a reverso poem
Such stars
you are
I tell the children
after they sing
fitted for heaven
they are
in the season
of stars
of song
of wonder
there is a scent
of snow
just a hint
in the air
a sense of an angel’s hem
in the air
just a hint
of snow
there is a scent
of wonder
of song
of stars
in the season
they are
fitted for heaven
after they sing
I tell the children
you are
such stars
My Dear Firstborn,
You were always the Lord’s.
I rejoice
that His divine purposes
cannot be thwarted
that your preacher-father
lived to see this day
that your first daughter
sitting beside me
as you receive your
Master of Divinity
is the same age you were
sitting beside me
when your father
received his
seven,
representing
fullness
and completion
in an endless
spiral of blessing
that flows on
and on
and on.
You have always
been my joy,
baby boy.
With love
and gratitude
and awe
at the divine work
of the Master
always,
Mom
a triolet for my grandmother
Come December, I’m remembering you
in the lights and silent night
—how years, like snow and feathers, flew—
Come December, I’m remembering you
at sight of ruby-red cardinals, too.
On the wings of the morning, all is bright…
come December, I’m remembering you
in the lights and silent night.
December is my grandmother’s month. She was born the day after Christmas, was married in the middle of the month at age 20, and died the day before Christmas Eve, at 90. She loved the season, children, cardinals, and the color red, symbolic of her name: Ruby. “Silent Night” was her favorite carol; whenever I hear it, she is near. Her home place and resting place are in the outskirts of a rural town named for the dawn… “on the wings of the morning” is borrowed from my favorite Psalm, 139, a hymn to the omnipotence, omniscience, and omnipresence of God.
The cardinal ornament in the photo was a gift from a friend yesterday. I hung it on the tree last night after choir practice with the kids at church. They’re singing “Silent Night” in the worship service on Sunday.
Grandma, you would love it all.
Sleep in heavenly peace.
My response
when asked
about my
leadership style:
I seek
to inspire
for we are wired
to feel productive
to have purpose
to believe
in what we do
in who we are
and why
therein lies
the candle
of purpose
to be lit
by inspire
fire
Here is a memory
I shall keep for you
all of my days:
when we ask
Where is your turkey?
you pat the colorful creature
adorning your shirt
while attempting to say
gobble gobble
and when our family
gathers round the table
to pray
amid the reverent cadence
of your Grampa’s words
I hear you say
nen
nen
nen
—I shall keep it for you,
this memory:
Thanksgiving gold
your one-year-old
baby voice
blessing us all
Amen
This day, every day
Holy in its own way
Abundance immeasurable
New mercies pleasurable
Keeping mindful of blessings
For living, for giving
Until the final ingathering
Let me not cease to give thanks
Drawing by Scout, age 6
Thanksgiving blessings to all
with thanks to Kim Johnson for the inspiration on Ethical ELA’s Open Write today. Kim offers the monostitch form: “a strong sense of connection between a title and a poem of one line inspires the writer to consider the relationship between the title and the word.”
And so I share an observation from today…
Heaven’s So Near
Little girl sings The cattle are lowing…preacher-Grandpa’s face is streaked with tears.
Here’s a two-line version, for good measure:
Heaven is Near
Little girl plays in the floor, singing so pure, so clear: The cattle are lowing…
Preacher-man Grandpa rests in his recliner, listening, face streaked with tears.
In my recent reading
I have encountered
the duality
of slow…
educators know
DEVOLSON:
Dark
Evil
Vortex
Of
Late
September
October
November
a mysterious force
an epicenter
impacting
gravity,
functionality
(=dark matter:
a nonluminous material
causing several effects
in space)
yet in my reading
I also stumble
across the word
Slowvember:
an admonishment
an acknowledgement
that one cannot possibly
do all the things
well
so one might as well
choose to act
vs. being acted upon
a recognition
a submission
a slowing of the pace
even at the edge
of holidays
brimming
glimmering
they are,
after all,
celebrations
of light
(=holy-days)
allow me
an antidote
in an anagram
or two:
DEVOLSON…
Solved? No.
