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.

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.

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.

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

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.