While Running Up Centennial Trail

(For this month’s theme at T.S. Poetry: “Angels.” See the T.S. Poetry Press Facebook page for more!)

Waters gathered from some repeated precipitation
(whether steady snowmelt or fly-by rainstorm)

caused a depression, a canyon’s precursor,
this rut running the length of her

trail, a rut she tried to circumvent by aiming
the soles of her Asics beside it or leaping over

to the other side where the ground was still
the same—fallow and in desperate need

of breaking, made arid by long afternoons
of scorching, self-centered heat.

Repeated doubts and questions pounded, the same way
too much uphill running makes shin splints, fractures,

stresses that make her plead with the regular
cadence of her strides, “Don’t let me give up,

don’t let me give up.” And then, two men
on mountain bikes (whether Specialized

or Cannondale or Gary Fisher, she’ll never
know) came down—it was God’s kind way

of answering—for the man on the bike who came
down first encouraged, almost fiercely, “Good job!”

So the woman kept running and wondered if angels
went mountain biking down Centennial trail.

What It Feels Like

(For T.S. Poetry’s February theme: Red. See the T.S. Poetry Facebook page for more contributions!)

Part of it simmers barely beneath
superficial, like a sunburn
just under the skin—

A spiritual neuralgia that
travels with time,
following the nerve paths,

Insisting on outlining the nervous
system’s most sensitive branches—
down the quadriceps or out to the

Niche where the wings would be—and a
prickly tingling signals the brain
to think of the dove that flies away.

I said, “Oh, that I had wings like a dove!
I would fly away and be at rest.”
(Psalm 55:6)

. . . resolves.

(For T.S. Poetry’s January theme: Resolutions (and Relationships). Visit the T.S. Poetry Facebook page for more on Resolutions!)

The notes are most in harmony
when frequencies are multiples
of one another, having common
factors, never having to
abut, and when reduced

to their simplest, their bare
primes coincide and strike complacent
chords in resolution—thirds or fifths,
harmonic intervals sufficient to
elude tension, being safe

at distances where no ache
inspires desire for motion, no
suspended chord requires release,
no syncopation rocks
any boat. That music sits

content without movements.

But when a song makes hands play

adjacent keys, and fingers have
to touch, there comes an expectation

in the conflict; the suspended

chord wants forward
movement, and a beauty

rises from the song that
never quite

Tracing Grace

(For the villanelle poetry prompt at The High Calling. (My photos for the PhotoPlay are in this set on my flickr account.))

I didn’t think to seek God’s face,
unaware of my need to find
His all-sufficient grace.

Then in a solitary space
I thought I saw a spark, a kind
of light to seek God’s face.

All along He went in steady chase,
pursuing me, revealing to my mind
His all-sufficient grace.

Now in a calm intensity of pace
I walk at times in dimmer light, blind
to any vision but God’s face;

for in the almost-blindess, I can better taste
and savor overwhelming mercies that remind
me of His all-sufficient grace

Looking back (and forward) I can trace
His presence both before and behind.
And looking, I think I see God’s face;
I’m helpless but for His all-sufficient grace.

My Mentors

Age makes us shorter, they say,
maybe due to squished spinal discs
or a thinning honeycomb, meaning
decreasing density in the bones.
But whatever the cause,
in spite of my height of five-four
(and a half), I stand taller
than giants—those God-given
mentors, the older and wiser
than I. Though their stature
is smaller, I know that when
I look down at them, I am really
looking up.

Their wisdom, coming
from above, is like a mine
of precious gold or a hidden
cave of treasures yet untold,
waiting to be told.
These treasures could be mine!
What a waste and a loss if, knowing
of the treasures, I simply passed
the cave without mining.

Get all the advice and instruction you can,
so you will be wise the rest of your life.
(Proverbs 19:20)

Though good advice lies deep within the heart,
a person with understanding will draw it out.
(Proverbs 20:5)

Father, thank You for the mentors you have given me. Thank You for the older friends to surround me, that I may learn from what You have taught them, that I may observe and emulate their Christlikeness, that my life may be richer and better prepared to walk more closely with You.

Father, please also give me the kind of understanding that draws out the wisdom that lies deep within the older ones around me. How do I mine wisdom from the quiet ones? What questions should I ask? What steps of relationship should I take?

