Viral Dailies – Day 2

I’ve been looking forward to National Poetry Month. It’s one more thing to do in isolation! But, not just anything – something meaningful and hopefully, moving. I shared a new piece yesterday as we kicked off our month of poetic goodness together. Since then I’ve been reaching out to various poets and have invited them to share some of their best work with me so I, in turn, can share it with you.

Lesley-Anne Evans is a dear friend, fellow mystic and poet who has won numerous awards for her writing. Follow her on Instagram. Day 2 is a collage of short, refrigerator magnet poems entitled simply, “She Said.”

Enjoy.

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Viral Dailies – Day 1

We are, all of us, in a coup of sorts. The forced injustice of disease stomping its boots on our collective heads. It’s one of the unknown dangers of our diverse lives lived frantically, furiously, frenetically in close quarters.

But, there can be light in dark places. People are finding it all the time. And, serendipitously, April brings with it the hope of poetry: National Poetry Month. Into this current of shared shared beauty I would cautiously but willingly wade. 

A poem a day. Sometimes my own. Often the works of others, both new and historic. I pray you’ll take this wordish journey with me as we cry out our voices against the melée and toward our healing and the comforts of physical community again.

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We write so many poems 

We write so many poems.

Some, like bones, protrude through thinner skin

of vulnerability and loss.

Others meander in slow-drift brooks

of thought-filled cadence.

Still others jostle, ruffians of heart, reminding

us we still have memory and expectation,

angels and devils of our days to contend with.

But, all the time, as words spill out

they grow us up, closer to the stars – 

and the old light.

 

Corona-daze: Faith Is…

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Photo taken in a church cemetery somewhere in Wales on our 2016 journey to the UK

Corona-daze: Finding Our Hope

We all need reminders, in the Corona-daze, of Gospel basics. We leave outside (where they belong) the blustering prognostications of the fundamentalist naysayers and return to the simplicity and impossibility of eternal grace. The Gospel, birthed not in shame, but in love (remember John 3:16?), is a never-ending well of nourishing goodness and hope.

Lean into it my friends.

Find there your home,

your hope,

your calling,

your courage.

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Photo by Karen Hughes (taken in her backyard!)

Poetry from a Distance

Friend and fellow poet, Kelly Belmonte, adds some zest to our busy social-distancing schedules with a few poems from her wonderful blog, allninemuses. Thanks, Kelly, and keep up the good words!

Kelly Belmonte's avatarAll Nine

How do poets respond to a global crisis?  Some friends and I got together (virtually) this week to answer that very question. Turns out poets do in a crisis what they do most times: They write, of course… and read, and think deep thoughts, and listen to jazz greats, all from a safely introspective distance. Praying peace and poetry for all at this remarkable moment in history. ~ KDB

What good does a poem do?
The fragility of quiet work,
wind-beaten daffodils,
nature versus the nurture
of a few famous words
forgotten once this crisis passes.

My floating anxiety is a family
of spiders on the smooth surface
of a slippery lake. Too bad
I don’t like spiders.

~ Kelly Belmonte

 

We said we’d always do it then,
when life didn’t push so hard
and time was a friend we still called an enemy.

We told ourselves that responsibilities

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Corona Daze: Sanctuary

In times of darkness and light, chaos and calm, we look to our artists to be our comforters, our prophets; those who bring light into dark places. They remind us of our shared humanity. They point us inward where we find the Christ within. They point our heads upward away from our pain. They point us outward away from our self-absorption and into the great, wide world whose pain is greater still. 

Carrie Newcomer is one such artist. As we look at each other both askance and with a curious mixture of suspicion and longing, may this song and the spirit which inspires it, become the growing embers of hope. More than anything else, may we be to each other, a refuge. In this storm, and any other.

Corona-daze: just breathe

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When the walls of fury and dystopia threaten our made up worlds,

just breathe.

When coughing madness spews upon us its pointless fury,

just breathe.

