The day has nudged me with her prêt-à-porter greetings,
dried flower wish lists fit for nothing more
than the plastic, manikin smiles of little men.
Still, a molded smile sits nicer on the face
than dishonest eye-shadow hiding eyes
looking for their own freedom.
When time has pressed her hand in yours,
take the hint of friendship.
Her loyalty is straight and plumb-line true
but has a short shelf-life.
Speak, or the moment is already gone.
Dedicated with love and respect to Lois Keffer – writer, editor, friend, mentor
Pound for pound these words say less than they mean
and weigh more than they say.
Pull away every other petal and one still gets half a flower;
a down payment for the coming Spring
when the world doesn’t mind repetition
for the sake of simple beauties, multiplied.
A fire makes its heartening presence known, tucked under the hearth upon which hang individual stockings and an antique clock I inherited from my Dad. A delightfully chaotic looking tree, augmented with bobbles made by the growing dexterity of my boys’ fingers – the accumulated little-boy detritus of Christmas past – stands guard at another window gazing out on a trusted neighbor’s house. Snow falls without sound or pretense just past living room windows that shield us from the oblique, grey winter, and all I can think is this: if Christmas, I.e. the incarnation, God with us, means anything at all, it must mean more than the Thomas Kinkade painting I’ve just described. It must have the same insidious undercurrent, rife with danger, of the stable. It must reek of real life spread out over a table of ambiguity and hopelessness scrounging for scraps of hope. It must mean that God is longing to burst forth into our own souls, finding enough room to receive the gifts of our own inner Magi. It must be genuine, like the rough and tumble character of a once-upon-a-time, ramshackle stable.
It was messy and scary and uncertain, but the perfect crucible in which to illustrate all that is truly important: the broken, smelly manger of human hearts made ready to receive the only thing powerful enough to draw them out of pain and darkness, God himself. And, apparently, God loves children. Enough to become one.
Not a soldier.
Not a business man.
Not a political revolutionary.
A crying child laying somewhere so shocking that he would be handily removed from us by social services. Understand that this was God’s chosen means of getting our attention, then study the faces of your frail, trusting and needy children and read the story again.
Yeah, it’s like that.
O come, o come, Emmanuel…
Is that where you stood
that morning when the sheath’d, embarrassed moon
hid herself too soon behind earth’s broad shoulder?
Inured to tenderness but not without skiff and shuffle
you never made it your way to sing
past noon when the capricious cool lay waiting
for her summons from the heat of shimmering day.
Why must the geese shout so loud,
parading their brash story, torn through the ashen sky?
Their mockery only makes you braver
to twist your weary neck from shifting dirt;
the clumping, clodden landscape,
your only refuge.
You turn for home and take your place
among the pawns of potential.
Eat enough to remind yourself
of Eden’s meta-narrative, your textbook
with pages missing, the ones you planted.
Only here do you hear,
the song of dust, the foreplay of longitudinal seed-smithing.
Despite your doubt, here it makes sense.
Here it doubles up to surrender
the deep bellies of earth.
Take a trip to any mall, watch how people behave in waiting lines and watch a movie or buy booze on Christmas day and our real gods are revealed quickly. I repost a poem I wrote at this time last year that crystallizes some of my thoughts.
hear the crumpling rumbles, crown-starved lives, stumbling
through the hours, feigning breath for the stale air of hurry.
shops awhirl with tight shouldered pilgrims alert only to winking lights
and brandied windows that steal the real for the on sale deal, steals
for grubby graspers groping for this, grasping for that
filling carts with heartless bobbles of packaged numb –
soul, unknown to its owners, crouches still, hungry, waiting, gasping
thirsty for seasonal wading pool, the drink of tourists
blind to pilgrim feast just beyond the price tag contemplations of beggars.
empty promises, shiny and hollow, lure lusty eyes and hearts behooven
to unkempt desires of lesser men.
how insidious, how stealthy, this swollen debt of mall-booty
accumulating in attics, under porches, staircases, and blankets –
garage sale in the making.
still behind such trackless wastes, just out of sight
behind the aisle, under racks of unpeopled scarves, jackets and…
View original post 26 more words
Dedicated to the 26 sweet souls whose tears, now dried, fears now abated, pain now gone and thirst now assuaged can rest tucked in the bosom of God. From our vantage of dark remembrance and empty ache we remember you. We remember you.
I saw you today.
You wiped your nose on the new sweater Grandma made for you.
I saw you today
picking up the rabbit by her ears a little too rough. When she scratched your arm you cried.
I saw you today
fighting with your sister over the last of the McDonald’s fries, a Happy Meal’s empty promise.
I saw you today
playing with the other kids in the nasty ball pit that smelled suspiciously like pee and bleach.
I saw you today
crying over losing your Auntie Doris’s broach you had silently stolen from Mom’s bureau.
I saw you today
yelling at your brother to stop bouncing you so hard on the see-saw.
I saw you today
at your piano recital. You played a piece from “Chopin for Kids.”
I saw you today
through the window as you were coloring something. You chewed on your tongue.
I saw you today
as the school nurse dried your tears while applying the bandage to your wounded shin.
It’s Saturday,
I didn’t see you today.
