On Easter, Martha Answered Mary

Martha Answered Mary

Then I would rise up
early in the morning.
I would leave
my broom, my broth,
my unmade bed,
go
and scatter
secret birdseed
beneath the olive tree
where I always dreamed
of being kissed. And I
would wait.

The Day Before

Mary Asked Martha

What if,
after the egg
rolled off the table,
we could come back
tomorrow
and find
a white feather,
the stir
of first flight.


RELATED:
Asking Joseph of Arimathea

Sermon Notes Poetry: Isaiah 52:13-53:12

From my sleepy poet's mind, more Sermon Notes poetry. I admit, I look forward to this quiet activity while the speaker... speaks. :)

Isaiah 52:13-53:12

Something is wrong,
the SUV's
crazy-loving
money while kids
roam streets—
easy to forget about
me in video games,
one world
with or without
me.

*

He's gonna do it
anyway; go home
and read it yourself...
Cyrus-old-foolishness
coming again.

*

If our
know-it-all
goldfish
argued with us
about methods
of tooth brushing,
we might give him a bit
of our wisdom teeth.

*

Zebras with
sunburns
riddle us
with cross
mystery,
scandalous
fresh.

*

Something twisted,
sister, this servant
is no handsome prince
who'll rule
everything.

*

Tender shoot,
root
transplant
to dry ground—
precarious
start.

*

Look over
at the overlooked
face-hide-man
picked on, last
picked for kick
ball,
passed over,
sorrow familiar
wrong track
troubles
savior-man.

*

The heart of the
poem, the hinge
on which it
all turns—
surely
losing by
taking ours,
ours— does
it surprise
you, my
captive?

*

Dorothy Sayers
wants palaces
without circle of
fire, jungle water hole
leopard lion
fear armies
blood-roll garments
and a God acquainted
with all our
babed grief.

*

Rivers of
shalom-rounded
society,
secure through
one small
iniquity
sheep.

*

Alone by the
bed,
wondering-sin-
son-punish-
love-son
approved
lamb-slaughter.

*

Take an
elevator to the top
saving floor, push
a button past the Cyrus
floor, the bad-me,
crazy-me floor,
hitch a ride
on the back of a Herculean
God who draws the whole world
by a love-cable cord.

*

She'll sing a
stick-for-you
song— tell someone,
would you?

Sermon Notes Poetry: Isaiah 49:1-7

Snowy here. Cold. My mind feels winter-sleepy. Writing poems is hard now. So when I can steal someone else's words and just keep setting them down, I appreciate that.

These poems were woven from Dave Stradler's words at my church this past Sunday...

Isaiah 49:1-7

My 20's and 30's
planting shadows,
arrows,
I quiver
splendor.

*

Forging fire,
battle ready
visions of roads,
time,
cars that
lose me,
you, the whole
galaxy.

*

Three, four people
on board,
on the edge falling
off until
it's me, just me
on the boat.

*

God's heart
is in my apartment
captured in bars
on White Plains
coffee shops,
lifting love.

*

How do we
be a light
with backbone
loving community
no sign on the door
saying, "You don't belong."

*

They want real
God-lives, out
meet, we'll come
to you
God-servant
holy martinis.

*

The whole bible
mission-being
in just seven verses.
Pop it open,
step questions
over the short night.

*

Christ-cost
mornings' heart
servants
to tribes beyond
Israel,
beyond walls.

Sharing with One Shot Wednesday today.

Was it Really the Lists?

There is a part of me that feels like a failure reading a whole book about the saving power of gratitude lists. My lists never saved, only fell flat. I wonder now, did I forget the poetry?

Because, reading Ann's lists, I am struck. She says she's writing simple things; she believes she's being grateful by number after sweet (and sometimes hard) number. But, maybe because it is all written down in one place now, I see it within seconds. She is doing more. She is writing poetry, folding beauty into single words, lines, phrases. Mining the moments for images that seer and sing, wonder and woo.

