Standing At The Sink

wpid-20140212_145037.jpgStanding At The Sink

If you find me staring through the pane
Fuzzy, focusing on things
That aren’t right here
Far away I seem to you
Wandering out
back in again
Lost in thought inside my head
Making art and hearing holy whispers to press ahead
Bubbles resting in the kitchen sink
It is not the labor that you think
Upon first glance,
upon a second glance
You’ll see
Breathing rapid at the chance

To go chase Robins in my dreams
Daily washing worry down the metal
Drain
Choosing to find beauty in the ash
He bowed
Wrestled something from the soil
Hope, I think, was birthed on my front lawn

He landed there in front of me
As I stood steeped in worry at my sink
The birds transformed me into
Something holy new

Now I am rusty breasted in my dreams
Wings will take me far from here
I can join the Robins and
Go places in my mind
Disappear, fly somewhere other
Than leaning on the dirty sink

Every anxious thought
So filled with fear
Is floating in a sea
Made of foamy bubbles laced with dirt
I am a vessel
Propped up, leaning on the counter
Trying not to
Sink

Even the drain does not want
To take from me
This toxic waste

And if you see me resting in the rocking chair

Here but not, a countenance
Filled with worry and concern

I am not resting, idle though it seems
I have run away, escaping to my
Dreams
Asked them to carry me
Someplace other than right now, right here

The words give solace
Comfort
And remove me from
A place of tears

Now I have joined the Robins
Dancing on a sea of brown
They’ve brought
A story laced with hope

My soul
Is grateful for a flock of orange breasted birds
Content when digging
In the wormy dirt.
And I am back now
Washing dishes in the sink.

In Which The Moon Talks Back

In Which The Moon Talks Back

So much happens by the moon’s bright light
Radiant beams
Poured holy rays on stables where Christ was born
One dark and sacred night

Entranced, we the people of the Light
Bound by grace
Poured out on moonglow
From heaven down to Earth
Thrown-out
Cast like nets, its light remarkable
When seen upon the sea

And we
Gaze skyward
Spend countless
Hours, living breathing
World without end, amen
A people
Held agasp
Struck by evening’s light
Moonstruck by a blinding power and might

Love has been made
Lovers have swayed
Drunk on the liquid earth-bound light
That drips from way on high

Dreams are dreamt, then
Swept away, by
Every phase
Of our neighbor in the sky
We count our days, wish and
Plan, mark the calendar by the wax and wane
Look out the window panes
To see a world, lit as by an ember’s glow
Mourning and in pain

The tides
A pattern that rules the sea
Rolls at the spoken word
Of that man
Up in the moon, it seems
They
Come and go when they are told

Is it not his turn?

Synchronized by the one
Whose chiseled face
Stares back at us
He’s always been a man
Faintly smiling
Like a profile on Mount Rushmore, carved
A face held hard and fast
His eyes mirroring the stars
Steady, rock of ages suspended
In a galaxy God-created

But why have we not asked him
Does he not have something wise to say
Subject of story, songs and tales
Mentioned early on
In Genesis, I’m just curious

What would he say
If he could speak, write
A story of all he’s seen
Would he whisper
A cautionary tale, did he
To our men who took Apollo there
By the light of his own
Making
Would he dare say what he has seen
Or she
Or it, the one who lit
The world so bright, continues to light us
Night after night
I suppose it is time
For the one-sided conversation of moon and man
To end

Let’s give him a turn

Dare we listen,
For once, hush so he can speak
To what his broken heart has heard
And seen

Could we stand to learn
From one who has seen a million
Sunsets
Preceding his own glowing rising

Does he dare to tell his side
Or is he simply content to spend
His nights
Counting bovine jumping over stars
On their way
Leapfrogging
Child’s play really
All this talk of one who cannot talk

Or even speak to what he sees
Or is it she
Would tear a soul right in two
With words
The beauty and the beast
Of life right here
On planet Earth

Dreams are held
And he won’t tell
The prayers deposited in secret
Under his bright light

The celestial secret keeper
Holds them tight
And let’s us talk of
Wild imagined things
And dream of childish delight

All under a holy holy holy
Radiant
Moon-beamed light

Quiet yourself for a night, or two
And listen, if you dare
To what hush-toned radiant moonspeak
He’ll whisper in the pitch of night
When the moon talks back to you

Blue Moon HMM

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Joining Laura at Laura Boggess dot com

