Baptism by Fire

I want to belch out these dark days
like a breather of fire
until my lungs are washed
spirit afresh
the goodness
of
my God so Gracious

breathing in sweet savor alight my soul

Honest Seeker

i am as lost as I have ever been
hope shoots across the sky as heavenward stars
only to leave tear stained valleys on well worn cheeks

suffocating despondency
rote rituals

to get me to the other side of day
make the bed wash the dish feed the pet
stand in the steamy shower
balmy baptismal
weary-washed soul seeking

Need You
Need You

honest
seeker

Humility

praying for humble

as my fear does a tribal dance

around my pride

as if to protect the last staunch vestiges of

self-so-useless

I bow

until the stretching seems ripping tearing

crying aloud my hardened then hungry heart

feed

me

knees reaching earth

a distance so far

NEED

You

humble she

praying

remembrance

This was absolutely the last time the bearer of the seed would give a gift that was singularly meant for her and only her. Seeds that grew into little voices that giggled and whispered and laughed like the gentle murmurs of the sea, with blue eyes that beckoned the same as its reflected white tipped bubble-bath waves. This was the last time. The seed bearer was long gone. Gone by choices of his own it would seem, distant, but still exactly where he was meant to be for this season that seemed so elongated for the one who had always been so delighted by his gifts. Her understanding limited by the daily passing of the yellow softly glistening on the pale strands of her little gifts, and the bluest moon reflected again in innocent eyes.

Day and night was so long for her. Often so long that the voices of the little seeds sounded like noise where musical rhymes had once fallen, and blue eyes beckoning her to dreams so sweet seemed bleak eyes begging for more than she had to offer, and she could not seem to find her own gifts to give.

The littlest seed was not unlike the seed bearer himself. His eyes translucent in colors created to comfort, as if hand-painted by the soft haired tip of a gentle brush wielded by a purposeful artist. And the little seed grew with words that washed the sands on the shore soft, and smiles that made all the other seeds shine more lovely in his presence.

The little seed needed her tending, a word of water, refreshment for stretching arms and roots seeking the solidity of the seed bearer. Shimmering mirror in which to peer and find portraiture of the seed bearer himself. She needed to reach her own arms into the passing yellow and wrap them around the moon so blue and hold the little seed until it stretched strong armed to bear blue eyed giggling gifts drawn innocent as the bearer of the seed, and then to open wide hands beautiful made by the given gifts and release them to bear again.

She needed to give from hands empty, his fullness.

She had thought the seed bearer had left her, his gifts a distant wave washed melody. She had believed his lilting laughter would wash never again eyes turned up to smile upon his goodness. She has believed in his absence no presence could make blue and yellow the symbol of his daily gifts.

She was wrong.

live!

Let not the moments busy
Filled with lists
that list
the lists of do’s to do
act as barons born to rob me
of the joy
a birthright mine
He has called in whispers
thundering
in cloud bursts
beckoning
in verses kind
sweet the sound my master’s messages
by name the calling comes
live! He breathes
in words
demanding
refresh my soul with wild abandon
I am yours and yours alone
an invitation words of wonder
live! I will

Gratia

Have I slipped from Your favor

No

I removed my own eyes from it

Playing a game of

peek-a-boo

and holding my eyes shut too long until I could not remember

who

I would see when I opened them

salt-water solitude

he took to the ocean
and there he found
Him
in the waves and the whitened foam
in the salt buoyant a tempest on the tongue
in the cool of the water washed soul
in the magnitude vastness spoke of greatness
power
creation as comforter
Creator as confidante
sea salt communion

poetry to breathe fresh

I
am the silly fool
who held expectations of others
and then let it bring out the worst in me
I
am the one who forgot
the nature of the created
and then groveled in my own inability to create
I
am the one who looked elsewhere
for grace unfettered
and then clipped it’s wings with reckless actions
I
am the one begging to again
appear but a woman foolish
and then rest in the
I Am
expectations of creation
unfettered in the action of grace
He is.




you have held me captive
your anger
your hurt
your judgment
of my hopes my dreams my life
and in wanting so much more for you
i have allowed it
and now
the binds tie too tightly
and I refuse them
hungry only
to be purely who I am designed to be
to be
So
Insolent
As to grasp that which He offers me
freely
unbridled
Joy