Morning shadows across old floors, she writes. Then, jam piled high on toast. Her words are what begin to pile high for me. If I take out the numbers and just stack the words, the poems appear...

Wind flying cold wild in hair
Grandma's pressure pot still dancing
Old men looking for words just perfect.

I know she experiences this as a kind of thankfulness, this putting down of poetic words. I wonder if it is something more... the beginning of a dance she engaged in with the Spirit...

and the Spirit of God hovered over the waters...

And what did the Spirit of God do but begin spilling words in pure Genesis poetry, the refrain being "it is good"?

Suddenly I do not feel like a list-failure anymore. I make my lists, I do. Lists without numbers. A thousand lines, like Ann? Maybe in time. Poem after poem after poem, naming the world and grief and spirit and dreams.


Quotes from Chapter 3 of One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are.

Sermon Notes Poetry: Isaiah 46

I like writing poetry during sermons. I find it gets me writing in different rhythms, with different words, because I'm lifting and sifting someone else's speech. I have to be really open for what may come.

For some reason our church calendar scheduled a bible passage on idols, set for the first week of the Advent season. Maybe that makes more sense than it seems to on the surface. Maybe Advent is about being open for what may come. If we have idols in our "manger," they might need to move aside.


Isaiah 46

I told you
ahead of time—
admit it,
no silver, bronze, stone
could ever hold you
like my words.

*

It's a race,
political on its face;
could any contender
be found equal
when the polls open,
chads begin to fall.

*

Evacuate your idols
see
if you can flee
me, wood and stone
totter like Bobo dolls,
wobble in the
wind.

*

I have made you,
will carry you—
get your idols off the wagon,
hop in, I'll take you
for a tender spin.

*

Greed is about
God-ands...
digital cameras,
batteries without love
multiplied by gadgets
we carry around,
feed like idols
who eat lilies, lotus,
lentils, a bowl of beef.

*

Idols stress you out.
All that running after,
all that carrying,
all that appetite
for gifts, the little silver
bracelets, gardens,
a suitcase filled
for yet another trip.

*

Botanists searched for a rare species
somewhere in the Alps— a boy
was lowered down the canyon,
his father
held
the
rope.

*

Halfway across the ice,
dusk began to sing
a coal miner's tune,
and night didn't creak.

These poems are offered for One Shot Wednesday.

Sermon Notes Poetry: Psalm 90

More poetry from the pews. Um, we don't have pews. We have maroon, cushiony chairs. Still, here are the poems...

*

How busy are you,
Moses,
you've got edges
of Egypt, entrances
departures
promised
lands on your mind,
questions of who am I
and how will I
be remembered.

*

Artful life
beautiful life
well-lived life
with hands
established or maybe
work established
regardless
of our hands.

*

Drop rain
in wood, on stream,
drop rain on the way
to bird-woven oceans.

*

Wise, be
heart skilled,
be craftspeople,
select strands
of dying, be
priestly life-living
be numbered-day
wise.

*

Brevity is
mourning without
death, death without
mourning, death
without sex, or maybe
sex without death.

*

My life is an hour
and three quarters,
eighteen minutes at best,
I won't even get my
stained glass into the window
before it's time to go.

*

But I have to admit
that sometimes
my life
feels like an eternity.

*

Can you believe
we believed enough
to leave—onions, lotus,
hippos in the river,
but when we got where
we were going, we
couldn't leave, believe
again.

*

Moses's astounding prayer,
fragile sweeping
us like moaning grass,
turning us in time,
saying we are more
than our eighteen minutes,
more than a day.

*

How do we, tell me
how do we get in
on the deal,
the dwelling-place
God-condo deal
with lotus
floating in the
courtyard pool.

*

Cana Redux

A prayer for dark times,
exile work captive
land no more
promises mortal hands
rats racing towards
the future, we need
naom and her
sweet Ruth
and perhaps a bit
of the barley harvest,
and... beer?

