Night Rain
I love listening to the sound of rain when I’m in bed. It raises a sense of nostalgia, a feeling of melancholy–but not in a bad way.
The night saturates
the land
Dark fat drops
plink and plonk
before settling into
a steady drumming
beating a rhythm
the lyrics full of
longing, burgeoning
with desire and
melancholy
the notes rise
like trout to a
fly floated down a
dark slick of water
just there and then
swallowed.
This poem isn’t finished–time got away from me today–but I had fun playing with the senses.
If only I had known
The weight of silence
hangs from my shoulders
like the wet wool coat
I wore that
dark November day
You stood next to me
Tight lipped
Droplets of rain
Jeweling your hair
The ground gaped open
sodden dark earth
bleeding into pale grass
while pouring rain
drummed a mournful tune
on hollow wood
If only I had known
The taste of regret
sours my mouth
like the black coffee
I drank from
a flimsy paper cup
In the hospital
You slept buried
Under mounds
of sterile blankets
hair winging across pillow
The curtains hung open
White moonlight
Shining into dark room
while monitors
beeped the sad echo
of a broken heart.
If only I had known
The smell of missed opportunities
A Morning Job
This is a poem I could probably write on most days ….
Waiting for coffee
a morning job
to shake me loose from
dreams and sleep
inspire action - not reaction -
to start on the list
of chores and should-dos
but instead I sit
pondering the warmth in my cup
the meaning of life and words
and the necessity of
putting life into words
to experience it fully
to live -- or to know
that I am alive
as I sip the bitter
elixir of life
This poem was actually started some time ago. We’d had a sermon or two on Daniel and his friends, and I had jotted a few lines at the time wondering (like I do with most survival stories) whether I would have been able to do what they did. Would I –say in a school shooting situation–be able to stand up for what I believed if it meant death? Of course, whenever I think this, I quickly throw in a “Please God, let me never have to find out.”
But there are all those little moments–standing up to bullies, racists, haters of any sort–or even harder, those who profess to believe the same things I do. Sure, maybe it only involves anger, social disgrace, ostracism–but do I stand up? Small things build, so where do I draw the line? What do I stand for?
Would I, Could I, Should I?
Would I stand up
when all else bowed
legs strong, backbone straight
furnace flames licking heels and thighs?
And when challenged on that upright pose
would I collapse
knees buckling like
a mighty oak
felled with nothing but an axe?
Could I kneel down
when law denied
bow my head and pray to God
while lions roared in nearby den?
Or would I hide my godly pose,
afraid discovery's fangs
might rip and shred
my heart and soul
until I'm nothing, almost dead?
I confess,
I hope I never know.
But should I encounter
no furnace flames or lions' den
but merely tests within, without
and trials in my daily way
Remind me then, oh Holy One
to whom I owe my everything
of Daniel and his mighty friends.
Though knees may quake
and fear course wild through my veins
place Your hand on me
and still my mouth
if that will close the lion's maw,
or help me speak
to put out hatred's fiercest flame
for I am Yours
though small and weak.
Angel Sighting
This poem is essentially a prose poem, but since I’ve never written a prose poem before, I wasn’t sure what the structure should be. When I have more time, I’ll revisit and try it in paragraph form.
The content came to mind during the last several sermons we’ve had in church, where people shared a personal experience they’ve had with God. It reminded me of a time (way back) when I was visited by an angel–or so I do believe.
I met an angel the other day,
downtown, in the rain, by the swollen river.
I was supposed to be scavenger hunting
with a group of teenagers from my friend’s church,
but they were clean and bright, and alive,
—it was April and almost everything except for me was coming to life—
searching for a statue, a stained glass window, a pigeon,
and a playground with a slide.
I didn’t fit in, so I told my friend
—a good, long-suffering friend who didn’t deserve
to be saddled with someone searching for meaning instead of a statue,
for peace instead of a pigeon,
for a window, stained or otherwise, out of the pain—
I had to leave
and that’s how I ended up untethered by all that rushing water
offering peace
—or at least an escape from pain.
I watched a branch twirl,
spin, go under, and re-surface,
dancing in the current that bore it inexorably away
until it was no more.
And it looked easy,
like I could jump in
and disappear,
that water delivering
a cold hard slap to startle in a breath
like a doctor to a new born babe,
but instead of air and cries,
water and silence.
It would be like going backward, I thought,
like being unborn,
taken apart until there was no more known or unknown,
no more pain that ate and ate and ate
chewing through heart and soul until one was consumed alive
but still ravenous.
I thought all these things,
growing numb in the downpour,
leaning a bit farther over the riverwalk edge
to peer at the welcoming waters below.
And that’s when the angel appeared
—although maybe he was there for quite awhile and I just never noticed,
too engrossed in beating back thoughts of failure,
the words never get better
clashing in my head with always feel this way,
supposed to be fixed,
and can’t stand this anymore.
“Whatever you’re thinking,” he said, voice calm and tug-boat steady,
as if we were friends in the midst of a conversation,
“It’s not the answer.”
Solemn faced, brown eyes clear and direct,
he held my gaze.
“Ok,” I said,
nodded and polite smiled,
looking back at the water which churned indifferent below,
wondering what he saw, what my face could possibly have shown.
“How—" I turned back
—whether to plead or question, I’m not sure-
but he was gone.
Not just walking away gone,
—the open area had nothing to block my view, no place for him to hide—
but disappeared.
Gone.
Sure, you might be skeptical
might think I made it up
or maybe even imagined it.
He certainly wasn’t how I would’ve described an angel before
—no wings, no bright light—
but how else might you explain what happened?
Thank God
I sought a different answer
than what the river offered that day.
This year I’m giving up Facebook for Lent. With the time I would have spent perusing social media, I’m going to write. My goal is a poem every day for the 40 days of Lent. Mind you, I’m defining poem very loosely here. It might be as simple as a list, and idea, a sentence, whatever. I don’t claim to be a poet–I just like using that format to reflect on life, the universe, and all matter of other things.
I’ll create a page called Poetry for Lent under the Poetry tab, and you are welcome to check back throughout the days leading up to Easter to see how my goal is coming along. It might very well be a bit like wandering in the desert, but hey, I hope to stumble across some new life somewhere in the midst of it all. I tend to find that if I show, my muse will meet me half way.
