Friday Poem 2017.7

2017.7

The heart,

always the heart. Those matters

of heritage, lifestyle,

and circumstance.

We make promises

and say what we mean

when we first say it.

Forever after we are somewhat unsure;

Did I say always? Sometimes?

Yes, I will walk each day,

eat more raw broccoli

and taste collard greens.

Yes, we will be kinder to one another, practice

lightheartedness, and forgetfulness.

By now some arteries are permanently closed,

but collaterals may grow, who knows.

Damage is indicated by various dashed lines

on the cardiac print-out. Your family doctor

will interpret these with you, and review

your wellness plan.

Blockages, self-righteous debates,

where to win feels like death by drowning;

selfish for air we grasp at anything.

How much tissue

has been greyed out

where once bloody and vital?

LAE2017

Another Thursday poem

 

Crane

They call on her for one thing only;

she is built to lift the weight

they cannot. They attach safety chains

and she swings beam after beam,

rafter upon rafter,

up and over the building site,

and lays down each piece

in its place. She knows

her capacity and her reach,

the stabilizing legs

hold her firm.

Do not ask her to dig

or scoop or drag.

Do not ask her to change

what she does best,

her gentle lift, the ballet

of all she carries.

 

LAE2017

Poem for Thursday

Mandarin

Plump curves and

burnished skin glowing,

not without imperfections but

what you see now is

what you already know

of her taste, nectar, quenching.

You imagine how your thumbs will gently open her

and your tongue will wrap itself

around the lusciousness

of each soft segment.

The air will carry her scent

long after satiation.

You reach for her

and close your eyes.

Oh, how her cool skin meets

the heat of your hands.

New poems

2017.3

She will do what she will do

no matter what words

your lips form into love knots,

no matter how long you stand

with your arms wrapping her sorrow.

There is nothing she will not do,

nothing held back. She is quicksand

seeded with landmines.

You must not walk here. Run.

Don’t look back. You could never save her.

Merciful Jesus, won’t you

gather her up like broken bread?

There is more than enough

to feed a multitude.

LAE2017

 

 

2017.4

The miracle would be…

the miracle would be going back,

to before we did what we’ve done

to each other,

back to kindness, and loving

exactly how you came to me

raw and imperfect,

magic and raucous,

before I dreamed up all the ways

I might mold you

into something less mighty.

The miracle would be

waking up and discovering

heaviness dropped in the dark

and a wheel within a wheel, turning,

like a movie’s opening

repeating, repeating, repeating

the part where she

notices him, just briefly,

then carries on. The moment where

what happens next

is anyone’s guess.

LAE2017

Poetry again

Ritual

It isn’t far
along the road
to where merganser calls
from the lake shallows. Swallows swoop
to kiss the surface, and in the scruffed willow
a canary seeks what she needs most.
Beauty is always here, the creek
emptying her season of heaviness
as I too will be emptied. This inevitable
ebb and flow, the grief
of making way. Waves wash
and return like a promise.
The mallard drake treads water
steady as the hen dips and eats
and dips again. Each calm repetition,
the layered mountains to the south,
receding soft
in the coming rain.

© Lesley-Anne Evans 2016

 

Haiku for the Hours

Dawn

Sun’s love is certain,
turns night storms to diamond fire,
each raindrop, a light.

Day

The orchard calls you,
trees are laden with words.
You of lack, come, eat.

Dusk

Monochromatic heart,
learn to hold the almost dark,
learn why robin sings.

Dark

Wild, nocturnal cat,
compulsive tracker of clues,
nine types of darkness.

© Lesley-Anne Evans 2016

More poetry…

I’m giving them away, I know it. Instead of saving them up for some bigger purpose, I let them trickle through my fingers like sand. Time passes so quickly, and these are only words. Why not say them now.

Sub Zero

The fridge trickles and pops,
the ice maker oblivious to the deep freeze
outside, and our growing thirst 
for wine, and flames.
The lake is thick skinned with ice.
Like our winterizing bodies layered in
blankets, Fazl socks, and comfort foods,
water is a memory of itself,
a dream of what comes next.
We have done this before, hunkered down
in tired horizons when darkness comes.
We will wait it out,
try not to think about
four season sleeping bags
or Fentanyl
or our saviour complex.
On a night like this
our hands are empty. We need
mercy. We all need mercy.

LAE2016

 

Enough

You come to conclusions
like you know
the end from the beginning 
have the verdict from the judge,
are a presiding member
of an end-times jury.
You call it child abuse,
and murder – you are
a character assassin,
your slogans a series
of slicing pronouncements resulting in
curbside fatalities, pedestrian
bleed out. 

He was silent
and then he said, let you
who has no sin cast the first stone,
let you who has no sin.

I try to look away but see
you are an elder, with a time worn face
and commitment to a particular flavour faith.
I see sandwich boards and signs,
team huddles on your gang turf
railing against the other side
where girls walk, drive, and ride
a gauntlet to the clinic.
I imagine they have tried
to find another way through tears
and bargained prayers, lost sleep,
arrival at a cross-road and
a choice. This.
And you choose. That.

I drive by. Each Tuesday.
I want to drive through… my over-righteous
indignation, then I am ashamed
I am not blameless, yet I blame.
I once shared your state of mind.
No longer sure, I am witness while I drive by,
every Tuesday, before 9.

He was silent, finger marking dirt
with what…a symbol of his throne?
And then he said, let you
who is without sin cast a stone,
and the righteous weaponed ones all left.
And only he and she remained.
Neither do I condemn you, proclaimed the voice
of overcoming Love.

