Monday, April 22, 2019

NaPoWriMo: #18 Remembering Ozark Childhood Pleasures....

Ozark After Service Playground

I’d ramble though the cemetery
Where the grass was soft
Still filled with dew
At noon on a Sunday afternoon
Skipping through the headstones
Playing tag and studying
What people die of
Or where they were from
Or speculating where they went to
By the small clues
On worn out tombs
That were our play things
Not really knowing the folk
That smoked and choked
Their way into these graves
We thought them snug as bugs in a rug
Dug down deep
Not scary or strange
Just sitting on stones
Letting the wind blow
My ringlets swinging like bells
As the church would toll in time
It rang to call me in
From a grand day of pasture play
Tattling to all saying,
“It is time to go little girl.
Out from those that have gone
into the car with those bound in bond.
Safe with your family,
waving bye to friends
That played with you today.”
Then bumping over the dirt path
Finally, out onto the country blacktop
Like a hot bath the heat would cook us alive
Till I begged to open the car window
To the wide world
In the stiff wild wind whistling by
I’d stick out my head
Sucking in the summer salty seeds
That stuck to me like glue
Undoing the Sunday best
Rearranging frilly buttons and bows
To hear the bees buzz
In my ears as we sped
further down the road
pointed towards home

Sunday, April 21, 2019

NaPoWriMo #17: Thinking about Mary and Jesus this Easter Day

Mother Mary, May I?
How did it feel
To grow God inside
When nothing else had been?
You had a notion of the eternal
Looking down on everyone
He chose you to do
What you’d only imaged
Would come years later
With the love of a man
And with no man
Born of woman
And spirit only
You cradled in your arms
Kept from every harm
Dried his tears
Heard his fears
Was mother to the father
Of all fathers
Listened as he dispensed wisdom
At a young age
Then began his ministry
But disturbing as it seemed
He talked of his death
And resurrection
How could God give this miracle
This miracle worker
Your boy turned man
Who spanned generations
And was generous
With his time and talents
He was bringing a nation together
Just to be torn apart by his death
Your heart died with him
Mary, you thought you were dreaming
Did an angel come?
But you knew he grew
Out of somewhere and not from you
Or any man and so it must be true
And then he came back
You heard he was here
You ran down the road
To kneel at his feet
As he proved God
He stood as man
Whole and yours
Ours, you thought
Given now bought
The high price of blood
That protects from the judge
Jesus embraced you
Wiped your tears
Held you close
Put away your fears

Thursday, April 18, 2019

NaPoWriMo: #15 & 16 Physical Therapy and Maundy Thursday

Physical Therapy
“Yes, the other therapist told me you were easily inflamed.”
I sat with that label as she pulled and prodded
She massaged and yanked
“Sorry, was that too hard?”, she asked
As I winced internally
Seeing a star or two
Wondering, “What did I do to deserve this?”
A friend recently said that she calls this process
“pain and torture” instead of what it is
I contemplated if I was taking in
All she was saying I needed to do
And I thought about all the advice
That comes my way in every given day
And all I wish to dispense
But whine within
Wondering if I really am just “easily inflamed”?
Or do I ignore that stab of hitting that one sore spot
Until I see red?
She inquired, “Is that too much?”
“Yes, yes, I think I’m done!”
(Uncle, uncle you’ve won!)
The pain will be worth it
It always is in the end

An upper room
Impending doom
Was all around
Not said out loud
His best beloved
Pushed close, shoved
To sit by Him
The Last Supper by Leonardo Da Vinci 
No other allowed in
He blessed the bread
Named it his body instead
He poured the wine
For the last time
“It is my blood
poured out in love.
Drink and taste.”
They did in haste
They knew he said
He would soon be dead
And would rise again
To cleanse men’s sin
They didn’t understand
This humble man
One slipped away
To get paid
Darkness came
Judas stained
God’s hand in motion
Disciple’s devotion
To a garden’s edge
Hollow words, a pledge
A prayer, a plea
“Father, can this pass from me?”
Torches touch night
There is nearly a fight
Jesus is taken away
He chooses who to save

Tuesday, April 16, 2019

NaPoWriMo: #14 Desk Habits

It is not always easy to describe silly things I do at my desk to take a quick break, but somehow it works to bring me somewhere new.