(For the “Looking Up” poetry prompt due Nov. 16.)

Most times I tend

to forget there’s no wall,
anywhere or ever,
no brick wall or iron bars
so tall it reaches all
the way to the sky

but this truth I tend
to forget unless I look
up.

“This is what the Lord of Heaven’s Armies says: All this may seem impossible to you now, a small remnant of God’s people. But is it impossible for me?” says the Lord of Heaven’s Armies.
(Zechariah 8:6)

(For the “Looking Up” PhotoPlay challenge due Nov. 16. Join us!)

Poured and Shaped

I

In one cupped hand I hold
the cup of His blood poured,
He said, for me. Looking down
I’m astonished to see in that cup
a regular pulse, a cadence disturbing
the dark liquid surface
in the cup of His blood poured
for me. It takes some time
for me to see that this pulsing is
my own heart beating
in the cup of His blood—
and now, every time,
if I hold still I can see
how my very heartbeat pours into
the cup of His blood poured
for me.

II

When a child reads
a good book for the first time
she doesn’t just take it
in like a worn-out vessel
hoarding the blessing too long,
until it coagulates and can be
poured no longer. She pours
her self, still liquid, into
the pages written
for her
and becomes
shaped.

***

Two poems for the poetry prompt to write a poem using another’s words as “triggers.” I don’t know that my poems are really related to the trigger, but here’s my trigger (some lines from Anne Fadiman’s foreword to Rereadings):

The first time [reading a particular book], especially if it’s in childhood, is induplicable. It is customary to speak of children as vessels into which books are poured, but I think the reverse analogy is more accurate: children pour themselves into books, changing their shape to fit each vessel. . . . I think that’s why so many children prefer fiction and so many adults prefer nonfiction. As we age, we coagulate. Our shapes become fixed and we can no longer be poured.

- Anne Fadiman, Rereadings, pp. xiv-xv.

After the Falling

They say the glory of a tree
is in her leaves. Living green
and sap-swollen, leaves have branches
of their own. Summer glory flows
in their veins vibrant and heavy
with life.

And then comes the dark of the fall,
the dark coming too early, pressing
down and pressing out their glory,
glory in the leaves before their fall.

She knows the fall is coming;
she knows her glory will fall.
But pre-knowledge doesn’t soften
the heavy blow
of fallen leaves dropping
at her feet, dropping
on teary-dewed grass.

They will come back, they say,
It will grow back.
Small consolation for the tree
whose coming spring will bring a sap
intentionally deadly, a different sap
to flow into her veins, heavy
with death.

Looking out from its own trunk,
can the tree see? Can she see
the falling leaves leaving behind
another kind of beauty, a heavier
weight of glory?

This week Bonnie Gray encourages the community to share their Fall Reflections. As I just made a hair donation to be used for a child’s wig—a child who lost hair due to chemotherapy—I’ve been praying for the child who would end up wearing the wig made with my hair. I’ve been trying to put myself in her (his?) place, and this is the poem that came out.

Click on the Faith Barista badge below to read more community posts on Fall Reflections!

Poetry Oxide

Poetry oxidation won’t do
in a vacuum, but the way
it oxidizes depends
which side I’m on.

If I’m the reader,
it’s the copper turning
gemstone-green, increasing
in value and beauty,
more greatly admired
for its longevity,
unweakened by time,
anticipated like time-
honored statues, valued
like revered domes of
well-planned classic
architecture.

But if I’m the writer,
it’s the rusty nail insidious
and hidden in blades
of tall grass. It may
or may not be there,
so I scare myself back
into rubber-soled shoes
so I won’t get lockjaw.
Yet there’s nothing
like lush grass under toes,
so I look up
old records and find
my tetanus shots up to date,
and again I dare
walk barefoot.

***

For the combination photography and poetry prompts on “rust.” (My photos will eventually go up on my flickr account.)

Poem on Poem

If each one is poiema, a masterpiece,
then poetry is poem on poem,
the community,
the Author’s entire Body
of work,
a living anthology.

***

(For T.S. Poetry‘s focus for September: “What is poetry?”)

(This poem is abridged from the original, posted here.)