Poetry Place

The thoughts began with asking God, "What do you want me to say to you? What do you want me to say to you?"

Here's what I desire, Abba- that I could/would move through each day as though your kingdom, your Presence, is an ocean, and I am a fish, surrounded by it- traveling carelessly through it.

The fish are not aware of the water, and yet they would not survive without it. They move through it without ever thinking about it- without comprehending it.

I want to be the fish that rolls, and spins, and twirls in the water with delight, because I am beginning to understand all that it is to me.

I want to be immersed in your love!

Will Bredberg

Question and Answer

Lord, what will be our 'new beginning’?

And yet, has it already begun?

For those who have not been so changed by loss,

For those who by fear had not yet been tossed,

It is this moment now, and not the one yet to be

That I can know You are with me.

Oh, awake in me that which you wait to both hear and to speak.

Right here, right now, Your faithfulness is a provision that we share.

No public plague or public fear hinders your loving care,

Nor stops Jesus’ teaching on how to live here.

Steven Allen

Yet

Hardly quiet, inside anyway, YET, yet You have invited me to a different rhythm this day.

I listen, to water in a cairn fountain, the graced trickle over marble green.

I look, to hummingbirds flitting on the blossom of an ancient lemon tree, still producing its gifts of yellow skinned juice, sour and sweetness both she upholds.

I feel, fatigued and energized, my divergent self, caught in the pressure of the week and spurred by the pen of poet and psalmist.

I hear, the gentle voice of care and wisdom which is You, through another voice I know well, my sister’s gentle articulations and insights.

I smell, a faint aroma lingering from the night blooming jasmine, not finished with her work into the daylight, surprised essence.

I taste, my cool carafe of iced tea and relish the hint of mint, fresh herb, tiny leaf flavoring my quenched thirst.

Disorder in the midst of loveliness, Your Holy “and Yet”, beckons a new ordering, promises a new hope.

Small wonders abound. Gift, grace, too often missed. Invite me to more, spur me on Oh Lord, to live as an “And Yet” one, even when my heart is rendered heavy and torn.

And yet...thy kingdom come, and on earth.

Yes, to ‘And Yet’.

Yes.

And.

Yet.

Care Crawford

Contemplative Prayer

Such a lovely invitation-

Imagine myself sitting on a slope of a hill near a river

as I turn to God in prayer.

A gentle voice encouraging me to take thoughts which distract

and place them on small boats going down the river.

What a peaceful prospect, such a calm voice.

But inside me the voices are not calm!

“To do” lists- You go on a boat

“Shouldn’t have said that”- You go on a boat

That judging thought- to a boat

That stressful demand- to a boat

That random idea- down the river with you.

Oh no...my boats are crashing into each other.

Wait..are some of them racing?

Now, what was my centering word?

Oh shoot, I sent it down the river on that pretty blue boat.

Next time, no boats. Thoughts go straight in the water.

Marilyn Crawford

At the Threshold

I stand in a threshold

the earth behind

and glory beckoning

And yet I resist

for the love of a shoe,

or a flower,

or any sparkly thing

So I stretch, trying

to pull the world in

with me

But it doesn’t fit

the me I am becoming.

It seems too big

but in truth, it’s

too small.

Oh how I resist

transforming

into what I am, really

But in this threshold

I am simply

silly putty stretched thin.

My face distorts

as I am pulled

by a heavenly tension

that will not let go.

The brave thing

is to relax my grip

and surrender in humility

realizing

I don’t know best.

I don’t know

much at all.

Surrendering, I would receive

all that’s good,

all that matters,

And be complete.

Stigmata

And so it ends,

all hopes and joys on a cross impaled

and a body battered and bruised,

In agony, life spent and yet

in its anguish an unexplainable beauty.

Blood mingled with tears

and dripping rivulets form and fall.

A last gaze, eyes torn and bloodshot

wander pain-hazed, and for a moment focus

on me.

I stand transfixed, unable to turn

or look away.

I am frozen in time, me seeing him seeing me

and I am a flood of tears and sorrows.

A raindrop falls, then another.

Still I stand, unmoving

yet moved to my soul’s center.

His eyes have closed.

The pain has stopped

as life slips away in a final sigh.

A whisper, really,

belying the violent end, in peace.

Another drop falls, and this one

into my open palm,

not rain, but blood.

My wound from his

And his wound for me.

I am marked for eternity.

WhiteWash

The walls of my home have been white washed,

--the teal of the entry way

washed white,

--the azure of the powder room

washed white,

--the buttercup of the master bath

washed white.

The family room, wood paneled cabin-feel, now a white, airy cottage-feel.

Pretty. Yes,

“A white canvas for a new owner,” explained our agent/son.

Ahh. But,

“All touches of me erased with brush strokes of white.”

Twenty-five years ago, this home enfolded us.

Here we celebrated:

A daughter’s wedding, a granddaughter’s birth, a mother’s 90th birthday.

Here we fellowshipped:

Friend’s enjoying meals, sated by conversation, circled in prayer.

Here we welcomed:

A son struggling with illness, a daughter and family in transition,

sojourners in need of temporary dwelling.

Here I have sat:

At breakfast table, eyes on the mountain-rimmed horizon,

God’s Word, open before me, inviting,

Morning by morning.

Here I have listened:

In backyard, ears filled with bird-song,

the Spirit’s whisper, gentle like the rustle of leaves, ever-present\year after year.

Here I have rejoiced:

On sofa, heart content with chatter and laughter of family,

the Son’s beauty, evidenced all around me, promising hope

in days to come.

Good-bye dear home;

May those who reside within your ivory walls

receive this blessing of embrace.

Denise Ahern April 2021

Psalm 122:7

Security

Stay busy.

Be occupied.

Push troubling thoughts

Deep down

Under long lists.

Let “what ifs”

Of night dreams

Mist into

“What to dos”

of day tasks.

Working,

Ever-working,

With ankle chained

To fear

Of not enough.

“Oh, merciless

Taskmaster,

Be gone,

Unchain from

My beloved.

“Come,

My child,

Upon my back.

Between my shoulders

Rest your head.”

Breathing slowed

Into the cadence

Of His steps;

Head pillowed

On His strength.

Denise Ahern Apr. ‘21

Deuteronomy 33:12

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