Waiting for words

Months gone by since any desire to write.
Living in this drought
this barren land,
burning with flagrant hate
learning rage
unlearning the white supremacy page.

In the meantime,
journal empty
scrolling and unrolling until I'm empty
just consuming
pages of sages and lyrics of mages
what are you left with?
nothing changes
on the inside I'm still rusty, indifferent and baseless.

I don't want to be a writer that
only waits for words
until they come like a spontaneous August downpour:
I want to be a writer who aches and waits and seeks and knocks.
Creativity is no luxury
it's necessity that takes energy
worthwhile, life-giving being.

Alive

Vivacious pink rhododendrons 

fluorescent forsythia 

These ides of spring, 

magnolia white and pink ornamenting limbs more intricately than a gown at red carpet swaray

Crisp red tulips and plucky sunsoaked daffodils with grape hyacinths congregating, no distancing 

What a vivid offering, 

A delight to my senses 

These colors of spring shout “I’m alive!” 

Living out my purpose, to shine.

Goodness

I can tell you one thing to make it better,
dontcha know
"next time I would make smaller batches," I confide, "with less cardamom"-
I can most likely react with sharp jab when threatened,
piercing retorts released rapidfire 
"you sound just like grandma"
I can recap the improvement experience;
it's a soundtrack; a lifestyle of autocorrect
where the default setting is set by the foundations of discontentment.

With compassion I see generations;
Sarah to Rebecca to Leah
Metered morsels of 'not enoughness' cloaked in 'opportunities'
This perpetual dissatisfaction,
a greenhouse for the critical spirit,
weeds of complaint and resentment flourishing
Unequivocal, my heart reveals i've
seriously doubted the sentiment 'good'
as in, "YHWH saw it was good,"

Er, in some cases, "very good" (the image-bearers),
and sometimes "not good" (to be alone)
Scornfully I disqualify that a flimsy word, half-baked judgment.
That is why
the beginning is the foundation of everything
the nature of the Beginner revealed in his judgements
And why
the Liar began by insinuating
the judgment seat was ripe for the taking.

I can see, now,
that these neurological paths
are veritable freeways for habitual thought traffic
And re-routing evaluatory assessments
to the foot-traffic of gratitude will take time.
Awareness and compassion will dance and Love will commence saying
Good;
not because I've improved, 
but because I am. 

Living in the swirl

When you live in a rapidly moving swirl, you can only view your surroundings with a glance.
Poetry requires us to slow down, to take time to pause.
-Naomi Shihab Nye
.
.
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[HT Andrea Debbink via the Art of Simple]

Padantic Pandemic Poetry: Easter 2020 Edition

List of to-dos: Get a writing coach, publish a book of poetry, teach a college class, preach a sermon, shine my shoes, tickle the dust-bunnies, befriend the mouse and wiggle out of the gigantic mullah's [AKA Mark Zuckerburg] grasp, gape at the potholes, sign up for Sierra Club newsletters. Quit 80% of life so I can be alive for 20% of it. Do less to do more.

Kindle a fire and not be burned.

Marking

The love of God
in the Carpenter’s scarred hands
Marks embodied
Evermore

Now your thumb heralds love’s sign
Just a careless movement;
A blade pulled out,
Bandaged and left

Awakened to a heart-shaped cut intersecting a deep line
I look to heaven:
What language is this?
Marking bodies with Messages

I see a wound to be healed,
I see a scar never to leave.
Reminding, to everyone you touch
His love extends.

Oh how we need poets in these days.

Oh how we need poets in these days.

Putting words to our floundering gaze,

Mind Haunting the fearful maze.

See, soak in the script 

Black on white concisely lit

Take this moment to breathe, to be.

Oh how we need poets in these days.

Breaking pace with frantic waves

Into another’s thoughts and praise,

Shared comfort retold 

Partaking in love’s glance, 
breaking of freshly baked bread, 
warmth of shoulders wrapped in wool, 
boots crunching down the path.

Oh how we need poets in these days

To dispel the fear, the lonely drear

To birth a written Hope, a new song stoked 

Sung to awaken and revive, 

to encounter Love and come alive.

Read. 
Write. 
Ignite. 
Save.