I Cannot Dream For You

 the prodigal fescoI Cannot Dream For You

Without weeping
While I do,
I do love you
My body wracked by pain
Releases heaves and sighs of grieving
Distributes tears instead of blood
Pushing pulsating  crimson through my veins
Salt soaked
Sacks of weeping
Burst open as they hit the
Hard wood floor
Boards by board you’ve laid your life
Down
In a pattern
Of your own design, it seems
But
Nail by nail
I
Gaze skyward
Searching for the rough-hewn cross

I cannot dream of you without weeping
I see you
Through the eyes of Christ
Who plans for wholeness
Restoration
Desires for healing in every life

So I will dream that joy shall visit
Come in the morning, return to you
Fill  you  up with songs of singing
That you will be  made whole and new
And I will hope you into wellness
Formed from molded clay by Christ

That you would dream of new beginnings
And see the world as it sees you
Born to this world with songs of gladness
Wrapped , loved and swaddled from your birth

And I  will dream until my life ends
That all that’s noble,right and good
Godly,Holy, true and pure
Will come by way of
And  then rest with you
That dreams of joy and new beginnings
We be your dreams and not just mine
For  worlds you’ve never lived to open
And take you mercifully  into glory days

Yes I will dream like Sarah
Release all trembling and human fear
Put it down
Shout out a deafening chorus
Of loud, yet
Broken hallelujah’s
For Always
ad infinitum
precious one, you child of God

Today will end your days of  weeping
Today begins anew
For I will dream always of you.

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Joining Laura Boggess for Playdates at The Wellspring

and Jennifer for #tellhisstory

In Which The Quiet is Loud – Letters From The Village

a fave of the rain leaves and flowers

She sat in the quiet and collected herself, or was she collected by it. Swallowed up by reflection. And the rain pummeled the tin for hours on end and if she didn’t know better she thought it might never end.

But she peered ahead and she knew from reports, that hours from now it would all be dry. And the sky would find peace and quiet again from the raging rains of biblical proportions. But until then the quiet is so loud while the clouds open up and release their crocodile tears.

She held her own back because it would sound redundant and too cliche to let them roll down the cheek while they fall from the sky. This is heaven’s day to rain down. Hers will wait.

Nestled in the quiet, the disappointment and the dreams she released seem to act out and cry for attention like a parlor clown. Needy and demanding. 

It occurred to her the other day that each day feels borrowed, like a library book which will need to be released back. That ever since she stepped into that place, on the generously other side of the half-century mark,  there is no time like the present for all of it. The days become numbered, fragile and fewer.  Marking them important, marking them royalty, holiday, worthy of celebration. Just for being. Each is exceptional, worthy. It was always that way, only now it truly is. She decrees it as law, for her life.

So she resolves to speak love more, forgive more swiftly and loudly, to create more art for the one single solitary sole that may be  in the path of it, and to laugh.

Like the raindrops lodged in the screen so tight, she holds on to her saline tears and waits for release. Because today there is joy in the drenching wet grey world, and there is hope, though hiding out somewhere. Perhaps in the white and weary sky. 

Because the weather wants to mirror her mood, or is she simply reflecting external conditions.

And she knows at the end of the winter there will be a spring and at the end of the sadness there will be joy. She knows well from the past and the present tells too. There are visible signs in the vine, it will bloom.

mcvl

mcvl close up lily fence

On the to do list there,  written in stone, the mundane, though joy-giving things are outlined to be done. There is folding and washing, sweeping and such. There is walking and splashing with dogs in the rain. There is shaking the remnants of last nights bad dream. And peeking round corners for surprises from Him. There are phone calls and letters to a girl in Peru, and making the trip home from school seem special indeed. Homemade soup is always comforting on days filled with rain. And by evening they all will come home once again. 

There are poems to be written and prayers to be prayed.

And she knows from reports that the rain will soon end and the quiet loud will become quiet again.Recede with the waters that look like a flood.

It wouldn’t be pollyanna at all if she said, the sun waits to shine at the end of this day.

(author’s note: this was the end of the post until the phone rang. This is my revised ending.)

And a phone can ring in the middle of a life and speak  words that a mother could just die from, the shared grief shatters the soul like the rain on the tin.

We lost a young friend the age of my son just hours ago. And so fragile and breakable is indeed life and our hearts.

Lord, mend and heal and quiet the loud cries of your people. Now we do join the tears of the heavens with our very own.into every life a little rain

Joining Jen and Heather and Emily Wierenga.