Filed under: My poetry | Tags: christian spirituality, Peace, Poetry, spirituality
(in reaction to this story).
Have you ever once in your life
Slept alone in the emptiness of the woods?
Have you awaken in terror
Only to behold a mountain on midnight’s horizon?
Have you sensed in your sleep
The black shadow escaped from the underworld?
Have you ever sat long enough
To consider the day of your death and how you will die?
In one moment, you will meet the faces behind your game of Risk
Are you not terrified to look back on this world from the next
And feel the haunting remorse?
You talk of terrorism and pre-emptive war
Like its chess in the park
You use 9/11 to justify your every move, your every word
But the dead of New York are begging you to holster your speech
Baghdad’s massacred are asking you to burry your violent rhetoric
The lives of our children are desperate for a new vision
And let’s be honest, your words
Are as bald-faced as the top of your head
“Enhanced interrogation” is how you dress up torture
For a Western fundraiser
I know what enhanced interrogation is
And so does your mother
And so does God
Anyone can see, this world isn’t getting any safer while
You justify violence against our browner brothers
With no real knowledge of darkness, danger, or evil
See, you’ve spent too many nights in your safe little
Seely posterpedic sleep number feather top
Bassinette
Delilah trims the hedges of your hairline
And gives your beard a warm shave every time you slumber
Your kind were born into the razors and sheers
And make no mistake, the afterlife is waiting
Waiting to grab you as you are
Waiting like a maze
And you will beg for a cup of cool water to touch your tongue
For a moment of relief from torturing yourself with the regret of your life
But that water was used for waterboarding,
And there won’t be a drop left for you
So go back to your mountain range in the great heart of Wyoming
Walk into the rocky forest until you have lost your strength
Take off your cowboy hat
Sit in that place and draw yourself inside a circle with a stick in the sand
Look your mountain straight in the eye
Fix your gaze and don’t turn away
Ask her where you are from and where you are going
Beg to understand the nature of your breath
Leave the circle only when all fear has left you
Then you will know wisdom,
Then you may find grace, maybe for you.
Filed under: My poetry | Tags: Christianity, contemplative prayer, Discipleship, Ecomics, economy, Emerging Church, Evangelical Christianity, Evangelicalism, God, Mysticism, Poems, Poetry, Recession, Religion, spiritual formation, spirituality
I went to the bakery on
The wealthy side of town
The one where they put the french onion soup
In a sexy sourdough bread bowl
On my way out the door I saw a lady friend
Who had eaten her soup
But left the bowl made of bread
She then threw the whole
Bread bowl
Into the garbage
She threw the whole bread bowl into the garbage!
Sixty-two grams of carbohydrates
Three hundred and thirty two calories
Ten grams of protein
With a one way ticket to Gary, Indiana
And that is when I knew
The recession must continue
As long as we eat our soup out of a bowl made of bread
Only because its looks nice and is a bit trendy
As long as we possess the lack of conviction which allows us
To dump precious wheat which had been grown by the earth
Harvested by the farmer
Milled by the river
And kneaded by the baker
As long as we loose sight of those who hunger
While we feed our bread to our beloved ravenous dumpsters
The recession must go on
So lay your bed in the gutter, lady friend
Put your ear to the sewer
And learn the wisdom of the homeless man
Who has mastered contentment, simplicity, thrift, and stewardship
Who understands the law of abundance
And shares everything he has with others
Somehow trusting God to get him through each hour of the day
While he feasts on used sourdough bread bowls
Consuming our sin before it hits the garbage dump for good
Gods grace to those suffer in a recession
For those who are missing their meals
And forced from their homes
Gods grace to those who think they suffer in a recession
For those who are missing their double shot mocha lattes
And forced from their second-home high rise condos
And may each of us look the recession in the eye
And ask the dear friend, “What have you to teach me?”
*Bread bowl nutrition information courtesy of The Daily Plate.
