Hey Little One,
I will fight for you
Fight for you
Reply
Tag Archives: Love
Tethered
In the end, I picture you
Crossing paths unexpectedly with someone much like me only nicer
Between trains in a crowded station
She is going one way, you the other
And she knows there is only one minute left
Amidst the noise, the crowd, the excruciating sound of braking
To say something
To change the course of your endless
Destination
There is no end of the line?
Who will meet you at the station?
Jesus, the ticket pressed into your hand
The only way home
H. Turcicus
Oh howl, my intemperate soul–
Until it was too late
I did not realize who it was
Singing on the porch each night.
Thought it was a frog or a night bird
Not this perfect little cup-sized creature
I have no place to go to speak my grief
Only the knowledge that it is me and my kind who have
Ritualized the extraction
out, out
of each small, indelible singer
Leaving us to mother
Regret instead.
The damsel who kept the door
Come, girl, let us pause and make sandcastles in the dust where once there were courts of stone, because kings may come to tear down both walls and doors, regard or disregard our little lives, take stones one from another and make each a witness
what door will you keep then, when the one true King has passed us by and taking in his wake all love, leaving us without our voices to praise him or call out? Let stones cry out if we do not
Let the doors we have kept keep us instead
John 18 KJV
All hat, no cattle
I once did a series of poems called the calvarium poems. I called them that. They remain in a kind of womblike obscurity, you could say the poems were like children
If only an ordinary person like me could
Cast a spell with words
Hocus pocus–live!
Abracadabra–live!
I alternate between believing
That the dry bones are the children tossed away from their mothers, their doctors, their strangers holding signs and vigil across the street from the alien clinics, iron bars on windows, misleading titles, security guards and not enough imminently visible heartbreak over this or
The people, the-all-of-us, too craven to save their little, perfect, amazing
Calvariums.
The Truth in Love
I draw from memory, with sticks of charcoal, which smudges like the dickens! The figure has the messy edges of your ordinary unfinished sketch, work-in-progress, might-never-be-finished
Angel just means messenger and
We mortals are
from dust, and dust return,
Until such piercing Light
Outshines all
That came before.
The borrowed borrowed story about crises
A pastor told a story about a priest or monk whose brother was a fighter pilot. The pilot took his brother to the flight simulator. In the course of learning and crashing in a computerized model of flight, the non-pilot commented on the steep cost of learning to fly, the risks, and what happens when there is a crisis.
The pilot said, people train to a level and in a crisis they revert to that level–to what they know or have already mastered.
Rarely more.
We don’t rise to a higher level in a crisis. We revert to what we have trained for.
That is what the pilot said, I tell myself
When what we have trained for
Happens
Pregnant and scared?
I know something about being pregnant in a crisis. My heart goes out to any women who are facing a pregnancy in the midst of economic hardship and fears of Covid-19.
If you or someone you love needs support or prayers. Please leave a comment and let me know how I can help.
Been There All Along
Darling, I have no right to
Look for you
At every bus stop, mailbox, broken sidewalk, out of the corner of my eye as night falls
No right but your love, so true
Been there all along
This Little Girl
I want to say so many things to
This man who does not really see
“This little girl”
But I know You
See her, see me, see them
All the little ones who
Need a God like You
Take my sins away, heal my wounds, stay until I am well, bring justice in your wings, never blame the victim, never stop searching for treasure
You
who were, who are, who always will be
Just You,
and “this little girl”
Carrying Light 