When those bent on denying as “fake” anything “those ones” have said,

just breathe.

When “those ones” spend all their time trumpeting the correction as the end,

just breathe.

When hints of community are abandoned for mutual blaming,

just breathe.

When neighbours and friends respond to us as foreigners and enemies,

just breathe.

When social distance becomes an excuse to deepen selfishness,

just breathe.

When social distance deepens our loneliness, broadens our fears,

just breathe.

 

When time and brilliance and humanity once again find their way,

just breathe.

When the disparate voices of the many find semblance of singularity,

just breathe.

When the despair from our losses kisses the tears of our gratitude,

just breathe.

When the detritus of our streets, our homes, our world is swept away,

just breathe.

When the heroes of our wholeness return to their own neglected homes,

just breathe. 

When opens again the doors of mosque and church, synagogue and hall,

just breathe.

When real, unimagined community replaces rampant, unbalanced commerce,

just breathe.

When masks, gloves, distance, and disinfectant give way to gathered embrace,

just breathe.

When the darker memories of our day become the fodder for our laughter,

just breathe.

When breathing and prayer are indistinguishable,

just breathe.

 

Just breathe.

 

Remarkable image by Larisa Koshkina

 

 

Corona-daze, chapter two

What everyone doesn’t need right now:

More bad news.

More anxiety.

More uncertainty.

More xenophobic virus responses.

More conspiracy-theorist nut jobs.

More division (only now pictured by quarantine).

What everyone could use right now:

Belly laughs.

Real community.

A feeling of health and safety.

Mutual kindness.

A C19 vaccine.

Hope.

Invitation.jpgThank you, Dina Gregory, for posting this to our Facebook chat room. It’s perfect for all of us right now.

Corona-daze, chapter one

Uncertain times.

Unreliable emotions.

Unreasonable expectations.

Unfair xenophobia.

Unrealized dreams.

We are living in a strange day, and with no way of really knowing what direction the wind will blow next. As a writer, poet, musician, and pastor, it is my job and my joy to speak truth to falsehood, love to hate, light to darkness.

So, in our current Coronahaze, rather than load up the Internet with more data, as helpful as it is, I thought I’d leave you with a daily dose of hope, some of it backdoor, some overt. 

Today’s is brought to you from the queen of quirky gospel truisms, Nadia Bolz-Weber. Our responses to fear are not always our best selves. Trust me, as a recovering alcoholic, I know of which I speak. Let’s begin from via negativa and see what light may come before long, shall we?

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Friends, be wise.

Stay kind to others.

Pray and hope.

Let healing begin…

Toward a finished poem

I’ve been feeling like a suburban home,

family-bound, dog-eared, cat-haired, dust-bunnied.

The floor sprawls, covered in lines of loosely connected

bits of string and tape, shoes without mates,

things without name or purpose or place,

shoved in too many drawers, beside stray Tupperware lids

unsure where home is.

I’ve been thatching a wayward garden,

long since surrendered her virginity to the fate of

time and neglect. Her gnarled roots now

the bed of fools – those with nothing to do 

but wait for another dry Spring and

long, parching Summer to follow.

I’ve lost the memory of how to cultivate in her

whatever tempts or teases a solitary bud.

I’ve lost my place in the song,

where happy, drooling drunks drop their lines

of sprawling melody, disconnected from time or tune

or taste, but dripping, soaked in the solicitude of friends.

Old lyrics lie waiting for my attention,

faithful old soldiers of forgotten wars,

older still, fought on fields among the family

of tables and tumbling talk, well-practiced lies

in well-memoried songs.

I’ve been acting like a poem in progress –

a toss-about of lost words, tongue-tombs tied

together by accident in a free-falling frenzy.

Outdoor syntax lost in the mall,

painted-on ivory-tower lips for her rent-a-friend parties.

The ironies, playground of op-eds and writers of no

fixed address, wasted in wordless

sentences no one can read.

 

But the best poems are never really

finished