Man

Leafing through a catalog
My mind began to drift
What is this I see
A man standing by a maple tree?
Doubt it was the intention
For it was no one he represented..
No lifestyle they'd be selling here-
Just he among
These trees & hedges
Like a far off nursery rhyme

I wondered at this kind of man
Who's clothes were out of time?
Then gathered in this quiet refrain
What nearly strained my mind

That it is we
Who have this treasure
In jars of clay
To show this power
Is not from us
For God has said-
Let light shine out of darkness
The light of the knowledge
Of the Glory of God
In the face of Christ

And we groan and are burdened
Wishing to be clothed
In our heavenly dwelling
So what is mortal
May be swallowed up by life
(Scripture taken from 2 Cor. 4 & 5)
gmarie-

Grace

Grace comes,
softly unfolding
before us
as a river
finding its' course.

But,
although grace desires
to flow
gently
and softly
upon the landscape
of our souls;
it will not be stopped..

Grace will find
a way
to deal with
our hardness and
meanness of
heart.

It will break through,
surprising us with
its' power,
moving our
inner obstacles,
traversing our
personal deserts.

And we will
find ourselves
deepened
as we make room
for grace,
changed
as we yield to it's touch.

For grace will not
let us be
as we were,
but will find
a course, and
have its' way
with our hearts.

Grace comes,
God's gift,
re-moulding
our hearts,
our minds,
our lives..

Grace
has
won
my
heart
.
.
.

Got to Contemplating

While contemplating my present state
And rather attribute it’ all to fate
I figured in blooming, perhaps I was late
That for all my sincerity
It seems a bit queer
In extending a hand
Could lose you a fan

I gave some more thought
Then smoked a little pot (just teasing)
Now I’d set out to pray
Figuring it the best way

But all attempts you see,
Had been abruptly assailed-
Thoughts became scattered
Like moths in the night

I thought of my son
Probably caused him duress
My cheeky comments
To those blogs he’s been mounting
True true, it’s merely a guess
But just like a freight train
It picked up no less

Then Jennifer Anniston
And the fuss about her nose
Flooded my mind
Like a garden hose
Angelina Jolie, the U.N. and Brad
Those orphans and Billy Bob
An if that’s why he ran?

Closed my eyes tight
To help get a grip
Always conscious
Of my own little sin
But this proved brief
As I managed a spin
Perhaps that I should’a
Been on my knees

Now it’s all just a blur
Why it occurred just then
That I’d never tried
Any Limburger Cheese!

Then I thought of the poor lady
All covered with burns
Wondered at the menu...
An the sausage she’d ordered,
All smothered in rum?
The waiter who lit it
Their party gone numb

Before you get to feeling
Ever so obliged
Offering advice
Be it humble or nice
Just make sure
It hasn’t happened
To you more than twice-

Bustle, Bustle

bustle, bustle
the shopping bags rustle.
the shoppers line up
looping around store corners,
stamping their feet against the cold.

presents for everyone - the rich and
the poor, family and friends. Good will
and profit margins and sales too good
to miss.

and I, I just want to curl up, slip
away from this glittering world of
knick-nacks and gizmos, and things
that I never knew I needed (and things
I didn't need after all). Slip away from
the madness, the Black Fridays and the
Boxing Days, the blowout sales, the buy
buy, buy, now, now now.


(Sorry about the disappearing act, all. It's been a very dry season for my writing. Even now, I'm very rusty )

Unexpected Poetry

This arrived in my inbox today:

" Blurring the terrain,
The pain of being born into matter. Not daring to oppose
Is the moon to grow Out of the picture of life, as it were, out
And Mère Chose's square of world, even as they Of Boyg of Normandy..."

Can any of you make any sense out of it?

Trust in the Slow Work of God

And so I think it is with you.
Your ideas mature gradually -
let them grow,
let them shape themselves,
without undue haste.

- Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. You can read the rest here.

Like a Thousand Red Birds

"We clutch our tiny bits of faith in tight fists,
shoved firmly into our pockets.
We clutch it suspiciously, so unwilling to let it go -
we don't want to lose it."

Read the rest of Phil Porter's poem here

Communion and the Ex Preacher’s Kid

As children we devoured the leftover
Communion bread and grape juice at
The back of the church while the adults
Worked, sweeping the floor, putting away
The folding chairs. Counting the offering
In groups of two or three, so as not to be
Too tempted by the loose bills and change.

We are not children any longer. Indeed, we
Don’t even live in the same city. But just the
Other day I picked up a bottle of grape juice,
And a fresh loaf of bread and, with a whisper
Of gratitude on my lips, devoured it. It’s been
Many years since I’ve known the back rooms
Of a church with the intimacy of childhood. I
Can no longer claim to know every nook and
Cranny of any church building – even the ones
I once knew have, no doubt, shifted with time.

But this much I do know as I tear into the bread,
Dipping it into the juice before I eat: certain things,
Certain tastes or sounds or textures can be firmly
Rooted in the thin places in the world, those placed
In which the spirit world is just that much closer.


I'm not quite satisfied with this poem yet...I may post a revision of it later on.

