Tag Archives: Poetry

Day 8 – Poetry for Lent

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Do No Harm

In this poem I played with the idea of several different “voices” as well as what I hope people understand is irony.

Do No Harm
 
First do no harm.
                                  Stomp down 
                                  those who disagree,
                                  who disbelieve.
                                  If they cannot see
                                  your right from their wrong,
                                  cast them out,
                                  like chaff from 
                                  your pure wheat.
                                  Their evil questions raise                               demons of doubt,
                                  doubts and specters of fear.
                                  What is behind the curtain?
Do onto others
what you'd have done
unto you.
                                  Hold strong 
                                  to your god-given truth.
                                  If you say it 
                                  loud enough,
                                  if you close your eyes, 
                                  and recite your prayers
                                  at a shout,
                                  you’ll drown out their cries,
                                  you won't see their wounds.
Truly I tell you, 
whatever you did for 
--or to--
one of the least of these 
brothers and sisters of mine, 
                       Could it be,
                       your secret fear,
                       a man pulling wires?
                       Or maybe no one at all,
                       a captainless ship,
                       a clock wound up and ticking?
you did for 
--or to--
me.                              
                       Or is the real nightmare 
                       coming face-to-face
                       with the wizard Himself,
                       the Great and Powerful,
                       the Mighty and Merciful?
                       And finding He is
                       so much more than you 
                       can ever believe,
                       could ever conceive?
Then do no harm.

Day 7 – Poetry for Lent

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Winter Exorcism

Those early signs of Spring are so welcomed and cherished despite the crazy business of this time of year. Often I agonize over poems, but this one just slipped out. Gotta love it when that happens.

The owl out back is
 asking questions again,
 and I lie here hoping
 to hear the answers
 --or maybe just to 
 understand the questions.
 Life goes by so fast
 I’m moving clocks
 forward, backward, and 
 forward again,
 losing and gaining hours
 I didn’t know I had
 --or that I have already spent
 ten times over,
 like my Christmas money
 or my summer vacation.
 The rain brought the 
 mist rising off the snow
 today like it was exorcising 
 the spirit of winter,
 what with the crocuses
 delicately craning
 their necks above the soil
to watch while I cheer.

 Spring is coming.

Day 6 – Poetry for Lent

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Brother in Arms

I sat down to write this In celebration of my brother’s birthday–but it didn’t go exactly where I expected it to go. Such is the way of writing….

Brother in arms he was
two years younger
but alike as two 
blonde-haired, blue-eyed
peas in a pod.
Together we 
terrorized the neighborhood with pea-shooters
and ding-dong-ditch-it,
wandered the woods
impersonating book characters
--Henry Ware and Silent Tom--
building forts during the summer
and burrowing through snowbanks
in the Michigan winters.
On other days we christened ourselves Scott and Greg,
smoked cigarette butts found on the street 
(once was all it took to kill that habit),
ate snot berries plucked off yew bushes
(thankfully not the seed later found to be poisonous),
and attempted to create the world's largest ball of gum
--not all the additions chewed by us.

Brother in arms he was
but not me
"You're a girl"
a neighborhood kid pointed out
one hot shirtless summer day
when we were putting baby snapping turtles
through the races in the front yard.
Such a small change 
--shirts and skins--
but then came middle school 
with new friends, boyfriends and girlfriends
and though still blonde and blue-eyed,
we were no longer peas in a pod.

Brother in arms he was
but we fought different wars
in high school and college
dragons, secrets and skirmishes
closeness becoming competition
battles over the cat
ending at the point of a knitting needle
until time, distance
and busy schedules
saw the brotherhood disbanded
save for occasional reunions
where news of accomplishments
--battles fought and won--
bring respect and admiration

and a wistful longing
to go back to my childhood days
where I parted ways with
my brother in arms
and travel a different path
together.

Day 5 – Poetry for Lent

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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.

Day 4 – Poetry for Lent

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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

Day 2 – Poetry for Lent

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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.
 

Day 1 – Poetry for Lent

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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.