How then does it end,
me judging you judging them?
(apart from any conversation about sin
which I am clearly choosing not to enter in
because it is bigger than I can entertain.)
My commentary though cathartic is just the same
as you. This is how we cancel love. Enough.
Enough. Enough. Enough.
Dear God forgive me I have said enough.
Forgive me for what I do not do,
and what I do, not knowing.

LAE2016

We are not done

We Are Not Done

We are not done. We are
ongoing conversation,
sometime monologue, sometime soliloquy.
Done is undone in our transforming reality,
our we that is, and will be.
As perplexing as speech sometimes seems,
I will wrap my errant tongue unceasingly
around the shape of this dialect we long for
yet hesitantly speak. Years down the road
we’ll continue our halting imperfect communion
because we have chosen this holy union.

No. We are not done.
Done is baked bread filling the air
with aromas of childhood, golden crust, served up,
butter and jam, eaten, gone, done.
Done is my hair, washed, cut, coloured, and styled.
Done is your fishing trip into the wild.
Done is each finished task, our completed to do lists,
but done is not done when we both choose us.
Yes we will disagree for a time,
but when emotions
and the need to be right mellow and calm
we’ll be right back here; take my hand, carry on.

Because we are not done
striving, surviving, staying alive, relational jiving.
We are not done doing and undoing
all we’ve messed up, gluing what’s come unglued.
We don’t live the
“you complete me” sentiment.
We chose, our promise remains.
We are not done. Always, we begin again.

One day, I imagine
you will hear my breath reach
between the words I cannot speak,
nearly there, almost, there.
In that pregnant space you will hear
the language of your heart, beloved.

My heart will be the echo.

Tuesday poem 006

It’s been a while since I’ve posted a poem. Almost a month.

Forgive me.

I’m linking this poem to today’s Poetry Pub over at dVerse Poetry, answering host Victoria Slotto‘s request, “to post a descriptive poem in which images are used to describe a feeling, a truth you hold dear, a person, using primarily surroundings—in other words, an imagist poem that has an embedded message about whatever…”

This time

This is what it feels like –
first step, splinter of ice,
eyes fixed on the gleam of going,
no clear way out.
The walls tight
like winter,
hands bruising the throat of spring.
You blow halos on the frosted window,
birth pains to a small voice.
The air opens to your giving,
you can almost say the way.

Lesley-Anne Evans, 2013

Voice Two – Anne Linington

Image via Wikipedia

Anne Linington and I have known each other for about 8 years… but have never met in real life! Maybe one day we will!

We first connected on a writer’s network called ‘Faithwriters’, and discovered each other’s love for poetry.

Anne lives in on the Isle of White, UK, with her husband Russel, and is licensed as a Lay Minister in the Church of England.  Anne’s heart is wide open for the adults with learning disabilities that she works with. Anne is inspired by the writing of Henri Nouwen, Thomas Merton, and Bernard of Clairvaux.

My friend Anne is a tireless encourager, and she speaks into my life as a poet and a Christian, adding to a growing sense of confidence in writing. I’m forever thankful to her for the gift of virtual friendship.

Anne continues to post her beautiful poetry online at Faithwriters and  Premier Christian Community.

With thoughts looking toward Easter, I gladly share Anne’s poem, “A bold move”. Thank you, dear Anne, for taking us there.

A bold move

It was a bold move
To welcome the news the angel brought
That the long-awaited Messiah
Foretold by her nation’s prophets
Would become incarnate
In the womb of her adolescent body
And through her
Be born into the world he loved
And longed to save

It was a bold move
Wearied and weakened in body
To make her way through the pressing crowd
Each vying for a better view
Of this man of oracle and miracle
Through the press of sweating bodies
The twist of dusty feet
She stretched her arm
And her hand touched his robe

It was a bold move
To enter the house
Where the men had gathered
Knowing that all eyes would fall on her
That her reputation would scream out
That she of all people was not fit
To touch such a person
Let alone pour her precious offering
Upon His feet
And wipe them with her hair

It was a bold move
To return to the garden alone
Searching for her beloved
Whom she had seen die
Whom she had loved in life
And so recently loved in death
To view the now empty tomb
And ask if He had been taken away
Or where she might find Him

It was a bold move

Related Articles

• Poetry Fridayo37 (buddybreathing.wordpress.com)

Poetry Friday010

James Wilson Miller Cook

Personal mission statements aside, no spiritual formation retreats or
Regular sessions with an accountability coach or a mentor. Yet, I see now how you knew God.
You knew him in the way of cultivated earth, rocks thrown aside, seeds tucked in waiting for rain and sun and time to do their work.
You knew him in fresh picked beefsteak tomatoes, sun warmed, softball sized, passed into my wide-eyed citified grasp, and salted first bites, warm juice gushing down my chin.
You knew him in the song birds in your garden, the ‘Tropicana’ roses you propagated, and the paraffin topped jars of black currant jam set out to cool on the kitchen counter.
God, to you, lived in the close up worlds of stamen and pestle, and all growing things, in the dew worms we gathered by flashlight on the wet grass, and put into tubs for next days fishing trip.
God, to you, was practical love.  Hands on, tireless, twenty year sacrifice for the ‘good looker’ you married, who lost mobility and found great love in you.
I wonder if I first found God in the sound of the Jersey’s bawling from the farm next door, or a calf’s sandpaper tongue against my open hand?
Or did I find God in the warm dent you left in your bed, when I was afraid of sheet lightening and blue bottle flies trapped inside my bedroom window, and crawled in with Grandma?
I heard your occasional ‘Would you look at that!’ as I followed you around the two acres, hands grasped behind my back, parroting plant names in latin. Still,
It took me 40 years of looking in less obvious places to come to the realization that God’s voice was hard wired, haunting, familiar.
You told me once that you read your bible seven times over, cover to cover.
I think about that too some days.

Lesley-Anne Evans

May 2010