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Cherish

A poem from 2002…

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My heart beats

For the exotic

Drum-taps,

The rhythm

Coursing inside me—

To look in someone’s eyes,

And feel them beaming true,

But now there’s You.

My hands wait

For a beckoning

Gentle touch,

My fingers

Entwined with his—

To see, not just believe,

And senses come to life,

But I’m Your wife.

My feet stay

As I sit still.

Sun sets;

Its constance

Echoes Your love—

More than a moment’s song.

You hold a tenderness

I cannot possess.

You hold though

Everyone

Lets go.

Your faithfulness

Is better than our best—

You save us at our worst.

You shine bright, but I see him.

He must grow dim.

My prayers climb

To Your throne

Clumsily.

Their fragrance

You improve with faith—

It must become more

To let go what is past,

Cherish what will last.

Rhythms

Heaven is perfect rhythm
(God doesn’t miss a beat) –
beyond the bounce of runners’
bouyant feet,
a swimmer’s breathing
as the arm descends,
the heartbeat of lovers
(not just friends),

complexity of sunflowers,
hair dripping with the rain,
the clapping of close thunder,
the wild dance of a flame.

Here’s harpsicord and organ;
here’s jazz and rock n’ roll,
each creation – unique motion,
volume, interval.

How heaven must be if sounds and sights
like these exist here, now –
more perfect, yet more varied,
more exciting, and more – wow!

When I Look Boldly into Aslan’s Face

From January 2004. A villanelle for Narnia.

————————————-

What love would hold to me in my disgrace?

Such love releases too much power to stand

when I look boldly into Aslan’s face.

His Name once made me shudder, and the chase:

For He pursued me, tore me with His hand.

What love would hold to me in my disgrace?

He died when I betrayed Him. Time nor space

could hold Him. And I knew new life was planned

when I looked boldly into Aslan’s face.

He saw me when I reached a sinful place,

and roared, and I knelt under His command.    

What love would hold to me in my disgrace?

But since I am His child, I may embrace

His mane of summer, and I call Him grand

when I look boldly into Aslan’s face.

The lion holds me always to replace

my pain through pain with joy. I understand

what love would hold to me in my disgrace

when I look boldly into Aslan’s face.

Friendship

A poem born out of an exercise in Creative Writing class in college…

——————————-

You are like cake and ice cream,

Mostly smooth chocolate covered with rich chocolate frosting

and a little blotch of vanilla coldness, melting

to cut the sweet.

You carry the scent of birthdays and of vacations,

A pleasant getaway smell permeating the room.

Big smiles whenever in rare moments we meet,

As of some secret joke sprinkling more chocolate

over the spongy cake.

We sing. We laugh, lighting candles and making wishes

before we blow them out

and eat potatoes for supper.

Beyond the Stable

From 2006… a Narnia poem.

I

You struggled just to birth your boy in peace,

with Herod’s army chasing you for blood,

saved only by a dream, an angel’s word.

And did you not accept there’d be a sword

dividing your own heart – slitting His side?

Did you not cry in Nazareth that day

they tried to stone Him for His truthful words

called “blasphemy”? You knew that He could be

only the Son of God. And when you lost

Him in the temple (He was only 12),

were you not anxious for Him, for His life?

Did you not read His future in the lamb?

Did you not haggle for a moment’s word

aside with Him, and weren’t you turned away

as He said He had other work to do?

What world was it He walked that left You behind?

Then He was taken from you. Was there rest

that Sabbath day when He lay in the tomb,

His body whipped in violence, and His hands

hammered through veins, and thorns smashed to His skull?

But wasn’t there much more than peace that morning?

At least, a deeper, transcendental peace,

overpowering joy though He could not stay long?

II

You struggled to purchase tickets for the train

that took your babes away from falling bombs,

but then they stumbled deeper into war,

into a stranger land, attacked by wolves

and running straight into a Lion’s den.

Would you thank Father Christmas for the sword,

or for the shield? The dagger, or the balm?

The bow and arrow, or the horn for help?

Or for the breakfast, just to see them fed?

Would you have held your Peter from the fight,

your Edmund from his first heroic deed?

Would you have let your daughters out that night

to follow the Lion and watch the Witch’s knife

speed Him to death to pay for your son’s sins?

But wouldn’t you be proud of your kings and queens,

of their magnificence and gentleness,

their justice and their valiance dearly bought?

III

So much for safety. Better plans are laid,

a different peace beyond the stable door,

where every son and daughter of the Lord

will stare into the eyes of the Lion/Lamb

and thank Him for the danger He took on

that ever after we might know no fear.

In the Cool of the Day

This one from 2002…

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I am tired

and want to sleep—

keep the coolness of the night air

running through the a. c.

All quiet,

unobtrusive.

When in the day

I want to hide

in elegant dresses,

a veritable empress,

for him,

for myself,

for no one,

an elf

maiden, beautiful as the golden age

of another world,

unspoiled by the falseness of this place,

of a nobler race.

With a love that cries loudly,

I’d walk proudly.

Fully fallen human I stay

and watch each hour, each day

crawl past or fly,

leaving me the same—

hiding from secrets that make me cry,

someone who calls my name,

walking, close by.

He bids the stars to sing,

and they obey,

but I am tired and songless

in the cool of the day.