find a lesson in these weights,

an exercise written over taut skin,

reaching to my soul.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I’m heading to the Cascade Mountains of Washington for a weeklong writing project (first draft of my little book!). I covet your prayers for this process–I’d like to speed it up, but God keeps reminding me He’s with me while I wait on Him for the words.

Physical Science {a #poem}

“Samara,” she said and the words
took flight in my hearing,
invisible windborne flora
soaring across my thoughts.
She spoke of wings, a divine
creation spinning towards
earth to plant itself like a
stubborn weed-fierce and stuck.
Imagination took root,
sending me flying home
towards Webster’s–
‘some-are-uh’ – and there
a black and white drawing of
a seed with wings
“an indehiscent, usually 
one-seeded fruit, of the ash 
or maple.”

Like that spinning tree-gift
may I fly holy words,
carrying the seed of my
Saviour to land, stuck
and stubborn, finally
splitting into silent roots
then skyward, bearing
fruit with wings.
~~~~~~~
sometimes a poem inspires a poem.
Thank you, Laurie Klein

Week One-A Prayer

P_20190323_074539.jpgI wish I could collect
the light, landing its shadows
on this page as it creeps
ever brighter through the gray.

Pour it out to wash my heart,
salve the wound of this
present heaviness, the sighs
that never end.

Hold it lightly aloft, praying
no sharp wind or
quiet, steady breeze
snuff it out, for we
need it so

Father, carry us,
ferry us through storms,
silent and proud as we
shine hope in the right
direction–people-ward
up ward.

Send us, spread us
like the daily sure rising
of your sun, that moves ever
on into the distant dark.

I’ve Been Asking

hold your plans with an open hand
Jesus,
because He said I could
(ask)
about a Five Year Plan–
like a plannable annuity
with a guaranteed return on
my investment.
as if…
as if a sure answer for my tomorrows would bring
me peace today.
He whispers instead what’s doable–
the Five Hour Plan-a chunk
of time allotted to say, oh, baking
a pie–
manageable, like a tried and true recipe
gather ingredients
check oven
double check recipe
mix, roll, bake
voila! a pie, sure as
shootin’.
Yes, I asked Jesus about
what’s ahead…on down
the road…
over the hill
and of course (you guessed it)
He handed me a peach.

 

The Practice of Pondering While Making Soup

d6003-tulips

Facing the stove, I busy my hands

with this thrice-cooked fowl, weaving water
herbs and onions to conjure a warming

repast for our souls.
Skin holds meat, meat holds
bone (or is it the other way around?) and
as chunks slip and slide into the bubbling
pot before me, I wonder, wordless,
at the speed with which we revere
and revile our fellow human beings.

In the other room a happy tumult erupts.
A television voice announces it’s a beautiful
day in LaLaLand. Steady sun shines
on folks arriving via car and carpet as
crowds cheer.
Some of them will be handed the world.
Perhaps they deserve it.
The cynical may scoff at these bright gifts
offered to those who chase and make
‘silly dreams.’
Why all the to do over such a shallow
show, this vanity diminished by the weight
of headlines, today’s news, my own life?

Perhaps it is precisely dreams we need.