© F. Haley. 04/10/2020.
Matthew 27:45, 51-52; Mark 15:34; Luke 23:44-45; John 19:30.
Note: The shape poem has twelve lines. Twelve symbolizes perfection, cosmic order, and completion.
It is finished
On the finches not returning
Today I lift a line from Emily Dickinson.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers—
My finches, every spring—
On my wreath their nest awaits
New life they always bring—
This year —more than ever—
I watch for their return—
Yet the nest is empty
Of that for which I yearn—
I wonder what is keeping them
And if my charm is gone—
Do the finches know somehow
Life must keep moving on—
Come home, little finches—
Come home— if you will—
Hope is the thing with feathers
Where I’m abiding—still.
Note: “Charm” is the group name for finches.
Blitz poem: Signs of sun
This is my second attempt at writing a blitz poem. The first didn’t go so well. I think I am getting the hang of it. Will keep practicing to see what comes … of course my thoughts are colored by COVID-19.
Signs of Sun
Read a book
Read the signs
Signs of spring
Signs of the times
Times of trouble
Times of plenty
Plenty to eat
Plenty enough
Enough to go around
Enough for now
Now is the best time
Now who among you
You who are [not] gathered here
You are loved
Loved best of all
Loved more than words can say
Say it again
Say it like you mean it
It matters
It is your word
Word of the Lord
Word of encouragement
Encouragement is needed
Encouragement makes the world go round
Round and round we go
Round off
Off the wall
Off the chain
Chain letters
Chain unbroken
Unbroken horse
Unbroken spirit
Spirit of the moment
Spirit set free
Free from all harm
Free as a bird
Bird of paradise
Bird chatter beyond my window
Window of time
Window closing
Closing the day
Closing the book
Book of Life
Book it out of here
Here is where we are
Here comes the sun
Sun directly overhead
Sun in my eyes
Eyes
Overhead
Scattered light
When I was a child, I looked forward to seeing the dentist.
His name was Dr. Job. Like Job in the Bible, long o, not as in “teaching is a hard job.” I could not understand this when I saw his name on the office door: Why do we say ‘Jobe?’ It says Job! J-o-b. That’s not right. It should have an ‘e’ on the end. J-o-b-e …
It irritated my father: That’s how his name is pronounced. He knows how to spell it. Now stop.
Dr. Job had white hair and a white coat and to be honest I wasn’t happy to see him.
No.
I wanted his rings.
After each visit—usually for a filling—Dr. Job reached into some magical cabinet and brought out a box. With a big smile, he opened it before me like a hawker on the city streets selling watches out of a car trunk.
The box was full of rings, set in foam rubber, as if on display at a fine jewelry counter.
“Which one would you like, hmmm? You’ve been a good little patient!”
Of course I was good … there were rings for the taking! How they glittered. All different colors, sizes, shapes. It didn’t matter which one I chose as they were adjustable; their metal bands were split to be widened or narrowed to fit.
One day I looked and looked it—had to be the best ring—until Dr. Job finally cleared his throat: “Ahem. You need to pick one, all right?”
I settled on a ring with a pale purple stone cut in facets like a diamond. I put it on the ring finger of my right hand (not my left, that was for getting married someday). Feeling like a princess, I said: “This is alexandrite, right?” (so … as a child I was fascinated by birthstones and pored over them in mail-order catalogs. My own is emerald. To me, at the time, this pale purple was prettier. June’s birthstone. Point to ponder: How many kids today know about birthstones? ).
Dr. Job looked at me and blinked. He closed the case and returned me to my father.
The main reason I remember that ring is because of a scene in a different office. Plagued by allergies, I had to get weekly injections in both arms. Sometimes I had reactions, rashes or big knots that burned. While I sat waiting, waiting, waiting at the doctor’s office, before and after the shots, I read all the children’s books and magazines—I loved Highlights. Then I read the grown-up stuff, like Reader’s Digest. One afternoon I was too tired to read. I sat sideways in the waiting room chair, leaning against the wall in the late-afternoon shadows. I reached up to rub my sore left arm when waning light from the window caught my “alexandrite” ring. A dozen tiny rainbows appeared on the wall beside me. Mesmerized, I move my hand this way and that, watching the rainbow-spots dance, vanish, and reappear. I forgot the time, forgot my swollen arm; I was too busy scattering the light.
This whole story returned to me as I was continuing my containment cleaning and sunlight caught my ring (diamond, on my married finger) just right.
Scattered light. Tiny rainbows. On a day, incidentally, when Highlights became a destiny…
Ethereal moments call for an etheree, don’t you think.
Time
waiting
in shadows
sometimes brings gifts
otherwise not found.
Like seeing little things
that remind us how it was
to be children full of wonder
scattering light everywhere we go,
making bits of rainbow dance on dark walls.
Baby’s breath poem
Today’s poem is a response to Michelle H. Barnes’ “These Are the Hands” challenge on Today’s Little Ditty: “Consider writing about the place that empathy has in your own life—a time you offered compassion to another or a time it was freely given to you.”
Freely given … this is the first thing that comes to mind. Adapted from a post I wrote three years ago.
He wakes—that sound.
That rasp.—Is it?
It is.
He traces it to the crib.
The baby. Just three months old.
Not breathing right.
Hand to her little face—no fever.
She stirs under his touch, still sleeping.
Breath ragged, rattling.
He is young.
It is his first child.
He goes back to bed.
But
he carries his baby with him.
Lies awake all night
with her beside him
making sure
she still breathes.
-She does.
Long after he does not.
*******
Thank you
for all the nights
you watched over me
when asthma attacked,
Daddy.
Cultivating joy haiku
That’s pretty much what I felt these flowers were doing when I saw them.
What a timely reminder.
