Holy Week Cries

Entering Holy Week and opening proceedings the day after we raised the palms and sang 'Hosanna'- Savior.

We see crocuses and tulip leafs, piles of wind blown leaves and sand. We meditate on the incomprehensible, God in flesh, dying. 

We remember the knee on his neck, him crying 'mama' and 'I can't breathe'.

We remember the nails driven through his flesh, him caring for his mother, him crying 'have you forsaken me' and 'forgive them, they know not what they do.' 

Cries heard around the world, the man on the ground of 38th and Chicago, the man on the tree.  

Cries echoing now, for justice.

Lines

Cross-hatched lines 

intersecting 

slanting lines 

collapsing 

diagonal lines 

reaching rivulets

anchored silhouettes 

these shadow lines of birch and balsam echo and undulate 

like the wind

like the waves on the lake, 

these lines 

Opening proceedings

Skin as dark as coal

As black as ash

Extinguished from burning

Skin as light as bone

As white as stone

A heart unfleshed, entombed

This constricting whiteness, the word we give that heavy power, laden with guilt and silence 

Such a subjective, particular species of evil 

White skin on trial; opening proceedings and throats constrict,

“I can’t breathe”

Can you?

At this rendering of justice 

Chosing out

Cradled in a nest, a force hiding beneath blankets
and guilt. 

Fragile, failing wing,
punishing myself with shame.

I was
echoing memories of

waterlilies
with need

but gradually came to own
my pain

shedding the blame
and offering you

your best,
to let you go. 

 

Two wells

Still,
I catch myself
Huddled over next to the stones, knees sore from long bending
Hands scuffed from reaching,
Reaching for the puddle at the bottom of the well.

It has always been empty;
And I have always been wanting.
From the salt-tinged memories of "sloppies" on his bald head
To the self-initiated Institute excursions, the breakfasts, trips and milestones
I have dug, picking up the phone and dialing,
desperately.

Still,
I hold myself
Grieving the empty yet comforted; there is a better well
There is refreshment, restoration, and replenishment
Instead of seeking I am sought out
And the draught satisfies.

It was created for me to drink from
A well of Living Water, never diminished
I was made to drink and now I do
Even when I forget the invitation ensues
Releasing the pain, receiving the peace,
Daughter, I am here for you.

 

In certain ways writing is a form of prayer

 “In certain ways writing is a form of prayer.” 

—Denise Levertov

March

Freeze thawing

Slow release belief

Hope seeds spring 

Write a caption...

To summarize lifting heaven 

Summoning all the dustmites, tobacco stains, and clods of blood

Things unmoved for two decades, 

Mind unrenewed and bereft of hope.

In advance, before you ever cursed

I freely gave a blessing.

Would you prefer

An equation of logic?

No: to the tangled web of memory, emotion, pain 

and love 

Holding everything together