Friday, September 26, 2014
DEATH TO DELAY
I loathe thee, procrastination,
for all that you do;
for the walls built up around me
for the suffocating weight of to-be-dones
that is your doing.
One day, procrastination,
I will find you.
I will track you to the shadowy mind holes
where you lurk.
I will hunt you down.
One day you will wake from your apathy
to find my fingers wrapped
around your cold grey neck.
One day, procrastination,
I will slaughter you.
But not today.
Today, I will sit here awhile
and read a book.
Friday, September 19, 2014
VIEW FROM INSIDE THE KALEIDOSCOPE
Where is "I"?
Lost in a forest
of frenetically firing synapses:
what is a glyptodon?
Dinner should be chicken.
Daffodil spray, gold on green and bright!
Music, music, music
comes crashing down around me.
Where were you
and where was I
and we were all together.
Where is Borneo?
Struggling on through thoughts
thick as Spanish moss in my eyes
and a noise of bees deafening my ears.
Muddy, muddy, can't get through,
broken branches, broken promises,
music, music, music.
Suitcase full of musty mildew smells and memories.
Where did I leave my shoes?
The dog needs a bath.
Ruby red and liquid orange,
the smell of dish soap.
Story of a bus in trouble.
When did I fly?
Friday, September 12, 2014
I don't write too many rhyming things, and when I do, they tend to be odd rhythms, like this. But I'm rather fond of this one.
Field of daisies
turn in time with the sun;
I am running to meet you
down by the water
where trails of light meld into one
which leaps 'cross the ripples
and into tomorrow
where the waves reach up to the sky
and the golden of daylight
meets the purple of twilight--
we stand watching night drawing nigh.
There's a hush on this moment
one golden moment
I am caught in a moment with you;
With my hand in your hand
we walk back through daisies,
asleep now--awaiting their dew.
The sun clocks have stopped
as though time has ceased:
we walk on eternity's shore.
In the blue-velvet darkness
I am awestruck by beauty;
my heart is too full to take more.
Friday, September 5, 2014
I swear, I do write happy poems from time to time. Ah well.
The land...the land.
The land is all he has these days:
thrice times twenty acres,
field and forest, blade and tree,
and all the sky above--
but not a soul to call his own.
He built this house himself, you know,
every brick and shingle,
every nail and hinge placed
by his own two work-hard hands:
a shelter meant for her, so long ago,
his Emily, the queen of his heart.
He courted her with simple words and raindrops
for all a promising spring and all a fruitful summer,
but when the time came ripe to ask her,
he turned his face away and said, "Not yet."
Not until he'd a finished home to offer.
Not until his own fields
stood golden in the sun at harvest time.
Then came the war,
and the far away,
and when he returned to his empty house,
he found she'd grown tired of "Not until,"
and settled for "Why not?"
Life goes on.
He's watched these fields
through thrice times twenty growing seasons,
the undisputed ruler
of a green and verdant wasteland;
good years and bad years,
but what has he to show for all that?
The land...the land.
The land is all he has these days,
and not a soul to call his own.
Friday, August 29, 2014
What is this "no time to read" you speak of?
My problem is different:
no time for anything else.
Dishes pile up in the sink,
in the hamper the dirty laundry expands and expands,
my carpet is growing fur.
But I have no time for these--
there are books to be read:
books and books,
e-books and tree books,
and more where those came from.
No time to read?
A fascinating concept.
You must tell me more when I have a moment--
let me finish this chapter.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
he asked his disciples,
“Who do people say that the Son of Man is?”
They replied, “Some say John the Baptist, others Elijah,
still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.”
He said to them, “But who do you say that I am?”
Simon Peter said in reply,
“You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.”
Jesus said to him in reply,
“Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah. For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my heavenly Father.
And so I say to you, you are Peter,
and upon this rock I will build my church,
and the gates of the netherworld shall not prevail against it.
I will give you the keys to the kingdom of heaven.
Whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven;
and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.”
Then he strictly ordered his disciples
to tell no one that he was the Christ.
Frankly, I struggled a bit to find any deeper meaning in the readings this week. I mean, on the surface, they're pretty cut and dried: God appoints who he wishes to appoint, and, as St. Paul says in the second reading. "How inscrutable are his judgments and how unsearchable his ways!" Hey, Peter, you're in charge.
In the end, I got caught up in seeing things from Peter's perspective. On a personal level, I can identify with him a bit here because I feel like I'm in a time of transition: making some adjustments, working a little to find who and what and where I'm meant to be. And I wonder what Peter felt in the midst of some of these GIANT CHANGES God was working in his life. He had a stable life at one point, a familiar place, a job he knew and understood. In a short period of time, he answered a call and left all that behind. He is given an entirely new name. Although we aren't told all of his thoughts, I can imagine it must have frequently been both humbling and terrifying.
He was a simple fisherman. There were so many disciples who were, on the surface, much better prepared to lead a Church that would sweep the world: educated men, men with important families, important positions. Can you imagine what people would say today if you decided to assemble an international organization, and out of the blue you stuck some small town fisherman at the head? It boggles the mind. I feel for him.
And yet, he managed it. God gave him the wisdom he needed, the knowledge, the people to support him. He found his faith, and in the end, he found the strength to die for that faith.
It gives little old me hope.
Friday, August 22, 2014
ON THE SHORE
I stand on the shore in my solitary state
and across the water watch them:
distant figures on the far shore,
figures of mirth and peace.
The distance obscures,
but in my mind's eye I see them as clear
as if I was in their happy company.
An old man, silver hair glinting,
stands, rough elbows bent,
feet in the sand,
in the dark sand at water's edge
where a blonde child in red
builds towers to the sky:
beautiful misshapen castles
lumpy, bumpy, dripped mud and shell,
bringing beauty to ugliness
as only a child can.
She raises innocent eyes to smile at him;
two generations removed,
she is his own,
his future, his love made new.
and am blessed in watching,
though I hurt:
for what have I been spared
that I am left lonely,
left outside the lives of others
touching corners only,
a circling satellite
adrift in the night sky?
Times there are when I wonder if,
should I be taken, now or time far off,
will there be any to mourn?
What mark have I left, and who
would mark my passing?
My going would be
like the drop of a pebble in these waters,
ripples observed, but scarce noted
before the calm waters smooth over again.
There are no castles on the shore for me,
no child of tomorrow.
Though perhaps it matters not in the vast world that is to come,
in this world, for this I grieve.