Special thanks to Carol Varsalona for the invitation to create image poems for her Nature Nurtures gallery, in honor of National Poetry month.
Prayer for the nations
Today, a golden shovel poem: taking a line from another poem or work and crafting a new poem with the last word of each line comprising the original.
Mine is taken from a verse of Scripture in honor of its promises, spring, and the healers across the world on the front lines of the COVID-19 crisis.
Prayer for the Nations
In newness the
tender leaves
of promise, of
restoration, of the
dogwood tree
uniformly were
donning white robes for
their works of mercy, the
bringers of healing,
bringers of comfort, of
life, as ministers of the
prayer for the nations.
*******
Revelation 22:2: “The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.”
In addition to its Christian symbolism, the dogwood represents strength and durability; it is able to endure adverse conditions.
Photo: Sunlight and dogwoods. Duane Tate. CC BY
April fool
Just some fleeting impressions while sweeping my porch … the beauty of the day in such stark contrast to what’s happening in the world …
While sweeping the porch this April day
there’s children at distant play
laughing, falling
voices calling
lawnmowers mowing
cool breeze blowing
flowers quivering
trees shivering
sun shining
life divining.
Joyous birdsong
like nothing’s wrong
as if only rebirth
sweeps the Earth
not humanity hurled
netherworld.
A spring reception
of such deception.
Beautiful day, you’re almost cruel
playing such an April fool.
If you were here with me you could see these pansies quivering despite the brightness of the morning. The name of this colorful, dark-eyed flower comes from French penser, “to think.” Pansies symbolize contemplation and remembrance.
Still waters
Today I write with a group of friends for Spiritual Journey Thursday.
The word restore has been on my mind these days. More or less as a question: When will society, the economy, the country, the health of the globe be restored to pre-COVID-19 conditions? And what will that restoration look like? How changed or different will everything be?
I think on this a lot, as is there is a lot of time to think.
Naturally a well-known line from the Psalms also comes to mind: He restores my soul. It speaks of peace and confidence, of a daily trust. I watch the news, the frenzy of those in the medical profession, pleading on behalf of us all; the government having to count the cost of a shut-down economy as weighed against the life and well-being of its citizens; and everyone worried about having enough resources for coping. They’re all waging a mighty battle against an insatiable, tenacious, invisible pathogen.
While the rest of us watch from a distance, sheltered. Protected. Trusting that the decisions made for us will preserve us, restore us.
We wait in the stillness.
It brings the preceding line of Psalm 23 to mind: He leads me beside still waters.
I could make an analogy of a stormy, violent sea for the government, the medical field, and the stock market, in contrast to the majority of us waiting at home, by the still waters … but a story resurfaced in my memory instead.
Long ago, when I was about seven, I attended a church service where an older girl was baptized. She was perhaps twelve or so, a sweet and affectionate girl well-known and loved by the congregation. It was an exciting morning for the church … except that as this girl entered the baptistry, she was sobbing.
“I can’t do it,” she bawled. ” I can’t …”
Abject terror.
Even as a seven-year-old, I knew she’d chosen to be baptized. She’d walked the aisle some weeks before and professed her faith. I knew the pastor made new members, including children, attend a series of classes to understand the tenets of the faith and the ordnance of baptism. I didn’t understand it all myself, not yet, but I knew this girl, garbed in a white robe, hovering at the steps leading down into the water, crying, wanted to act on her faith. I’d never seen anyone react this way to being baptized: Why’s she so scared?
I look back now and wonder: Was she simply afraid of water? Had she never gone swimming in a pool, as I had?
The water wasn’t deep. It wasn’t cold; it was heated to be comfortably warm. It wasn’t waves crashing on the shore, no dangerous undertow, just clear, still water.
Our pastor, a humble, middle-aged man, a former Navy pilot in WWII and a Bible scholar, stood in his own robe of white at the center of the baptistry. He reached out his hand: “It’s all right, Dear Heart. See, I’m here. It’s safe. You know I’m going to hold onto you.” When she stayed rooted to the steps, clinging to the hidden rail, our pastor waded over, put his arm around her, and led her into the pool.
He held her for a moment. We heard him whisper: “Are you ready?”
Loud sobs, but a nod of her little head.
He raised his hand heavenward:
“I baptize you, little sister, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit …”
Whoosh.
She went under and just as quickly, he raised her back up.
“I DID IT!” she shouted, hair plastered to her head, wet face shining. “I DID IT!”
If ever there was a vision of radiant joy, that’s it.
The entire congregation wept, even seven-year-old me.
The tears return even now, remembering.
He leads me beside still waters. Sometimes through still waters. When we cannot see the bottom. When we’d really rather not descend into them, when we don’t want to get wet at all, when we fear not so much immersion but submersion: How long will we be under? Can we last?
He restores my soul. It is a matter of trust that, somehow, all will be well, that we will be raised back up, we will be led safely through.
For now, we wait in the stillness like water lilies … which, in the Tamil poetic tradition, happens to symbolize the grief of separation.
On the placid surface
rest the blooms
in waters still.
Their unseen roots
anchor them
to the earth
far below.
And so we float
suspended
separate
waiting
enduring
this strange baptism
yet anchored
to one another
by unseen roots
while time stands still.
Today, in my mind, in my heart, the word restore echoes over and over and over like a prayer.
Photo: Water lilies on a pond at Powhatan State Park. Virginia State Parks. CC BY
*******
Thank you, Donna for hosting April’s Spiritual Journey Thursday.
On the wind under the eaves
The wind
under the eaves
is moaning
droning.
The ghost
of March
not knowing
April is here.
Flaunting
haunting
as if it would
as if it could
reach in
and pull me
from
safety.
It groans
it moans
it finds
no entry.
It cannot touch
not now
not ever
the stillness
within.
