The following are poems that sprang out of my journal. I’ve been taking a class in contemplative writing that has brought me back to the smarts opening the gate for my words, however they want to run. Research has shown handwriting can avert dementia. Even as a young woman I could feel poems rising, when my mind clouded over, cluttered. But I forgot. The less I pack my brain pixels the more my own thoughts rise. It’s as if I didn’t think my thoughts were worthy, so I flicked open my phone in every spare minute. But they are worthy. Right now, I’m weary of prose. Poets Ted Kooser,Sherman Alexie, Joseph Massey, Tanya Runyan write magic with their words. So Poetry, the call to be a poet, well, I’m back, at least this week. I hope you enjoy these.
The first one was inspired by Martin Shaw’s story “We Will Know Spring” where he braids a long night in the airport with the Wedding in Cana. The second comes from Psalm 71:9. The third from Psalm 71:4 and the fourth from Kingdom Code, on Substack. Â
1.
Water into wine–
thirst quencher to joy giver to blunt pain
that makes the world swirl a bit.
At least for me.
Jesus’ first grace to his people.
The best for last.
Well, he says the last shall be first, the first last.
How ever would I be happy at a feast?
Sure, I step forward at the eucharist,
stand, take the wafer, sip the wine,
stand with people I don’t know,
some I don’t like.
I look Pastor in the eye—
eyes like hayfields
coming green.
I sure as hell don’t know how to party.
I have never been to a wedding party,
where I relaxed and danced.
I don’t know how to dance.
And the food was stilted, except for the cake.
And the talk around the table as quiet,
as the talk around post funeral luncheons
with strangers brought together by the deceased.
After we speak about the weather,
I am silent.
They are silent with me.
My seat the safest place,
until the ride home, away from the small, rural town,
away from the town postmistress, quilter, basket weaver.
Now ashes in a box.
Now in her husband’s broken heart.
2.
“Do not cast me off in the time of old age;
Forsake me not when my strength is spent.”
Cast, a horse caught in a stall, curled up.
Legs helpless to lift them.
The panic of being frozen.
Stuck against the walls.
The panic of a mind going blank.
Nothing there, nothing there, nothing there
when I am talking and her name is gone.
I can’t name her.
I can’t say so and so
with her sitting across the room.
I drop the talk.
A silence billows,
That’s supposed to mean sainthood,
supposed to mean God
who billows into Presence.
Cast, frozen against a wall.
Four strong legs helpless to lift,
to move when the panic
kicks my sides to rise, gallop
across the fields, wind combing
through my hair.
Oh Lord, cast me not away
in my old age.
Forsake me not when my strength is spent.
3.
“Rescue me from the hand of the wicked.”
The sun sets dropping gold into the sky.
The ark of the covenant covered in gold.
The wisdom of man not the wisdom of God.
When I talk to the man
who says saints flow inside and out
some good, some not so good
I have walked into a valley
cool with vegetation and sink holes.
It’s a hard walk back to the farm
through the sumac flaming
with berries the color of dried blood
and taller than I am.
There’s the train again.
The honest horn marking road crossings
our road to the east and to the west.
As far as the east is from the west,
our transgressions thrown from us.
That night I pray for the poet to protect me.
The next day the neighbors’ burn pile ignites
for no reason–no hot ash, no lithium,
no sun magnified to catch tinder,
just a gray curl of smoke.
I am talking to my priest friend
when I get word the fire
has lapped up cornstalks,
run down the fenceline
patted the oak tree I look to all day.
The priest shows me an icon he’s made
surrounded by a swirl like Van Gogh’s starry night
wings with eyes, wings with stripes, wings with eyes,
curled around each other
a tiny face peering out the middle.
4.
On Substack I saw a man saw an ammonite,
the steel saw sharp enough to cut stone,
his fingers dangerously close.
The stone wet, living flesh.
Whitby Island writhed with snakes
St. Hilda turning each to stone.
Cuthbert followed, cutting off each head.
The stone wet, living flesh.
When the saw stopped,
the stone glistened,
iridescent like a rainbow
or a fish just drawn from water.
The man pulled the stone apart
to show a spiral staircase,
a spiral galaxy,
a spiral spiritual climb to God.
Below are the sources for this poem.
https://www.nhm.ac.uk/discover/snakestones-ammonites-myth-magic-science.html
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