Speckled Glass Wings
The cool slide
of poke-a-dot underside, slips
Over my wrist skin
Making me feel satisfied
That I know what I like
Even if it is just for a second
Or three as I think
Looking up at the blue
Outside my window
And now my head drops
Noticing my desk is
a contrasting deep royal blue
I am struck that is the color of sea
I am transported under observing
Soft sea grass waves,
Wale shark above and darkness below
I swim quiet miles meeting no one
Then to emerge, upright and no struggle,
Salt-filled water licking my ankles
I turn to squint at the endless horizon
Stretching further than sight
I stand still till rocks have shadows
The curious creatures venture out
From underneath craggy castles at dusk
to riddle with me
What is out there beyond the edge?
The curve that tilts
Wrapping round to the upside down
The water is strained
Looking so different in opposite-land
Where feet are hands and hands can be replaced
Taken off and shot into outer-space
Sound of sirens or horns knock me back
Unwanted interlopers into my smooth
Minute of grace
The blue has turned to dark gray-blue
Refocusing on the dotted widow
Tiny temples of raindropsn
That is the pin-prick persuasion
That pursues my shapes
That waltz and rumba
In my fuzzy world
Where I reach out to touch
What is there
The solid glass ladybug
I pick up again
From beside my computer
To pick her up
Sliding her up and down
My wrist ceremoniously
Till the pieces fit
And I return
In and out
As the tide

Monday, April 15, 2019

NaPoWrMo: #14 The Burning of the very sad

I tried to find a past poem I wrote about Quasimodo, but I couldn't find it. I think it is posted here somewhere on this blog. However, the sad news today is all I could think about. Here is my poem offering tonight.

Holy Fire Week
A casual observer
Shocks me to my socks
“I hear Notre Dame is burning!”
I had no words
A blur of color and wind
Paris in all seasons
And that place
That settled my inner being
By being a center
Of a city, a time, an era, and history
Mine, yours, ours, and a nation

It was seen to tour the beauty

But to know the celestial wonder
Of the story of Christ though

The church and the lives
Of so many faithful
That sang, prayed, and gathered
Here as an anchor
To God so far away
Brought closer in this
Cathedral of opulence through simplicity

The worn faces of apostles
Staring out to the city
Guarding the passers by
Gargoyles crouching
Ready to pounce on any evil thing
That dared to swirl around the doors
Or fly up to the bell tower
They would be ejected
Caught in the teeth
Of those gruesome guards
And spit out to be
Splattered on stones below

They are the gatekeepers
That welcome in the bright light
Through that multi-hued round window
Named for a rose
Delicate as each petal
Touching to form a whole
Which colored the colorless
Bathed them in afternoon warmth
God’s loving embrace from above
This warming peace through light

Though the halls and nooks
Were quite dark
The lights were always enough
To illuminate what was hidden
In corner alcoves, a Bible story
Painted or sculpted for us to understand
Seeing the searching faces of those
Who sought God’s presence before us

At some angles on the outside
The building looked like it was about to launch
The flying buttresses holding it steady
For nearly a thousand years
The spire, perhaps the last to be built
Pointing so straight up to God
If ever there was a neon sign
that was the one
and now it is gone
Consumed by unholy fire

From an unknown source

The people weep
Not knowing where to look
As the sign has collapsed
In a gasp, trying to breathe
Out it’s last words
Still standing
God not gone
I will rise again
This is Easter’s song
My son in red walking towards the church 7/2017

Saturday, April 13, 2019

NaPoWrMo: #12 Thoughts on The Diary of Anne Frank

We went to Seattle Children’s Theatre’s lovely rendition of A Diary of Anne Frank tonight. It got me to thinking of all she must have thought. A lifetime of thoughts in one so very young. Here is my attempt to put that into words.

Anne’s Diary of Hidden Places
A small tight space
Standing side by side for hours
Bombs going off
Shaking the plaster
Down until we look like
Old men and women
Even though some of us are children
We might die as the old
Even though we haven’t
Fallen in love, walked in the sun holding hands
Found our place taking up the space
We thought we could or would
The world hasn’t heard our voices
It wasn’t our choice
To go into hiding
Because our customs
Our beliefs are different
And we are from old lineage
Our heritage scares
The man across the street
Because we are many
We are now being hunted
Down to few
I cry seeing a sliver of the open sky
Imagining I’m a bird
That can fly far away
From the destruction and hate
I believe all men are really good at heart
This is where they start
They are like barren trees
That sprout buds
Bursting forth from love’s
Eternal spring calling
Into a full strong tree
Full, green leaves of life
That shade me when the sun
Is too strong
So, I can rest
This is what I think of
Crammed in where I don't belong
Waiting for the noise to end
The sorrow that drowns my dreams
To drain away
And though I am soaked
I will dry off
And write about the glorious sun
That is the prettiest sunset
And I will see it in the dawn
Of my new day
The world’s new love
For all mankind

Thursday, April 11, 2019

NaPoWriMo: #11 Thoughts about cloudiness...

Cloudy Days
A dome is over my home
Hovering just above the tree line
I sometimes feel trapped
Not wanting to be under it
As it shatters down as spiky shards
Cloud-shards stabbing me
The pain is unbearable
I want to see open sky
And know warmth
Other days, the soft white-gray
While I see nothing,
I do feel cozy, snug
Huddling deeper into my blankets
Imagining far away green hills
A home in spring
With the wet coming down outside
That washes everything
From time and grief
My childhood home
Filled with music
The voice floating from the kitchen
My mother’s clear soprano
And the distinct smell of cinnamon
Inviting me to taste and see
All that is good