Ruth
I would not leave
though she told me,
Go back, find rest
a husband
a home.
I could not leave
for she was
a mother to me
her people, my family
her home, my home.
I dared not leave, for
how would she manage
alone and destitute
hands veined blue
legs morning shaky?
And so I followed
that I might be
her hands young and strong
her legs spry in the morning
sturdy in the evening
her family in the new land
her daughter
Ruth.
Muskrat Sighting
He shuffles along
in his fuzzy brown coat
little whiskery old man face
peering nearsighted around
in search of a mid-morning snack.
I step out the front door
to say hello, and he startles.
Those beetle-black eyes spot me
and he flees,
odd bouncing gait comical,
leathery tail dragging
behind like an unfastened belt.
Wait, I call,
but a faint splash from the ditch
is the muskrat's only answer.
I pile acorns by the bank
as a peace offering.
Radical Grace
Revolution brewing Revolution
Hunger & rage brewing hunger
breed and rage breed
Rebellion born unrest
Districts rise On a donkey
the Mockingjay Jesus
a symbol Savior
a tool unwillingly a Son willingly
wielded sacrificed
to strike the capitol to save the people
violence justified forgiveness granted
They get what we got what
they deserve we didn't deserve
Season Change
In Detroit today for a conference and when I was looking at the green water of the river, there was this weird whitish section floating down stream with birds sitting in the midst of it. I looked closer and noticed that it was a large chunk of ice. The Spring thaw is here!
icebergs on water
mini islands for the birds
spring thaw on rivers
Exhaustion
If you hear a distant boom,
it's my head exploding.
The crack like that of January ice
on a mountain lake
when the sun warms it,
that was my heart.
My eyes & temples throb
and this pen sputters and
fades like my words and thoughts,
sleep folding out
a new white napkin
on waiting knees.
Morning Air
Early morning air
bites apple crisp
in lungs still half-asleep.
Night's purple musings
linger in shadows
at the edge of the woods
and under my eyes.
Spirits rise -
thin white wisps from
dark unbroken water
a rapture of souls
ascending to heaven.
My thoughts follow
leaving my heavy body behind
to plod through the day.
Negative Space
The idea of negative space has intrigued me ever since I had an instructor talk about it in an art class. So much of art can be applied to life, don’t you think?
I think I’ll play around with light and dark font/background for this piece. It might add to the impact. And of course, the poem itself is rough, but I think there are some good seeds here….
You must add the darks,
my art teacher said
to balance the lights.
My darks creep in and
muddy my light
Negative space
my art teacher called it
The space that
surrounds an object
defines it boundaries
and finds its edges
Depression confines me,
cuts edges with razor blade steel
An object doesn't become real
my art teacher said
doesn't stand out
until you add shading.
What I am not
helps make what I am real
The mix of positive and negative space
my art teacher said
brings balance
to a composition.
Learning to think
in shades of gray
brings balance
to my life.
Crawling
I am feeling my way
blind in more than eyes
longing to soar
but afraid of falling
or maybe not getting off the ground at all
so I crawl, inching forward
eyes closed
and maybe my heart too.
When I quiet all the noise
I hear your voice
calling my name
and my heart remembers you
and leaps forward
to meet you again
still, my flesh holds me back
my mind pleads for caution
Help me Lord
cast aside my restraints
that I might fly
in Your awesome wonder.
Harvest
Devastated to hear about the shootings in New Zealand this morning. This poem was one I had written after the shootings in Las Vegas. I was playing with form because I wanted to paint a visual to go with it as well. Trees always remind me of life and connectedness. I pulled it out and played with it a bit here. Still haven’t gotten very far on the painting….
Did you
feel powerful
for those minutes,
framed in that window
far above the ground
—far below heaven?
Did the music sound distant,
the joy and excitement
way beneath you?
When you sowed your terror,
did you even look down
to see the crop you planted?
Chaos
Panic
Fear
Injury
Death
Scattered bullets, mistaken fireworks,
spurred a stampede in that country music crowd.
But everyday heroes rounded up the wounded, body-sheltered injured,
prayed over the dead, and carried the bleeding over fences,
across runways, behind cars, and under balconies.
First responders, nurses, doctors, friends, and strangers
jumped those gaps between life and death.
Did you see that, Terrorist?
Did you see the hope and help that flowered
despite the chaos you’d sown?
Or did you stare into that dark barrel
before reaping your own deathly harvest?
Do we see
that what we plant
we must prepare to harvest?
Cicada
Seventeen years buried
cicadas dream of flying
what a splendid year!