Filed under: My poetry | Tags: Celtic Christianity, christian spirituality, Christianity, Easter, Easter Sunday, Mysticism, Poems, Poetry, spirituality
God’s love is the mountain prairie pasture at the break of spring
Once again the cold winds and winter storms
Gave way to the kingdom of brother sun
All who passively retreated in submission to the seasons
Have returned
The remnant of life sprung up from their protective earthen hideaways
The world is new for us to explore
Once again we overcame the cold
The sprint of winter was no match for our sluggish peaceful resistance
Love called us back into the open
The open field is fresh and green
Blanketed by the morning dew
The warmth of the sun is trapped in my wool
I hold it tight, never to let it go
I will carry this warmth back to the caves like a lantern
And the winter wind will not come as close, violent as it may be
God’s faithfulness is the bulwark of the cold wet cave, deep in the earth
And the warmth, it fills me and gives me sanctuary
I lay in the bed of the prairie
Present to the goodness and love
That have somehow, someway found me again
I take in the panorama with respect for paradox
Seeing both valley and mountain peak
Knowing that I have everything; whether in pasture or cave
Filed under: My poetry | Tags: christian spirituality, Christianity, contemplative prayer, Easter, Emerging Church, Evangelicalism, God, Holy Week, Jesus, love, Mysticism, Palm Sunday, Poems, Poetry, Religion, spiritual formation, spirituality
I wrote this on Ash Wednesday and thought it would be appropriate to wait until today to post. Traditionally the palm branches are burned after Palm Sunday and the ashes are saved and used in the following year’s Ash Wednesday Service. Part of this poem explores this connection.
I’ll also be posting Holy Week poetry on Good Friday and Easter Sunday. Blessings and peace as we journey through this time.
“The Laws of Love”
The dust of this palm branch is the child of the child
Of the child of the mother
Who welcomed the Redeemer into Jerusalem for the great work of the restoration of all things
Of my parents’ parents’ grandparents’ parents
The seed of the Blessed Mother gave itself to the wind
After that holy day and rooted itself into the work of love for eternity
As she waved that day
She caught a scent of the one who shared a kind of love
That would be passed on from friend to friend
To child and child’s child for every generation since
Until it came to my mother, my father
Who gifted that love to me
A love which makes me live today
A love which I will pass to my children
A love which has no end
It was a precious, spectacular moment
As she waved and welcomed and praised the Redeemer, imploring ‘Hosanna!’
This is a precious spectacular moment
As we join in the work of restoration
Of our lives, our world, and our children’s world
As we give ourselves to the wind
Rehearsing the words of our Redeemer
Trusting the laws of love, now and forever
Filed under: My poetry | Tags: christian spirituality, Christianity, Emerging Church, Evangelicalism, Jesus, Poems, Poetry, Religion, spirituality
Here’s two thousand dollars, just for pretend
And here are the dice for us to roll
You’ve got to get this into your head
It’s simple business you see
Just flick your wrist and roll your dice
Buy it up and knock ‘em down
With the luck of a buck and a sinister eye
I was the first to land on Pennsylvania Avenue
I was given two thousand dollars you see, and this was just business
You were the last to land on Pennsylvania and I own the whole block
Sorry if that ends your game of monopoly
Maybe you should go back to selling home made furniture
Since you just went bankrupt in a free society
Hey, it was your choice to play the game
It wasn’t my fault that you landed on Go Directly To Jail
Three times and couldn’t roll doubles to save your life
Now your two thousand is gone and mine has doubled
Free Market’s a bitch, isn’t it?
Blessed are the Capitalists my son
Quick, lets reset the board and play it again
You’ve got to get this into your head
It’s simple business you see
Just flick your wrist and roll your dice
Buy it up and knock ‘em down
Sandpaper greets the grain
As an honest old friend from way back
The boards have lost their true color
Through years of healthy wear
Holding us up as we
Celebrated birth
Mourned the passing of a friend
Gathered for Holiday
Ate breakfast
The old boards are old and due for a rest
The furniture is moved and the floor is bare and naked
The coarse paper setting it free from varnish and stain
The oak breathes deeply, a sigh of relief
Its story told through each ring, dent, and scratch
Of seed, sun and sky
Axe, hammer, and nail
House and home
Finally these boards began to keep our story
Like a vault they enclose our sacred and our secret
Their grain tempering our imperfections
Until the next sanding
Filed under: My poetry | Tags: Celtic Spirituality, christian spirituality, Christianity, Evangelicalism, God, Jesus, Peace, Poetry, Religion, Sociology, spiritual formation, spirituality, Theology
Plump and round, waddling out of the house
Rosy cheeks and a big black belt with a big fat buckle
Bald as a bat and smiley as a salamander
Furry animal companion jolly as can be
Skin white as snow with wooden puppet eyes
Wooden puppet eyes and a wooden puppet soul
Waddling out of the house of the black neighbors
Why is Santa man wearing a gun?
