We Are Human, Siri

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We Are Human, Siri

Last night Siri didn’t want to talk about God or Jesus
And my daughter asked her too about heaven and the cross
She didn’t know about Boston or pain
Or the burning desire to run and scream
Or run and hide, or just run ragged to the end of an outstretched
mirage of a horizon, legs burning lactate build up, gripping pain
So we let her off the hook and laughed
But we are still hanging by a thread
She told Siri to call her princess and to wake her up at 6:40
That’s nice
She can refer all those questions to a human and she did
She has a nice new Lilly Pulitzer case to hide in
But  we are cradled in the arms of the most High while
We ache about shattered limbs
And life in a chair, but it is still life
What were we thinking
A little mother daughter chat with an android voice
When the Creator of the Universe was available and is
We are human and so there is grace

I want to run and scream like a wild one and fling and flail
Arms swinging like helicopter blades
Expending crazy mad energy
I am human and I hurt
And I am in the company of millions
But we are covered by The Creator
Each deliriously painful moment of grief and loss heard
Siri can defer the questions to a human
I, thankfully can take all of mine to Him.
Bent, weak, bowed and shaken.
Humanity runs to the cross

under  a covering of love.

Siri, if you only knew such love

But the last word is always hope and His
And fear won’t strangle bold and brave
And bombs can’t rob our souls
Human kindness runs to aid
Man helps man and God loves man
Broken, fragile, wounded man
And hearts are broken but still beat
Blood runs hard and fast but so does
Compassion at the scene and in the world

Siri, if you only knew

The love of God most High

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With Jennifer today for #tellhisstory and with Emily and my team at Imperfect Prose on Thursdays

The Fear Of Forgetting, The Art of Remembering

heart bright in woodShe recalls the smallest detail from years ago.

She recalls the long ago.

And she forgets the half a moment away.

Mystery in the mind, mystery in the aging

of memory.

A life gets blurred like watercolors on a canvas.

Color present, color faded, lines and detail run away and off the page

Until a version of  blurry new is present in the present.

And what will I recall.

What will I remember.

Will the written anchor memories of each, of the three, the best, the challenges

I dream a dream of  capturing it all in bell jar, lid light,

In marked detail , the love and laughter

Growing up at my feet, at my bosom for years

If you add them, all the days between the three

It would make one old child, but they are three

And will the words help bury memories, encase them in a time capsule

Just in case the mind and memory fade as it does and as it did for her

She says remember when you and how could I, barely I do, I barely recall

I the child she the mother of this obscure event, no event is unworthy of recording

All are worthy, all are worthy.

If I write and when I write may it be a doubled effort to recall

The smallest moments in their, our, this life.

Branding, blazing all the breathes in ink, in stone, the sacred ones

The what He gives, the what we take

No it is what we receive, and remember and  offer back

By recording, all the moments in an effort

To remember.

She remembers the smallest detail from long long ago.

May I remember the smallest details from long long ago.

And begin to see through her eyes, a glimpse, a slant of how

She saw and how she sees

That is grace.

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Joining Emily at Imperfect Prose for her one word prompt this week…Mother.

one word button

imperfectprose

The Spice of Love

love rootHe by the fire

And I all folded up

under Tartan holding mug of dark hot piping black

Designing gifts of love

And I can see the yellow,house

Through window pane

And wonder

How you multiply a batch of baked and make it fill up all the cracks

And holes of days throughout the three

six

five

when quietly we live across, beside

Angled  on this street so quiet

How do we add enough to make up for lost words

A silence living in the quiet days and nights on quiet

Street, we chose, they chose

A peaceful avenue of still

Which spice can shake out love come down

And fill a heart up full to overflowing

And say I love my neighbor, golden

As myself

Its not the dozens from the oven’s

heat

Its simply love of Christ poured out

And empty handed we could go and take

A batch of baked up

served up

cooked up

 Christmas Love

heart bright in wood

And when the days that roll around
and cause a heart to spill
resolve
and resolutely
make a list
of all that will be different
in the year
the one
found when the page
is
turned

and

twenty thirteen
has a way of making all things
new
a wish can roll right off the heart
as I stare at the house
yellow through my pane
that I would deliver
Christmas Love
On all the days
Not simply one
To all the doors

not simply mine

that

sit in wait
for Christmas Love
Come down
All year

Round

Delivered Daily

not just sprinkled in one batch

no, love come down all year round

I stare at yellow through my windowpane

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Joining Amber at The Run A Muck for her concrete word prompts. The Spice Of Love was written out of the word prompt cinnamon. 

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