Gabriel’s Oboe


If Gabriel had an oboe,
as Morricone thought he might
he’d summon me low and soft as he did
wooing with ways and words
piercing my heart,
as he did.

sending arrows winged with declarations
announcing in my hearing
a salve-bringing message
healing the piercing,
releasing the flood
held back by brick-walled lies
and stone-cold pain,
untold ache I never knew
’til he announced the truth.

Angel–light bringer–
he’d hold my face
towards the sun,
as he did
speaking freedom over me,
affirming my release
pronouncing power, peace,
making me, this time,
the Messenger.

Homing Orb {a #poem}

Sideways glancing, face atilt

she watches, wondering

at our wandering, solemnly

sees our not-seeing.


How do we miss it–

the faithful lumen bursting

barren emptiness, sun’s reflection,

co-anchoring the sky?

Ignore her presence as she

pauses over our shoulder?


Nurturing nightlight, she whispers

to our worry, “Just Look Up,”

Somberly sits in the quiet,

as mothers are wont to do,

waits for us to wonder anew,

bear witness to her faithfulness

and find our way home

in the dark by her gauzy light.


photo, Google Images

Red Read-{a #poem}

     My son Aaron drew this, circa 1981

Last week I had a day off–yippee!–to go to Traffic Court. 
As I drove along in the car, I ‘wrote’ this poem–I put it on paper when I got home.

Traffic court assembly
A crew, United Nations-like
Standing in a not-line waiting to see
The Judge.
I’m here about my red car
That (they say) ran a red light,
Thanks to the ever-ready camera.
I’ve come to differ.
Surviving the intrusion of airport security
Come to this small town clerk’s room,
We file in; I sit front and center,
Ever the eager “See me? I want an A” student.
Not long to wait—
I’m alphabetically blessed–
Capital letter C.
I lean over to the young girl next to me
Penning her grocery list,
“I hope they don’t show those insidious videos here
In front of everyone. That would be embarrassing.”
I’m blushing red at the thought.
“That’d be like standing in front of God
At the bench, having the whole world view your life.”
She rolls her  eyes in response,
Exhales through rounded lips
A pregnant “Whoa………” of worry at the thought.
I recall my Pastor’s message from yesterday
And the words roll out before I can retrieve them,
“I’m glad that Jesus covers it all for me.”
Mr. Your Honor the Judge calls my name.
After reviewing the tape he declares,
“Mrs. C, the evidence is insufficient and because of
A technicality, your fine is dismissed. 
There is no need to pay.”
I think about The Judge
who’s passed my sentence onto His Son
And writes in red, “Dismissed.”
c. 2012  Jody Lee Collins


Manna Menu {a #poem}

Blue Plate Special–Good Today ONLY

Get your own bread,
Stop grabbing off your sister’s plate
And eyeing your brothers’.
I gave them just what they need—
I’ll do the same for you.
“What is it?”
“What is it?”
“but what IS  it?”
“You’ll just have to taste and see.”
“So what’s good today?” you ask.
We have items that are seasonal,
depending on what’s ripe and ready.
Wouldn’t want to give you anything too green-
It causes indigestion.
Like it???
Well, no, you can’t stuff some
In your pockets for tomorrow.
It’ll either turn into crumbs
From the pressure
Or get moldy—it’s dark inside there
And you’ll forget I gave you anything in the first place.
Don’t cram it all down at once—
Take small bites—
Then come back for more.
Do you have enough for today?
Great—we’ll see you tomorrow—
Your Father’s setting up a banqueting table….
 I’ve been reading the Pentatech and really feel for poor ol’ Moses leading the complaining children of Israel.  When they asked God for food (Exodus 16) God said he would ‘rain down bread from heaven” for them, and in this way he would ‘test them to see whether they will follow my instructions.’  Test them?  Well, that’s kinda  mean.  What instructions?  Why? To trust HIM, with a capital T.  He is teaching me to look to Him for something new and fresh and my own every day.         
‘manna’, accent on the 2nd syllable, literally means ‘what is it?’






Leaving Soon {a #poem}

You point to the air
up there,
wordless yet speaking.
your hands, eyes conveying something.
What do you see?
Are you ready? Yes.
Is it time? Maybe.
Leaning in, you listen.

You hear He’s come for you
but we can neither see nor hear
we’re earthbound, living,
tethered by the doing.
So we chat and move and do and help,
missing the Messenger.

But you see Him;
viewing the Invisible,
Confident He’s calling.
Yes, you’ll be leaving

My father-in-law Ernest Paul Collins passed away on the 4th of July, 2010, his Independence Day. It was a glorious home going.

Neat Little Package{a #poem}

I wrote this poem on the January day in 2003 when my first grandson, Hanan Samuel, was born. 
This week he turned 9….I wanted to share this to honor him.

Your birth today unequivocally proved

that science still can do nothing

at explaining the miraculous.

The day you came into the world

the university physicists claimed to

be pursuing an explanation of gravity.

an unseen force, it defies definition actually

They lamented that “it can’t exactly be pinned down” and

“doesn’t act in a way that science can explain.

It has been said that “nothing important is completely explicable.**”

Indeed, your miraculous birth cannot be explained apart from God,

your creation cannot be contained.

Though swaddled tightly now,

you will not be confined to a neat little package.

Your long, wiggling fingers will noodle on a keyboard some day,

Your legs will flail in the ocean waves,

Your daddy-sized feet will carry you into the unknown,

You will fall, you will climb, you will think and create.

We will sit back and watch, observe and record

As you unfold from this neat little package.

Hanan Samuel Collins, Age 8
Multnomah Falls, OR
**Madeline L’Engle