Why does he have five clones? and that’s not a reindeer!
And it’s not Christmas Eve!
Five white men waddle out of the black neighbor’s house
Searching for a reason to pull the trigger
Searching for a reason to perpetuate the disparity between
Black and white in a “free society” with “opportunity” and an “American dream”
Excuse your interruption, wooden puppet eyes
I know my neighbors and my neighbors know me
But I don’t know you and your hot lead weapon is not welcome here
Excuse your interruption wooden puppet eyes
While we were busy crossing cultural lines and getting comfortable
With each other’s skin
You brought your warrant and your hot itchy gun.
Thanks for the unwarranted reminder
Of white man’s oppression and the scars of our fathers
Of power and control and who’s in control
Of why it’s not okay to trust a white man
Even with plump rosy cheeks and a jolly grin and fury companion
We could have talked about it over dinner
But you brought it to our doorstep along with your hot lead weapon
So back to work you go and back to work I go
But listen closely Santa man while I tell a prophecy
Hope will see the end of the hot lead weapon
We’ll burry it deep in the earth and it will join the granite of old
Faith will bring forgiveness and reconciliation
And heal the deep scars of our fathers
Love will see us through our differences
So that we can hold each other’s hands and each other’s hearts
These three, and only these three will remain. And that is our work.
*This poem was inspired this morning as I looked outside my window to see five deputies searching my neighbor’s home.
Filed under: My poetry, Uncategorized | Tags: Beauty, Celtic Christianity, Celtic Mysticism, Celtic Spirituality, christian spirituality, Christianity, Evangelicalism, Faith, God, Jesus, justice, love, Mysticism, Peace, Poetry, Religion, spirituality
Poet of poets, magical prose
The rocks they heard you
The trees bear witness
The birds teach the song to their young
And the sun comes up and the sun goes down
The moon swings and arcs
Your words they live for eternity
Up with the dew and down with the rain
Through the seasons
The trunk of a tree, the face of the stone, the beginning of a page
Listen, listen, do you hear?
Walk in the woods
Pay attention to the wind
Working through the old whispery pines
Enter their quiet and understand
Without knowing for they are constantly changing
But the message stays the same:
Peace, Justice, Love, Beauty
Amen
*I wrote this poem for a poetry party over at Abbey of the Arts. I thought it was a good fit for Journey Something as well. I snapped the photo at Jay Cooke State Park near Carlton, MN.
Filed under: My poetry | Tags: christian spirituality, Christianity, contemplative prayer, Discipleship, Evangelicalism, God, Mysticism, Poetry, Religion, spiritual formation, spirituality
Come in old Spirit, come in
Come in and heal me
My silence is your invitation
I am quiet while you work
Into the depths,
Into my heart you minister
Your work is a mystery to me
I may never know what gifts you left my soul
So I’ll trust the quiet
As I breathe it in deeply
Your peace is my command
Filed under: My poetry | Tags: christian spirituality, Christianity, Faith, God, Nature, Poetry, Religion, spiritual formation, spirituality
A while back I did a solo silent retreat at Mille Lacs Cathio State Park, towards the end of winter, just after a huge storm. Spending time with nature, and letting it work on me for a couple days turned out to be an intimate experience as I rested. For some reason, it was at this time that I began to see trees as more than just trunks and leaves. They became companions, old sages, the magical creation of God providing a sanctuary, forming a natural cathedral of sorts. I especially remember skiing through the forest and being startled at how vocal the trees were! This time inspired the following poem:
The tall trees creak and speak
To each other
Of how things used to be
They moan and laugh
As I pass
And pause to share a story
I stop to listen carefully
As for grandpa long ago
The pines, they bend and wane
They bring me to my knees
The oaks, they sing and sigh
Tears well up my eyes
Old truth decants from old rings
Their wisdom ancient
Their strength rooted into depths
Of earth and soil and sun and rain
Seasons upon seasons of life
You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.
