Bride of Kildare

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A clootie, prayer cloth, hanging from my tree outside welcoming St. Brigid this eve of her feast day.

Radiant Fire

Oh, my beloved, from my hands words flow,
radiant fire, Bride’s ignited glow.

In your blessing through fire’s light,
I am a poet in Brigid’s night.

Oh, my beloved, I walk your guiding rays,
luminous flame, Kildare’s bright blaze.

In your blessing through fire’s light,
I see deeply in Brigid’s night.

Oh, my beloved, I’m forged by your hand,
Mary of Gael’s ardent brand.

In your blessing through fire’s light,
I am transformed in Brigid’s night.

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Author’s Note:

Tonight is the eve of St. Brigid’s Feast Day. This year I am devoting thirty days to her and trying my hand a writing some prayers. Above is one of my first attempts.

I am learning about Celtic spirituality and she is known as a patron of poets and bards. She was a wonderful and powerful woman. A great goddess to know.

The photo is a clootie, a prayer cloth. I will say the prayer as I hang this tonight. It is said that as she travels through the veil this evening, she will bless those who welcome her with this mantle.

 

I have news for you

I have news for you

A keen wind yaws branches,
a reel stepped under icy breath
Buds burgeon on slender fingers
in ready for spring’s nativity

The red-berried tree almost empty
of its frosted wintered feast
glistens in sun’s morning glow

We are of deep winter here
our snows still come fierce and heavy
our earth solid with glacial glaze
our spring tarries elsewhere
while patience makes merry
with wintertide’s feile

This is my news

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Author’s Note:

I am preparing to celebrate the feast of St. Brigid and Imbolc. It is a journey into spring, although our spring here in Colorado will be some time in arriving.

To celebrate, I am participating in 30 Days of Brigid, a luscious on-line retreat offered by Joanna Powell Colbert. Take a look. It would be wonderful to have you walk with me this month.

Today, Joanna welcomed us to try our hand at describing our sacred space through the form of a 9th century Irish poem. Some sources say it was found scribbled on a monk’s manuscript.

“I have news for you:
The stag bells, winter snows, summer has gone
Wind high and cold, the sun low, short its course
The sea running high.
Deep red the bracken; its shape is lost;
The wild goose has raised its accustomed cry,
cold has seized the birds’ wings;
season of ice.

This is my news.”

— 9th Century Irish Poem

 

Blessings to you this day of wind and cold and ever-hopeful spring.

 

 

My Father’s Chair

My Father's chair.

My Father’s chair.

Oh, to be snowbound today
blanketed safe from the noise of living,
heavy quiet stilling daily chores,
calling to halt nervous chatter,
busy hands,
icing the burn of loss

I would sit in his chair at the kitchen
window, his lens to a world he once
imbibed, to see his view, one
he will no longer attend

I would watch snow silently lining branches
bend till boney fingers kiss the ground
weighed down by flakes so fragile
until too many rest
one on top of the next,
surrender, and finally,
release to Winter’s call

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Author’s Note:

My dad passed through the veil sunday morning while I was away at Mass.

This morning, with the snow bearing down on the Eastern Coast, I saw his empty chair at the window he so enjoy looking out.

I miss him so.

Dad's view of the world and the tree that brought him so much enjoyment.

Dad’s view of the world and the tree that brought him so much enjoyment.

 

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.

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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

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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

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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.