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.
the Word who was made Flesh
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.
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.
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.
“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!
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.
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–
and grasp, bite, see
those whores cackling at naked bodies.
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.
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.
i asked the shore:
why stay here
in the molasses waves,
letting the water
drag its claws across your gritty flesh
spitting it out for fish food?
how else will i see
the other side?
the quiet doesn’t mean
nothing shuts up
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
that quiet is–
knuckle rough, heel cracked
brush off the dried up
white to the floor–
such a waste
of good currency!
bought the bus seat,
bought the truth,
come the trial,
bought laws and police and—
let it go
down to dust,
peel back those cells,
fabric binding us together,
see? the same pulsings beneath.
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–
lavender extends her bare arms
to the motley sky.
we wait for planting time