Isaiah 55:12
Filed under: My poetry, Poetry, spiritual formation | Tags: christian spirituality, Christianity, My poetry, Mysticism, Poetry, spiritual formation, spirituality, wordle
I found a cool thing called Wordle at Monastic Musings. You can enter a bunch of text and it creates a sort of art piece out of it. I used the text from yesterday’s poem Soul Work, tweaked it a bit, and here’s what happened.
Filed under: My poetry, Poetry, spiritual formation | Tags: Christianity, Mysticism, Poetry, spiritual formation, spirituality
The soul is a cave, feral and complex
If I’m slow enough, I’ll traverse her caverns and study the pathways
Venturing wherever the Spirit leads
An opening here and a room there, many I have not seen before
Surrounded by wilderness, she calls me into the depths
Entering each room reveals work
Sometimes I will stay for a long time
Rehearsing the past
Sitting silently
Asking questions
Some rooms hold people hostage,
Waiting for justice or
Just waiting for me
Sometimes we talk together
Sometimes we cry
Sometimes I will ask forgiveness
Sometimes I will give it
I try to bless them on their way
In some rooms I find myself held hostage
Shackled by warped ideas and false belief systems
Slowly we unlock my disillusioned self
Tenderly we whisper truth and love
Carefully we set the captive free
Free from the ‘me’ that used to be
The work I do is invisible
Slow like molasses
Yet incredibly fruitful
Grace, love, and presence, make the violent rooms peaceful
I am transformed and seek to go deeper
Venturing wherever the Spirit leads
My soul is a cave, feral and complex
When I was a kid visiting the north shore with my family, I have a vivid memory of a tiny restaurant called Betty’s Pies. Since that time, the tiny place has been rebuilt into a big place and it inspired a lament.
“Lament for Old Betty’s Pies”
Sagging roof, drafty windows
Cracked plaster walls with old stories to tell
Northern art and local flavor
Quaint and small
With the captivating
Intoxicating aroma
Of fresh baked pie.
Strawberry Ruhbarb
Triple Berry
Pumpkin
Apple whatever
It would kiss your lips
Rub your tummy
And put you at peace.
Then the “fire” came
All was lost to ashes and progress
Capitalism capitalized and commercialized Betty’s Pies
New metal roof
Industrial oven
Betty passed on her recipes to machines
Who forgot to add love along with flour
Along with the oil from her hands
Along with the scent of her presence
The crust no longer melts in your mouth
It no longer warms your soul.
The smell of pie has left for north of here
And the world will never be the same.
Last week I had the chance to stay on the north shore for a few days. It inspired some thoughts and poetry that I would like to share over the next few days.
The first poem was written after I left my cabin for a hike along Lake Superior’s rocky shore. After traveling just a few yards, I came upon a No Trespassing sign that pissed me off. So I wrote:
“Concerning the Man Who Posted the No Trespassing Sign on the Lake Superior Shore”
NO TRESPASSING said the sign.
Maybe Mr. Man, maybe.
If your sign guards the land where your fathers are buried,
I will find another way.
If your sign protects the land for your children and mine,
I’ll gladly turn right back around.
But if your sign
Is a sign
Of the Gold that you paid the Man
Who paid the Man
Who paid the Man
To take this Land
From the man
Who cared for and loved it so
Then my friend, this is not your land.
Then my friend, your sign says nothing.
Forgive me friend, for walking past your
Meaningless sign
On the Lake Superior Shore.
Bring the children of the Northside near
Cover their eyes and plug each ear
Don’t let them know, don’t let them hear
We’ve lost five lives on the Northside this year
