Sister Poetry

One shouting, glory tree enough—

Or, better still,

One branch.

One singing, petaled  branch enough—

Or better still,

One flower.

Beauty spare, lean, whittled to a size

I

Can contain

Is pain

Sufficient.

By world, when you turn prodigal,

Spilling splendor in such riotous array,

I can only close

The shutters

 Of

My

Spirit

As against a gathering storm,

And move cautiously away!

No, not the bird

He was lovely, but strange –

how he studied me

how he cocked his little head

to the left-

to the right-

peeped

said something in “bird language” and waited –

No, he was not strange,

But I

so strangely

did not answer!

Why?                                              

God said---

“Please

don’t ask me

where I am!

Let me hear

Your sweetest words…

"Oh God,

there you are!”

God

Now You’re laughing, God,

At my presumption

That You’ll answer me,

(But You will, God, won’t you?)

Something’s wrong, God---ALL wrong!

Inside me

Deep down inside me!.......

WAIT!

You’re not taking me seriously!

“Oh, but I AM!

I’m laughing for joy

That you see, TODAY,

What I’ve been looking at for years…

Just waiting for

TODAY!”

Early morning sun
shining through vertical blinds,
sheds light on the Madonna Icon.

Gradually, sunlight illumines
the face of the Mother,
shedding her blessings on
those who seek her help.

The rising sun slowly shadows
 the Madonna and gently
 shines on the Child,
as Mary points to her Son
who brings Light out of darkness.

“Either/or” goes down fighting.
Each is determined to win.
Neither stays down for the full count.
Each wants to go 15 rounds and beyond.
Each is convinced they’ll throw the
knock-out punch.

And when they have bloodied and
bruised each other sufficiently
to simultaneously fall flat on their faces,
“Both/And” are declared the victors!

(Luke 24:36-42 or John 20:19-23)

they huddle in the dark, locked room
        seeking safety in silence and withdrawal

‘til a might wind levels their defenses,
        erasing evidence of what was.

tongues of fire anoint each,
        resurrecting tongues of flesh interred in caves of silence.

breath of God inspirits numbed disciple-bodies to stand,
        to speak, to be sent.

“peace be with you” flung to the air in a Babel of praise.
        prodigal promise of Spirit gifts
                have pentecosted these common folk
                        into uncommon giving and forgiving.

the ends of the earth too confining to contain their joy.

Sitting before Icon of the Nazarine
I bow low at the feet before me.
Filling my hand with modern nard, I place the plastic jar aside.
Taking one foot in hand I move my scented
fingers across the aching instep.

Again and again the sojourn is made from heel to toes;
inwardly I thank for every step made in ministry of joyful service across the years.

I pour out more nard.
Now the other foot is warmed by tender rhythmic strokes
as the tiredness and hurt is lessened.
Energy flows like the Jordon between us. Both of us are saturated with glistening oil.

I need no towel - the dry, tired feet absorbs all applied love.
Each foot cradled, and dried with gentle friction­ ankles, instep and toes respond.

In the end, both of us
are warmed, oiled, and loved though words are few.

Inspired by "Anointings in Bethany" by Irene Zimmerman (Jn. 12:1-8)