A poem for here, now, today.
Tag: Beauty
Winter Poem
There,mother tree’swinter branches,her bare desolationin brisk air. She, a reminderof strengthin hard times, neitherafraid or ashamedof her raw nature. Her branches aren’t coiled around her trunk;they remain opento let death fly awaywith ease. As the last dry leaf shivers,she allows the wind to takelast year’s resolve. Soon enough,a bird comes to restin her unfurled arms,a feathered heartbeatgrasping at stark vulnerability. She reminds mewhat I need to hear this day:unadorned beautyis needed in the world.New life is around the corner. I am not alone. ONLINE BOOK CLUB ANNOUNCEMENT! Beautiful Women: From the very comfort of your own home, you are invited…
Beginning with Goodness
You know, I used to see my sin first — the flaw of humanity running in my veins. Goodness lived in the next town over, (me) always traveling, never arriving. I used to view myself as a twisted ray of light with a deep urge to straighten out. If I studied hard enough and gave my time away, would it prove my value? and yes, I knew Jesus at the time and the story of how he cleans my slate and makes me shiny as a whistle but somehow, what this did, was allow me to claim grace for myself,…
Honoring the Past Year (and her colorful embrace)
Twelve months ago,a brisk January beginning,a gift in her hand.“Open it”, she swoons.Wrappings fell to the floor,a box lid yawns wide,reveals a rainbow blanket splayed in glory,a present of presence. “Let’s switch places,” she poses.My clenched grip of striving unfurls, Iplace my efforts on the golden altar.Allow her, the new year,to swaddle me close in a colorful embrace.She places me on her lap,spins her song of beauty, places silky medicine in my heart. Upside down,cocooned for a year —Anointed with color,the paint of cosmic swirls shifting cells, metaphors ofancient stories unlock theirmystery of knowing through the gatewayof an unadorned canvas….
The Kiss.
The veil touches down in the thin place where past kisses present, a delicate sweep of air — sheer mystery. I walk into the fog, formerly familiar, now lit anew, the road reimagined. Where will it take me? Breaking sun, backlit branches, stream through my reckless heart. I consider day and night, their insistence on gathering each dawn. Death and life, not opposing forces, rather elbows latched in harmony with Spirit. They skip along, capture my curiosity in that profane and sacred are connected, both with a speck of God’s goodness for those willing to mine the mire. Today, ghosts…