Photo courtesy of www.funtasianyc.com
like lead on paper the tactile scratch
of winter rakes her rusty back
dusting each day for fingerprints
our only hint that somewhere near
she hides. like water in the well
down under, below within
where the moist and rich grows
before making its appearance, sacheting
across a dark-soiled stage where
dirt crawls up her dress and
spreads her limbs, surrounds her cracking skin,
pushing until she explodes in climax of more
but for now, shivering haunches huddle
encased in dead and dying promises
night and dark have outwrestled
her brighter self, denying ascension
in her tomb of untouched virginity
she longs in unrequited passion
and, donning the satin sash of evening,
the smoky grey of night blows her tender kiss
to the shameless, bright day
and whispers, “adieu.”
See this and other cool photos at www.fiercefragile.com
It was quite possibly the longest, most awkward car ride either of them had ever endured. Pastor Kent drove him home from the conference and used it as an opportunity to voice, loudly and repeatedly, his overwhelming sense of disappointment, hurt, humiliation, betrayal and just plain mess. Now, his would be the role of fielding nosy calls, inquiring as to the dramatic change in the music minister or “something I just heard.” His would be the task of chairing those ever-so-delightful follow up meetings with the church board at which his plan for healing and reconciliation would be mapped out. His would be the unwelcome experience of eating crow in the face of board members who were among those who voted not to hire him in the first place.
His anger was ripe, raw and very real. But, his victim willingly succumbed to the verbal whipping since he had already experienced life-changing realities too big to ignore; too broad to dampen his spirit. First of all, he still had a job. In spite of everything, he was returning to a place to call his own where he could begin working out the kinks of his new found sobriety. In community. With a paycheque. Secondly, for the first time in decades he had (re)discovered that he was actually gifted in his calling and that emotional resources already placed there by God were available on demand, without the added measure of drowning his desperation in drunkenness.
Like a heavy coagulation of rancid oatmeal, one thought remained in his psyche, however. He already knew to what he was returning. He was much less certain to whom. Would his wife and boys still be there? Had they chosen to jump ship, cut their losses and move back to Canada? Would he ever have opportunity to tell them of his first triumphant, alcohol free weekend? If so, would it make any difference this late in the game?
Though it was true that his situation hosted a complex set of factors that had contributed to his behavior over the years, insofar as the family was concerned, some key choices needed to be made. His lover had been the bottle, not her. His children had pop-tops and came in packs of six. His home was delirium and euphoria, not the cozy Oregon rancher that housed them all.
Her weekend journey had been anything but smooth or simple. There had been some resolution however to the gnawing questions she still harbored about their present situation. Although their lives outwardly were shrapnel, in order to have at least some peace of mind, she took Judy’s advice and drew up a family contract for him to read and sign when he got home. The gist of it was simple. He could stay with the simple proviso that he must sign the contract stating his intention to change lovers. If he decided that alcohol would not be his mistress and willingly pursued every lifeline already tossed to him by family, colleagues and friends, then there was still a place for him. If not, then not. He would lose everything, including custody of their boys.
To the uninitiated it might sound harsh. To the ears of a broken man whose feet still had the smell of prodigal pig shit on them, it was a symphony of grace beyond all reckoning. That day was Sunday, October 20th, 2002. It was the beginning of the end of the beginning. There are no old beginnings. Only new ones.
Today, slightly more than twenty years later, that man sits in sobriety before his laptop sharing a tale that never gets easier with the telling. He has never had a drop of alcohol since that hideous week, the week he almost lost everything. Instead, he gained the whole world.
And the world tastes good…
Hi, I’m Rob and I’m an alcoholic.
I’ve been meaning to stretch
these cramped, untested arms
halted but ready
to hold these moments.
You are there
where once I was
there are spatters of blood
on this clock, ticking in remembrance.
The shrapnel of leaves
vacated from their secure places
invites the lesser flowers
to grow more brazenly
no more to bury their faces
but breathe in the new life
of death.
As latent potential erodes, your beauty housed in forgotten containers,
the violin without the bow, the harp without the strings,
you’ve stopped yearning.
When your name no longer gets written in dusty chalk on the blackboard
but caught in the foamy ridges of someone elses’ brush,
you’ve stopped befriending.
To get lost no more side by side with immature friends
crashing through the forest in less than suitable attire,
you’ve forgotten irrationality.
When your daily adventures look less like indentured servitude
and more like poetic phrases and the gentle turning of notes,
you’ve started seeing.
If we are made in God’s image and God sings, then we should be singing, too.
Ancient Wisdom for Modern Seekers
Spiritual Direction for Integrated Living
From liquid courage to Sober Courage
an anamcara exploring those close encounters of the liminal kind
Collaborating with the Muses to inspire, create, and illuminate
...in such kind ways...
"That I may publish with the voice of thanksgiving, and tell of all thy wondrous works." Psalm 26:7
Blog for poet and singer-songwriter Malcolm Guite
…in the thick of things
REFLECTIONS & REVIEWS
Seeking that which is life giving.
… hope is oxygen
Homepage of Seymour Jacklin: Writer - Narrator - Facilitator
If we are made in God’s image and God sings, then we should be singing, too.
Ancient Wisdom for Modern Seekers
Spiritual Direction for Integrated Living
From liquid courage to Sober Courage
an anamcara exploring those close encounters of the liminal kind
Collaborating with the Muses to inspire, create, and illuminate
...in such kind ways...
"That I may publish with the voice of thanksgiving, and tell of all thy wondrous works." Psalm 26:7
Blog for poet and singer-songwriter Malcolm Guite
…in the thick of things
REFLECTIONS & REVIEWS
Seeking that which is life giving.
… hope is oxygen
Homepage of Seymour Jacklin: Writer - Narrator - Facilitator
innerwoven 