Poetry
speaks in tongues
that shine within
the darkening days
dismantling our walls
built upon sands
that shimmer and shake
exposing dragons
in nightmares
revealing scales
thick with grief
There I was,
a straight white guy
standing in the midst
of this diversity of people
who were happy,
happy, despite the hate
happy, to give hugs
happy, to hold hands
happy, to kiss and love,
who am I to say they’re wrong
or that they don’t belong,
what does it mean
to be straight anyway,
when really
no one truly is,
so maybe if we look
and see happiness
emerging from people
maybe we’ll find happiness
within ourselves
and the healing we need
Hand holds the red rose
Thorns pierce white flesh
Blood flows
A river of pain
No one to understand
Crushed under
Meaningless lust
Buried under the purple-red bruises
Red eyes filled with tears
The red sun sets
A fiery end
My Child
Her tears were falling
washing memories away
of the empty crib.
Pilate
He sits at table
reaches for the blood red wine
with his blood stained hand.
Good Friday
Day has become night
the condemned slowly die
the people walk away.
Maundy Thursday
Bread is broken open
dirty feet cleansed with his tears
as wine becomes blood.
Love Lost
In the dim moonlight
I reach out to feel your warmth
in that vacant space.
Today is a sad day, Mary Oliver has died. I only recently discovered her poetry in the past couple of years, I admired the way she could evoke a feeling in the way she used words. For her poetry was in everything, even in the smallest of creatures she could see a poem. I am not even a blip on the screen of poetry writing compared to Mary Oliver, my poems struggle to break free from the confines of my heart and to see the light of day. I try, I really try, to write something, anything that tells the truth of what I see and feel. Mary’s poetry, did just that, when I read one of her poems I cannot help but get a tear in my eye and a lump in my throat. Maybe because whatever I write cannot hold a candle up to what she has said and done. I know that I shouldn’t compare myself to her, after all, she was a poet long before I even knew what poetry was all about, but when you’ve sat at the feet of greatness and tried with everything you had to learn and absorb, you soon discover that isn’t enough. To write a poem is to enter into the world at a slant, to see in even the smallest grain of sand on a wide beach, a poem. That single blade of grass, that defies the concrete and darkness imposed upon it, breaks forth through even the tiniest crack to stretch itself out to the sun. No matter what happens, no matter how often it is cut back, poisoned, or pulled, it still somehow, defies all of those efforts and breaks through the layers of earth and concrete, as if to say to the world, “Here I am, here I will show the world that life is the final answer, not death”. That is the poets world, their vocation, to show the world that whatever darkness there is that seeks to bury the poetry, it still springs anew in the hearts of those who are broken. Our world, our society, our families, we need the poets, all of the poets, even those of us who struggle with our own poetry. Mary Oliver gave me hope, even in my darkest of days when I couldn’t even find that crack in the pavement, her words were my light and my life. Like her, I don’t simply want to end up just having visited this world, I want to end up having lived and experienced this world. I want to have seen the great oak as it bends in the summer breeze, and watch the flight of geese in perfect order, fly to the horizon, to know that even I, a small grain of sand on a long stretch of beach, am able to find the words to write and the poem to sing
Fall leans into winter
a reminder that we
need to lie fallow
to rest and prepare
our hearts and souls
for the coming of a child
who brings peace
into our conflicted world
time of sabbath
embracing the silence
as nature renews
frost coating empty fields
denuded trees stretch limbs
into cold gray skies
a scent of snow
on the breeze
mixes with wood fire
from darkened homes
as people give thanks
resting in that peace
of knowing God’s presence
in the deep silence
that calls us to be still.
Now we wait
in the midst of the noise
we wait
the anticipation grows
the need for light intensifies
our hearts are not filled
with the goods being hawked
so we get more
thinking to fill the emptiness
that will never be filled
so the soul waits
knowing what we do not
knowing that the true light
is so near, yet, so far
it knows our needs
even as we run
from the love reaching out
touching us deeply
and in the silent watches
we stand still
hearing the whispers of life
of peace on earth for all
