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.

Guest Post: Poetry and Pause

Today, I’m guest posting for one very talented reporter, blogger, and friend. Emily Miller and I met at the Renew and Refine Writer’s Retreat back in May. She has been featuring spiritual practices these past few weeks, and I am adding my voice with the spiritual practice of poetry. 

Dew scattered like seeds
Clinging to the silver-slicked grass
Bending low as the Sun dances
Over the trees…

Morning comes too soon. The alarms blares; the dogs whine to be let out; the coffee brews too slowly. Everything crackles with life and immediacy and the pull and tug of its busyness. My mind races through every detail of the coming day just before sunup when the world is still calm and dark and expectant. IMG_0134

“Write this blog post, go to the gym you just joined, finish up those lesson plans, revise your fiction piece…”

To read the rest please head over to Emily’s blog!

On the September Road

IMG_0134

The leaves  tinged with orange-gold.

Just around the edges curling,

the middle holds on to its summer frock a little while longer.

I drive down the road, ruler straight,

With only a pasture or two breaking up the tree lines.

Autumn poised at the door, finger touching the bell,

Ready to announce her arrival.

Those Liars

IMG_0551

greed and envy

twin whores standing

underneath the forbidden fruit

polishing a single plumfleshed orb

until it reflected

our blueblackgreenbrown eyes back to us.

we stared into this mirror–

into our unspoken wants

like  sea monsters lurking down

below the ocean’s perpetual tide

tugged by the marionette puppeteer, the moon

(another silver tongued liar)

we plug our ears to the quiet voice whispering–

wait…”

and grasp, bite, see

those whores cackling at naked bodies.

 

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.

The Shore

This past weekend, I attended Renew and Refresh writing retreat. During the free time, I wandered the grounds taking pictures and writing poetry. This poem was inspired by this retreat. Nature's Office

The Shore

i asked the shore:

why–

why stay here

drowning yourself

in the molasses  waves,

letting the water

drag its claws across your gritty flesh

then–

spitting it out for fish food?

 

it’s reply:

how else will i see 

the other side?

 

If in the Quiet

IMG_0134

i’ve learned

the quiet doesn’t mean

silence.

nothing shuts up

blue jays

cackling after the sun

rises above the pine tree line

just beyond the hay field.

even the sun

melting over the night-wet grass

like burning sugar

crackling awake the doe

to sprint across pell-mell

leaping into the dew fog

and gone.

i’ve learned

that quiet is–

so often–

LOUD.

Skin

Skin IMG_4058

knuckle rough, heel cracked

brush off the dried up

white to the floor–

such a waste

of good currency!

bought the bus seat,

no questions,

bought the truth,

come the trial,

bought laws and police and—

 

enough!

let it go

down to dust,

peel back those cells,

fabric binding us together,

see? the same pulsings beneath.

 

Planting Time

fresh herbs

the land is mudbrown

gullied out as winter rains

uproot the yellow grass.

winds call to branches, to briars,

singing in a minor key.

 

but just over there–

rosemary bends;

lavender extends her bare arms

to the motley sky.

soiled turned.

weeds evicted.

we wait for planting time

again.