unnoticed I dream
wrapped within tender
fingers of prayer
Winter has passed
its harsh grip
thawed in gratitude
of your radiant
I stay hidden
behind stories chained
one to the next
in a pattern tightly woven.
Bound by a selvage
to prevent my unraveling,
gauze shadows my marrow.
Through serrated slits
I search sacred text,
my shroud skillfully crafted.
And from veiled vantage
I see His light.
He lifts my visage.
I know His devotion.
I am laid bare
and ready for my passage.
bleeds through my fingers
emptying my weary heart.
Perfect for the end of a long Monday when tired and a bit melancholy and needing a write for NaPoWriMo. It is also a style of Brazilian music. Beautiful.
On this day and long ago,
he rode into a different town.
The beginning of an end
to make us whole
without our sin for blame.
Why so brutal and a savage death?
His simple words to remember,
there is no privilege to be earned
just passionate love surrendered.
Today is Palm Sunday.
Spring made a short stay of it. A little rain this morning turned into a snowy, wind howling storm.
If you are interested in learning more about this poem, please visit my blog Be Still… and click on Palm Sunday, Frozen.
Hope, especially when profuse,
can cause a copious loss
in things of value.
The condition when you hope
too much and cannot stop the flow,
may be episodic,
come and go,
or slowly get worse.
Your brain is sensitive to hope
and damage may occur.
Symptoms may develop suddenly
and show up without a herald.
Recovery time from this affliction
to regain possession of the heart,
has proven to be variable.
Death is always possible.
This is not what I expected from today’s prompt. But darkness does enter the soul from time to time.
Here is the prompt from NaPoWriMo: Today’s (optional) prompt is a “replacement” poem. Pick a common noun for a physical thing, for example, “desk” or “hat” or “bear,” and then pick one for something intangible, like “love” or “memories” or “aspiration.” Then Google your tangible noun, and find some sentences using it. Now, replace that tangible noun in those sentences with your intangible noun, and use those sentences to create (or inspire) a poem.
I chose the tangible noun “hemorrhage” and the intangible noun “hope.”
You see, I am writing a monologue based on the miracle story in Mark’s gospel about the woman with the flow of blood. My pastor and I discussed the difference between “cure” and “heal” in the text. I see her as a strong woman with hope for healing and thus my choice of words. I am sure the dark side of hope passed through her on her way to being healed.
There was a woman afflicted with hemorrhages for twelve years. She had suffered greatly at the hands of many doctors and had spent all that she had. You she was not helped but only grew worse. She had heard about Jesus and came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak. She said, “If I but touch his clothes, I shall be cured.” Immediately her flow of blood dried up. She felt in her body that she was healed of her affliction. Jesus, aware at once that power had gone out from him, turned around in the crowd and asked, “Who has touched my clothes?” But his disciples said to him, “You see how the crowd is pressing upon you, and yet you ask, “Who touched me?” And he looked around to see who had done it. The woman, realizing what had happened to her, approached in fear and trembling. She fell down before Jesus and told him the whole truth. He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has saved you. Go in peace and be cured of your affliction.”
Good day, all!
I’ve decided to add another book to my giveaway. Yay!
It is such a lovely work, I decided it needs to be added to my giveaway list. Check out my review by Lex at Amazon and buy a copy for yourself or to give away.
Want to win a free copy? Go to my original post, The Big Poetry Giveaway, 2014 , just leave a comment with your e-mail or blog address so if you win, I know how to contact you. Drawing will take place the first week of May.
Need more information? Visit The Big Poetry Giveaway, 2014 at their page. It’s a fun thing to do this National Poetry Month.
And while you’re here I cordially invite you to scroll around my page. I am participating in NaPoWriMo in celebration of poetry this month.
It is a dove.
She thought it was an owl.
I heard it. It’s an owl.
We have doves in
our trees. Grey blue dress
for every day.
We have owls. At least one,
but it doesn’t show often.
I picked up a rock that
had fallen from a bed
encircling the chokecherry.
A hum joined in chorus.
Citrine, a bit, and some clear.
I reached to her face
holding it to her cheek.
Ancient Greek names crystal
icy, cold frost.
Glass will warm. Crystal stays chill.
Molten earth, deep inside
fires and flows, cools and
hardens. Hearts, too.
Owl visited. In
spring eventide, it came.
I heard it. It’s an owl.
Vespers to the Holy.
NaPoWriMo. Day 11.
Waning suburban moon,
The nights are getting shorter.
Don’t forget to stop by my post – The Big Poetry Giveaway 2104. I am participating and giving away two books of poetry – for free! Who would not want a free book of poetry? You could win either a lovely copy of
InsideOut: Poems by L.L. Barkat or The Alaphabet Not Unlike the World by Katrina Vandenberg.
All you have to do is leave a comment and a blog address or e-mail!
Someday I will die on a threshold
not of my choosing.
I will die, when it is time. I need
not remember to take off my shoes
or lift my skirts or comb my hair.
My bones will chatter as they clatter
in remembrance of a life well lived.
I will die embraced in gentleness and welcome
for I have tasted death
or at least have gotten close enough to
glimpse my eternity.
Lexanne is dead. And there will be no
need to remember, not me, not myself,
not the life I lived.
For we are all dust of stars, one and the same,
Molded and shaped by a hand so dear,
within us placed one cherished heart
I will die at a time I welcome in gratitude.
I will dance across the threshold
not in slippers or well heeled,
I will die in spirit freed.
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt: ” Today, let’s rewrite a famous poem, giving it our own spin. While any famous poem will do, if you haven’t already got one in mind, why not try your own version of Cesar Vallejo’s Black Stone Lying on a White Stone? If you’re not exactly sure how such a poem could be “re-written,” check out this recent poem by Stephen Burt, which riffs on Vallejo’s.”