Do novels.
Carve the time
vs. letting it
carve you
nourish
your inner light
it is only flickering
not snuffed
enough is enough
-evil? No.
A divine pull
to the gift
of slow.
slow down, slow down, slow… Victor Bezrukov. CC BY-NC 2.0.
with thanks to Chris Margocs for the DEVOLSON inspiration
The Boy and I
are stargazing
with our SkyView
phone apps
reading names:
Dabih
Mirzam
Capella
Aldebaran
Taygeta
Elnath
Tien Kwan
Betelgeuse
Fomalhaut
Altair
Vega
Deneb
the Pleiades
—makes me remember
that God knows all the stars
and calls them by name
I tell The Boy.
His face is turned up
toward the glittering heavens
after a long moment
he speaks:
I wonder what names
they are.
—Me, too, Boy.
He determines the number of the stars and calls them each by name. – Psalm 147:4
Why is it that, as I began to think of a November theme for my Spiritual Journey writer-friends, that the word holy came to mind?
I suppose it was connected with the start of the holiday season…holiday, from the original Old English, hāligdæg, means holy day.
I am writing this on a holy day to many around the world, All Soul’s Day. Following All Saint’s Day. Following All Hallow’s Eve…a holy triduum for remembering the dead, collectively known as Allhallowtide. On Halloween morning I saw a mystical fiery rainbow in the clouds, a colorful band of light joining earth to heaven. Genesis 9:13 played in my mind: I have set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth. A promise from God. There’s also a rainbow around the throne of God (Revelation 4:3).
Holy. As in hallowed.
I think of votive candles lit in memory of deceased loved ones, the bright flames driving the dark away, the way that hope does in the despairing soul. So many holy-day observances involve the lighting of candles.
My little granddaughter had her first birthday at the end of October. A solitary candle burned on her cake, representing her one year of life.
Holy.
It also means blessed.
For me, holy is closely linked to my life-word, awe, in that they encompass the divine and a reverence for it. Even a shadowing of fear. When I was a small child attending church with my grandparents, I sensed all of this on entering the sanctuary, long before I had words to convey it. I did not know, then, about the ancient Holy of Holies, the inner sanctuary of the Tabernacle where God’s presence dwelt, that only the High Priest could enter it once a year to make atonement for the Israelites, and that anyone else trying to do so would die. Even the High Priest had to prepare with great care.
Holy. It means sacred, consecrated, set apart.
The ancient Jews considered the Holy of Holies the spiritual junction of heaven and earth.
I looked at all the white-rail decor in that long-ago Methodist church and could not understand, describe, or convey…but I sensed holy and trembled.
My other granddaughter, age six, was baptized recently. I watched her, robed in white, descending into the baptismal pool where the preacher—her stepfather, my son—held out his hand to her. Her little face was aglow with the faith of a child (the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these), looking up at her dad with absolute trust. My son was overcome with emotion.
Holy. Pure.
My spirit clings to the word. Although it seems like life is often consumed by an ever-raging sea of unholiness, the holy is always there, like a luminous lifeline. It shines in faces of children. It swells in birdsong, in music so beautifully composed that it draws tears. It lives in extraordinary, self-sacrificial acts of love. It manifests itself in healing. In forgiveness. I see it often in nature, obeying its patterns, displaying such breathtaking glory and wonders that one forgets the brokenness of things. Yes, when the slant of light is just right, one gets a shot of awe, a glimpse above and beyond, a perceiving of holy. Of the presence of God. Like a fiery rainbow on Halloween morning.
In the end, it is all a matter of opening the soul to seeing.
Here’s to finding the holy in every day of the journey.
I wrote a poem about the rainbow on All Hallow’s Eve; people forget the Christian connections to the day.
Spiritual Journey Friends, please share your links in the comments below – blessings to you all!
lit bits and pieces 