My Eyes So Soft

"Don’t
Surrender
Your loneliness so quickly.
Let it cut more
Deep."

- Hafiz, click here to read the rest.

Only Remember

"Only Remember"
by Ruth Van Gorder

"I shall not pray to God for you
for what I think you would
like to have, or ought to have,
of gain or grace or good;"

Read the rest here

The Thin Places

The Thin Places is an amazing (mostly) poetry blog that is co-authored by a married couple, Makeesha and David.

The Lake at Dusk

This is an older poem about a lake my family used to live near. Once again, I'm posting something that doesn't reference God directly, but the inspiration for it did come from, IMO, one of the "thin places" in this world - i.e. a setting in which God was/is that much more accessible.

The air is saturated with humidity and mosquitos,
The water ripples disturb the reflected world of trees and sky,
Sunlight slowly fades, casting a golden glow on the clouds,
Birds softly voice their contentment,
And I know for that moment that all is right with the world.

Why I Gave Her My Subway Seat

This is a more recent poem based on something that actually happened. While it's doesn't talk about God or faith directly I think it does touch on related issues (i.e. how we treat people when in an "anonymous" situation).

she's last week's shopping list
folded over, bent backwards
with damp fingers until the
crease cracks with middle age,
it's belly spreading into an ever-
increasing bulge of soft yield too
worn to uphold the top half of the
list. when the breeze comes, eggs
and milk and bread crash into
the current, letters ping against
each other. and both g's and an
h are lost forever underneath
tomatoes and an apple pie at
the very end of the page.

Out of Sodom

Looking back
I keep looking back

Get out of Sodom
We were told.

Go.

Leave.

Leave now.
My Spirit has gone from there.

But I keep looking back
sobbing,
salt tears,
til I can no longer walk.

Kurt

Meridian and Washington--I've seen you
Cross when I close my eyes in places
Hundreds of miles away.
Now you sit at the right hand,
With Sam and Dante and Bill
Laughing at the words, the sweat,
Dreams of interviews and tours,
Fame for saying what you know,
What we all knew,
What nobody can know.
So it goes.

Tsunami

The last retro-Lydia poem, circa 2002. Like the title says, it's based on a dream I had back then. I'll try to have some newer stuff up some time in the next few days.

at first, the water came too much, too
fast. sucking crumbling foundations from
houses and we all tumbled into the sea
as the last sliver of land disappeared
into calm, cool waters. Not knowing what
else to do, we treaded water. Exhausted,
I releasted my strangle-hold on this
world, my head dipping beneath the surface
as I come, not to the end, but the beginning.

Grace

I wrote this poem several years ago, while at Matt Redman's "Facedown" song writing conference. (And if you buy his "Facedown" album and listen very closely, you might be able to hear me singing along.) Anyway, it was supposed to be a song about the very big topic of God's grace. But it just wouldn't behave. So we (myself and a good friend) turned it into a song/poem. The verses are spoken word and the chorus (grace calling me...) is sung. Feel free to make up your own tune. :)

“Grace”

I come to You broken
I’ve tried to fix me
but all my hammering only yields
more cracks and splinters
Still, You let me come

I come to You empty
I’ve tried to fill me
but for every bucket of me I pour in
it seems two more spill out
Still, You let me come

Grace calling me
Grace drawing me
Grace enabling me
Grace claiming me

I come to You with my toys and my trinkets
with my bells and my whistles
with my song and my dance
and I try to impress You
Look at me! Look what I’ve brought

Then I look at the bigness of You
and the smallness of me
and I realize that everything I have
is nothing You need
Still, You let me come

Every breath is grace
and every step is grace
upon the ground of grace
into Your courts of grace
and by grace I cry
“My God, what am I
that you give me the grace to come?”

I come, and it’s déjà vu all over again
things I thought I had released long ago
still hanging on
like a balloon tied to my wrist by a string
and I wonder why I can’t seem to let go

Is it my pride?
Or am I afraid that, if I let all of me go
I’ll have nothing left to give You?
Or nothing left of me to keep?
And still, You let me come

Every breath is grace
and every step is grace
upon the ground of grace
into Your courts of grace
and by grace I cry
“My God, what am I
that you give me the grace to come?”

Sunday Side Up

More vintage Lydia poetry. I think this one dates back to my preacher's kid days when I was becoming rapidly burned out on it all.

I wear a wrap skirt today -
that way, nobody notices
the legs I didn't shave.
It's a quiet way to rebel.

Sunday service, 9 to 11.
Can you feel God here?
Everybody else does -
Their eyes are closed.

There are coffee and donuts
to eat afterwards. No
cream in the coffee, please.
It'll hurt my stomach.

The best part is lunch -
baby back ribs and, for
dessert, fried bananas
while the grown-ups talk.

God owns the evening service.
It's strange seeing how faces
sag with exhaustion at the end
of the day. A few more songs...

And then we're gone.

God is a Hermaphrodite

Today I found a notebook full of poems I wrote in the early 2000's when I was really questioning many of the things I had been taught about God and religion as a child. I thought I'd share a few.

God is a Hermaphrodite

gentle strength.
quiet roar.
the opening statement.
the ending prayer.

mother?
father?
neither
nor.