A volume with new binding,
strong, lusty, erect,
a spine that curls only
as I draw my fingers across it;
a form so forbidding,
and defiantly unyielding
that resists opening
until I whisper its title,
calling it by name,
and it finally
gives in.
Tag: poetry
Wordsmith Wednesday: Poem IX
I fell to sleep singing a love song;
a rhythm to my breathing,
with the cadence
of a chest rising and falling
to the beat of a ballad
that plays for you.
When I awoke
in the middle of the night
in the hollow of a barren silence,
I couldn’t find the music.
After I searched under the covers
and in the corners of the room,
I heard you humming the tune
that lulled me to sleep.
I should have known that only you
could take the music
from my throat.
Thanksgiving: On Generosity
Let’s collaborate
in celebrating
the soul of Thanksgiving
by giving
even
— and especially —
when the thanks
doesn’t come.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving Week: On Loneliness
Holidays are for many burdened souls
a “hollow daze,”
as the bright lights,
garish decorations,
and leviathan feasts
make them to recall
again
the empty chairs
and quiet corners.
(May you encounter an unanticipated peace this week.)
On Combat
Sometimes,
the war isn’t against evil
or taken up to trounce malice —
it’s a bloody, embittered battle
against policies, systems, precedents, and structures
too infirm and too narrow-focused
to extend their reach
to the people
who exist at the margins.
Wordsmith Wednesday – Poem VIII
Perhaps,
the only thing we destroy
more than the earth
is each other.
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Touchstone Tuesday – Poem V
Someone once told me
that a proper poem
is to have
within it
a rigid rhyme scheme.
So, I, I, I,
shattered their vase,
around which hung
the decayed petals
of iambic pentameters,
and watched,
as impropriety
crawled out.
_____________
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On Writing and Witchcraft
Writing is a witchcraft,
a sorcery that is concurrently
delicate and barbaric,
a self-determined incantation,
a quiet conjuring of all human passions,
a necromancy that whispers to ancestral creators
“I have felt you shape me,”
and it is into the melting cauldron
that the writer-witch pours
her own blood for creation.
Firestone Friday – Poem VIII
What is love
if not learning
the language of a heart
and speaking to it
the most gentle of words?
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Wordsmith Wednesday – Poem VII
There are always chains;
to the boulders of regret,
to the walls of doubt,
to the prison of loss.
For every thing
there is a chain –
but chain me to Christ.
____________
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Faith, Health, and Other Musings 