Dad

My friends and followers, I feel the need to let you know you may not be seeing many new posts for a bit. My father has entered hospice in our home and my time is taken.

Please feel free to scroll around my site and I may just post links to past writing once and while.

Thank you for your following,

Lex

It Is Native

The fall began when noise roiled hot
leaving no space to catch its notice

Drop by drop the fallen exploded
meshing itself within turbulence

I didn’t feel, just empty pocks
within, abandoned tiny voids

To hear Your call I had to learn
it is native, there my ear must rest

Still myself, sink into your hush,
overpass the cry of caterwaul

And like a snowflake first in storm,
no two alike, just me, listen

You called my name and filled the
blanks, Samuel touched the same

Not one of his words fell to the ground
so cherished are You, so devoted

I hear and see your gifts native to
my soul, entrusted only to me

I hold words, safe from slight
I relinquish who I am from Within

My foodstuff is word, my provender
a voice to carry vision of those

long gone, I stand with the fool
and the actor, the poet who

nourish native ground, deep
within where only You and I

are One. I beat a pondering
to pull all in to see. This is my

appointment, my named called,
as Samuel, I too, am the Divine’s servant.

.

.

Author’s Note:

Today at Mass I came once more, face-to-face with my life-long struggle. Our first reading was from 1 Samuel 3, God calling Samuel. The final line read was, “The Lord was with Samuel as he grew up, and he let none of Samuel’s words fall to the ground.”

None of Samuel’s words fell to the ground.

Of course, they were not Samuel’s words. He was only the vehicle. Samuel’s job was to carry His words. I heard my call again.

As always, Fr. Scott challenges us in his homilies. His own work with the homeless in downtown Denver, our new space that will serve our families in Aurora, and all those amazing people who are in the trenches, cut deep into me.

Here I sit with “drama” and word.

I’ve struggled all my life, growing up with Roman Catholic guilt, wanting to help people.

I heard my call, His call, all of my life. I’ve acted since I could walk. In high school, college, and years of running a traveling theatre for children, that was where I thrived. And just a few years ago, I learned that I have a passion for writing.

But I wasn’t helping people.

And I needed health insurance and some kind of retirement. So I became a teacher leaving my other life behind, covering up the call, trying to ignore it. Fast-forward about thirteen years.

I found a new church, an amazing place, where a dear soul who somehow heard my call brought it back to my attention after years of neglect. He offered a safe place to try it out once more, this time with purpose. Not only have I been given the opportunity to act, but also to write.

I am learning to understand what I do does feed people. Not food for their bellies, but deeper. Most people don’t get this. “Drama” is not really seen as much more than entertainment.

I will continue on my path – writing, of course – but more important, bringing women from the bible to life through my vision and learning.

I will continue writing new liturgy with dramatic elements that challenge because it is an alternate way, not securely tucked into the box of traditional ritual.

Most importantly, I will continue to listen to the Voice from my native ground who grows my soul.

And as I grow up, listen to and believe what I hear, my words will not fall.

Good Night Wishes

I wish for you sweet kisses
honeyed remembrances
lavishly bestowed

May you be lost in tender
embrace under a winsome
moonglow smile

Let your ears fill with doting
whispers seducing you
to luscious slumber

On this eventide, now
and forever, may you know
my heart’s wide berth

Goodnight, my love
sweet dreams
sleep well

.

.

.

Author’s Note:

Just a little bit of sweetness thinking ahead to Valentine’s Day, my favorite holiday.

Instead, I Went to Goodwill

I didn’t go to mass today
Sunday to pray and sing
grasp how I see the world

instead, I went to Goodwill

There once was a girl
who came upon a box of ribbons
pretty ones in sherbet colors
silky but secure
she tied each to her wrists
the other ends to sherbet balloons
she happened upon along the way

balloons sherbet balloons lifting up satin ribbons a lover’s laugh Spirit words flowing from her fingertips sweet dogs friend smiles little hands covered in glue musty earth under fingernails coyote calls beneath an oyster moon hung in black suburban skies blue eyes rites and rituals question quest Word Wisdom

all tied up, together, too many
I didn’t go
to mass today

I sat under ashen winter clouds
untied a sherbet hued ribbon
a sherbet tinged balloon
diminishing into a pinprick
in ashen winter clouds

.

.

.

Author’s Note:

A few weeks ago, already, I chose the word “release” for my New Year’s Word. I’ve given up on resolutions. I thought I could make good if I chose just one word. It might be working.

Marrow

I wait upon early morning fog
a remnant of warm days configured
from cold night surprise enfolded
with first light ascending to burn

There is a softness in the brume
that welcomes an alternate seeing
a compassionate new view
a slowing to respond

Sharp edges that cut deep
bleeding my soul onto
grey stone pavement blur
forces inquiry not into vapor
but plunges into my marrow

In the nebula ache disappears
a vacant image I shall not press
I surrender to Intimacy within
the You and me a tangle of
interwoven communion

Only in vulnerability

The 12th Day of Christmas

In late afternoon the snow melted
on the back deck leaving dark grey
splotches to shine under the full moon
as winter chill descends

And snow will drop in just after midnight
ice crystaled flakes imbed themselves
into the forlorn slick, a shrouded veil,
meekly laid cover to disguise vulnerability

Our dark season likes to play games
with hope, draping itself leisurely
in sun-washed skies, clearly
beckoning me to leave behind my
obligation to dally in its pleasure

Under its grin I allow myself to imbibe,
hope to linger in its exhaled embrace
crisp under a teal canopy

If I tarry, neglect to ready myself
to the falling sun behind white
peaks outlined in the day’s exit,
I leave myself vulnerable

I leave myself vulnerable to hope
that time will bring a gentle touch
of spring to wrap me in sweetness
of newly scented gardens

I leave myself vulnerable in hope
to feel your kiss aflame on my lips
your pant upon my cheek
your hand in gentle grasp of mine

I leave myself vulnerable to hope
that I will meet You just as I am
wallowing in your goodness
under stars and sun, beneath moon
or inside rain, swirling within blizzard
or silent in your still-morning smile

Only in vulnerability do I leave
myself ajar to Your possibility

if only i was God.

it fell from my hand
from what once seemed
a perfect balance
safe
it slipped

surprise was not in the crash
scattering of pieces
unable to be refashioned
a precious spirit
irreplaceable

everything appeared boundless
palms cupped, arms raising
but it didn’t find its place
to rest, my sanctuary,
it fell without warning

abrupt
keenly slicing through the day
required deep digging
scraping
to the answer
to the core
to divine the plague

questions flow
the whats and the hows
why
a quest to find healing for
an antiphon too early chanted

my iced heart fears to think
looking out numbly
not wanting pain for the broken
fearing the silence

oh, if only
i was God.