*

The Old Man Says

We're going to have
to pray
to ask
to God
to build
to bring,
let's not
forget
to.

Ascension

I'm reading a book called Apollo's Angels. It's a beautifully-written history of ballet. Apollo apparently represents the 'body ideal' and of course angels go to the author's assertion that dancers desire to ascend (and as she points out, much of ballet indeed includes sprites, sylphs and other winged things).

The other day, while reading this book, and after having chosen to dance that morning with surrender in mind, I was struck by this quote...

"If anything, ballet is purifying, every movement physically honed and essential, with no superfluity or excess: it is a kind of grace."

I'm not sure that grace is always without superfluity or excess, but this is perhaps the particular grace of ballet.

Thinking on all this, I ended up writing a poem (you are not surprised, yes? :)

Ascension

Apollo's angels
will come at different hours
lifting high their delicate hands

praising the wind
that wraps itself
around the feet of God

Apollo's angels
will leap in mirrored halls
finding the heart that beats in time

with satined feet;
they will come
waving chiffon on currents of

perfumed air, there will be
no memory of their movements
beyond these bodies

that knew this prayer.

Cataloging the Day

It's Autumn here in the Northeast. I go outside about three times a day now, sit and watch the trees—the sunrise or sunset or clouds playing at their edges. Sometimes I write a little poetry. This one is about 1/3 catalog-technique. Which is to say, it only has two lines of cataloging.

Sometimes Christians feel they should only catalog the bright side of life. You have probably noticed... I am not that kind of Christian...

Autumn

has stolen the lilies,
and I am here
touching bronze broken stalks
where pollen-heavy flowers
bent. The air is dry,
the leaves are dry—
so too, a tiny piece
of my heart.

Check out the invitation to write a catalog poem, at TheHighCalling.org.

Sermon Notes Poetry: Psalm 47

I didn't write much this time. Three poems. Two worth sharing. Here they are. An odd kind of sermon notes...


Psalm 47

All nations
see you rain on the mountains,
the rivers filled with
children of Israel,
Egypt, Babylon.
Fathers called Abraham
and not called Abraham, clamor,
and the rocks cry out
as the nations trek white-robed, palm-fisted
to the crown of the mountain
where our mothers promised
to meet us.


Revelations

Go leaf-keeping
this week,
turn Autumn
on end.
See if you don't
find God
right there, rough-cool
between your fingers,
yellow
burning.

Solace is a Chocolate

I like my chocolate dark
and just a touch
before bitter. I like my
chocolate barely sweet.
There are hands
that would close my lips,
priests who would say
I should feel guilty for
taking thin Lindts
on my tongue
like wafers at communion.
What do they know
of the Christ at Cana,
who is just now leaning in
to slip me another piece
of solace.

We are writing "solace" poems at HighCallingBlogs. Want to join us?

Sermon Notes Poetry: Philippians

Catching up on posting these. Two weeks worth of sermon notes poetry for the price of one. At the church I attend, we have outside speakers come twice a month. It gives us a more rounded perspective from the pulpit. My daughter and I were marveling that some speakers inspire better poetry (in my case) and sketches (in her case) than others.

Philippians 1:15-29

"Proof"

We are the true
progressives, marching
students into sanctified
lines; I can show you
charts that flower
white like paper
columbines.


"Bring them"

to Jesus, the one
who rises beyond
suicide bombs,
resurrects breath
from vacuum
of atomic cries.


Philippians 4:4-13

"By Order"

Don't worry that you can't reach the top shelf,
you know what's up there, don't you?
Practice the prayer of thanksgiving,
and a piece of God will tumble down.


"Pense"

When you lift your minds,
do it with books, art, the Yankee game—
you could build a tower all the way
to heaven, but I suspect you'll find God
far before you reach the top floor.


"Paul's Brag"

I went searching for the Ark
but shipwrecked along the way.
Don't say you couldn't do it too;
it's a matter of Christ calling
to the Christ in you. Even cows
returned the covenantal box*
when an empty, bell-fringed tent
murmured them home.


