It is the women
going to care for
the body
in the tomb
who find him risen.
The men
cannot believe.
Nonaligned faith and practice in the present
My own occasional free verse poems usually arise in response to contemplative reading. A passage by another will stir some unanswered question within.
A word or phrase comes to me. What follows writes itself, often taking unexpected turns and leading to newer, more fruitful questions. Occasionally, I share that poem’s process of discovery in a later post.
Sometimes poets and poetry resonate deeply within me, challenging me to go beyond my comfort zone. This is an experience my fellow readers and writers might relish. I republish poems if licensure allows, always with full attribution. Otherwise I share excerpts and direct my readers to the sources.
It is the women
going to care for
the body
in the tomb
who find him risen.
The men
cannot believe.
There is nothing in this moment
that stays.
Nothing to guide me,
Nothing to hinder me.
Those are all thoughts and feelings
that rise and fall.
They come from nowhere
except from
previous thoughts and feelings.
Yes, there is sensation and emotion,
the brain’s tools for
sifting through
So difficult to sit doing nothing
unless enforced by the presence of others.
Alone, I want to be busy every moment.
What makes me uneasy with stillness?
Uneasiness itself?
I’m not doing anything!
You are breathing, pumping blood.
Holding down the chair.
Filling space.
Dying.
No. That word
came from elsewhere than cleverness.
That word is
closer to the bones.
…
I’ve not tried before to retrace in memory how my poems come into being. Yesterday a close friend’s response to “Fixed” move me to do so.
This poem came to me, as most of them do, in much the same way that spoken ministry messages come to me during Quaker waiting worship. I am inspired by something, perhaps something very minor, that crosses my awareness, and suddenly there is an image or word or phrase.
My usual morning practice
…I feel stalled
and confounded.
Snow
not yet fallen
chills me and
gets in my way.
I do not want to slow down,
let go,
wait.
Yet I must,
either restlessly
or willingly.
Nothing seems fixed.
Are modern Friends still driven
by the nineteenth century’s social
gospel, that
worthy yet material world
oriented political drive,
standing in for waiting
worship and
seasoned
leadings?
Opening the doors
I see
that the landscape
is
ever-changing.
One moment becomes
another,
not
in a sequence or
progression,
…
When Dad died
I could
let him go
because
we had gone to McDonald’s
together.
Double cheeseburger,
shake, and fries.
Watching him
climb on the exercise bike
as soon as we
got back
to the nursing home,
I saw him at peace
with
Our notion of insect life cycles
is upside-down.
We watch the adult stage
and mourn.
Such a short life.
But nymphs live for
years. Then
one brief moment for sex
and egg laying.