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

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

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

Madatum

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

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

NaPoWrMo: #14 The Burning of the Bells...so very sad

https://spiritdailyblog.com/news/notre-dame-burning

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

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

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