*see 1 Samuel 6

Put it in a Psalm: Sorrows and Tangerine Petals

A while back, Glynn tried the 'Put it in a Psalm' lament exercise from God in the Yard. His words stayed with me.

This morning I thought, why not? Why not give it a try too? So I sat outside, listened to the morning and the burdens of my heart, and put them in a Psalm...

Sorrows and Tangerine Petals

I tire of trying, of holding on
Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good

I chaff at the myriad tasks before me
Give thanks to the Lord for He is good

I stir our sorrows, stare into the pot,
Give thanks to the Lord for He is good

I think that the world is too much with us,
Give thanks to the Lord for He is good

Sun barely touches the black-eyed Susans,
Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good

Dew kisses the edges of tangerine tropicals,
Give thanks to the Lord for He is good.

From rose-painted teacup, creme fragrance rises,
Give thanks to the Lord for He is good.

Give thanks, give thanks,
for the touches barely, the kisses
moist, the tangerine petals, and eyes of brown,
for teacups painted and Earl-Grey filled,
for Spirit in all this glory found.

Sermon Notes Poetry: 2 Thessalonians

Maybe you know who started all this poetry-during-sermons stuff. And who followed suit. Then, like another wise soul has said, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

If my pastor ever reads these, he will know I was listening. Sort of. I apologize (sort of) for chronicling his sermon on 2 Thessalonians 1:1-12 by adding my odd daydreams to his earnest words.

Question

Where does
the truth lie,
in what back room
does it spread itself
flat to the floor
and pretend.


Injustice

is coffee beans
never finding their way
to your grinder
or a French press,
but instead pouring
like brown pearls
into a dolphined sea.


Apocalypse

Jesus will come
with flowers
and blazing angels,
blast the little herb garden
into bloom.


Everlasting

destruction is
saying the garden
is okay, it is just
okay. Take your
bouquet of blazing
angels and put it in
the neighbor's yard.
I will watch from
the back window.


Guilty

Do we know, did we want
to know, wouldn't we
rather stick with the oregano
leaning, sage sprawling,
rosemary scrubbing the
edge of each day?


Watching

Through the window,
nose pressed
to rippled glass,
could I have any
sense of what
I was missing.


Long-Term Perspective

If I unlatch the
wrought iron gate,
Jesus will grow in me,
and the heat of his fiery
eyes will set the tips
of my petals aflame.

Note to the Shepherd

I never wanted to be
the bush, burning,
turning sorrow to ash,
flaming, naming
dark things with
embers and light.
It takes so much
to be rooted, give
my arms to ignite
a simple day, a blue-
black night.


I really liked Marcus's heretical poem. Then it got me thinking about what it means to actually be the burning bush. So of course I turned to poetry to work out my thoughts a little further. :)

RELATED:
Glynn's Sacred Sand
Karen's Not Me. I AM

Steward

For Random Acts of Poetry. Why not write it here? Sometimes a poem is exactly what the soul needs...

"Steward"

Words spill
off tray tables,
pop out of
peanut wrappers,
honey roasted
(are you allergic,
I will trade them
for something
more apropos,
something
that won't leave
you breathless—
but still, one
never knows,
people have
choked on
chocolate covered
parenthetical
phrases like
"don't-ever-
doubt it, I-will-
always-love-you").

Pardon me,
sir, there's a stray
word under
your shoe.

Illumination

I had been taught
to love the light,
the way it crisps color,
casts shape in my
sight, throws
shadows like
dancers on the
wind. I had been
taught to love
the light and
despise darkness
as if it only harbored
sin. What did I know
about the way light
lies, leads me
to think I know
the path to tread.
Darkness should
be, I was told,
a thing to dread
but as it goes
I'm steadied in it,
stilled, sculpted
into a magnet for
sound, a silent
one who's wise
to wait,
listen,
be
found.

More poetry at the High Calling: RAP: Nepotist's Delight