Jesus Crucified–A Guest Post

Today, I’m guesting for my lovely and talented journalist friend, Emily. She has been focusing on the Stations of the Cross, and we shall focus on Jesus Crucified.

 

Jesus Crucified photo-14

 

I.

the Word–

the Word who was made Flesh

splayed open

to the humid heat of bodies mingling at the foot of the cross,

to the tears of Mother Mary

to the murmur of sinful syllables

spoken for the Word’s death.

 

II.

the Word—

the Word who spoke

the tree seed into existence

its roots cut open mother earth’s womb

as limbs reached up, branches contained life and death,

did You, the Word, the Word made flesh

watch as Your cross grew?

To read this, head over to Emily’s blog by clicking here.

Baptized

IMG_0410

i’ve been baptized

in the pure love

of dog’s tongue.

wetness sticks to skin,

slobbering pants

stinking of the corn

or rotting deer carcass

you buried behind

blackberry briars and johnson grass

now, resurrected.

In just–

time splits open

and the holy beyond fuses

together in fur and paws and tongue

and licks away

my fears.

wash here

Poet Prayers

wash here. i crowd last night’s dinner

plates, cups, spoons coated in grease and leftover chicken

down deep in the soapsuds like a baptismal font.

between the scrub, rinse, dry–

silence eats into the back corners,

recites all of the caked mess life spattered

all over my heart, or worse, i did to myself.

i need to be clean too. with feeble words

heart murmurs, stir up the old woman lies

dunk them in the purifying water–

come out forgiven, new.

 

This month, we will begin a series of poems on grace. I’m looking forward to spending time contemplating this idea in poetry.

Prayer Looks Like

sometimes,

prayer looks like

a black hole,

a wide maw open

inhaling all of our

fuck this and what the hells

into nothingness.

our words drown

in the bottomless weight

of darkness.

 

sometimes,

prayer looks like

an open field

grass bending over

listening to  windtalkers,

our words filling in

the empty spaces

between gusts and stills.

but….

where is god?

he is the still voice

urging us to speak.

 

Purging the Old Away

Purging the Old Away 

I.

watch the smoke billow higher,

toward cloud and moon.

the wood cracks and hisses

out its last words

then–silent. more to come.

II.

sweep the confetti floors

till carpet is blue again.

new year purges the tattered memory

even when it tries to hang on

by a dusty cobweb thread.

III.

 look around and ask–what’s left?

nothing but newness;

waiting to become

old.

we shall be heard

come you soprano wailers,

come you alto crooners,

you off-key hand raisers–

come, we shall be heard in the High Country.

 

watch the stones

rumbling on the mountainside

early morning bass notes

tremble out.

listen as the trees

knee slap their limbs

beatslap us an accompanient.

there, join arms with these sisters

raise, raise, raise

your voices-soprano, alto, off-key

doesn’t matter…fill this place

with harmony.

 

come you soprano wailers,

come you alto crooners,

you off-key hand raisers–

come, we shall be heard in the High Country.

we wait here

i know these mornings.

wind blows around, through

catching the lip of my cuff,

eating away the night’s sleep.

we wait here

to listen for the sunrise

behind the clouds–

frozen and warm,

exhausted and alive–

yes, i know these mornings.

31 Days of Poetry{day 29} Seen

i’ve seen god walk in

upon the tail winds

of a hurricane.

felt the wind

pull on what tethers me

to this earth, this life,

watched everything

bend to him.

but sometimes–

god arrives, silent and slow,

on the back of my housecat

(wanderlust overtook him)

after i’ve given up hope.

31 Days of Poetry{Day 7} Your Hands

Dear God, 

Your Hands moved

Dust and mud

Caked together

To form us.

Oceans, trees, mountains–

A word sufficed.

But humanity needed

Your hands.

 

How have you seen God’s hands in your life?

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We Live These Lies

We know how to live 

A thousand lies

But not one fragment

Of truth.

 

Lies are easy lovers–

Full of forked tongue

Syrup poison.

We sip

This liquid magic

Never together, apart only.

 

Truth is hard

Raw and starchy

Like a newly unearthed potato

But it moves our blood

Into graceful rhythms.

 

Yet–

We rot our lives

On these small white

Liquid lies,

Then choke on our bile

After we indulge.

 

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