Reconciliation

regret

The story deep in the marrow of my life betrays the simple touch of air to skin. Blood-spilt memories lay unheard, unknown but pulse with my breath and soul.

The stains of love and hate look the same in me and equally reflect the tragedy of my fears-

and I pray for reconciliation.

 

Photography courtesy of Ginny Hunt

1st position

with a call and response litany among the usual flight of birds

Cicadas fading hum meets the cool morning breeze

except geese in formation against the wind directly pointed

while the Lutheran’s sanctioned bell begs their ordered migration.

Is is Sunday.

It is the day the trees dance in 1st position to know the Sabbath’s touch

 

Eternal Life

abandoned

Maybe it’s just restlessness

     in the perpetual grind of a broken spirit.

Maybe it’s fearfulness

    in the gasp of life without meaning.

Maybe it’s loneliness

    in want of being home where I can be we.

It’s definitely unstable

    with steps not leading to a lone path.

It’s definitely noisy

   with doubts out-crying a rhythm in dissonant tunes.

It’s definitely me

   in a space holding it all

   in a matrix of twisted becoming

   in quest for a soul – everliving.

 

photography courtesy of Pat Cegan

 

Captured

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I  am so captured in telling of tales, foreign reflections reframing reveal 

fears clouding my sun blocking my view

mind wondering,  narrating a hurt or failed feud.

The sound of my steps meter the beat, linked to the pace of breath and repeat

Then fear unto death strikes from the south

eyes widened with terror, scales fallen off.

Captured no more, my heart in a beat 

gasps with a cry and swallows a scream

free to regret, confess and relive

knowing the now was 

lost once again.

 

Photography courtesy of Peter Corr

Sick unto death

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It’s a damning process storing every thought , worry

tucked unfolded mostly

so the space feels empty, sterile to the curious.

No presence or joy

broken soul alone

though an open door of life nurtured love. 

No space for love or hate-tucked unfolded mostly,

muted and muffled by an unnatural shhhh…

 

Photo by Steve Garrington

The Beast

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I saw the Beast who bolted

through my safely tucked repose

and I heart racing with breath catching

awaken, now exposed.

Was he there from set of sun, joined in this space I slept?

Did I so warm this nightly Beast within my bed caressed?

I alone will wonder now as dusk blows through to day

what creature comfort darkens night and lays me down, I pray.

 

 

Photograph by Chris Johns

Bent- out of shape.

Reshaped brokenness mid Sabbath moments of every day.

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Luke 13: 10-20

The 18 years of suffering carried in the form and substance of a “temple woman” reimagines the practice of Sabbath in this Christ encounter.  The woman embodies a broken structure, the “18 year” descriptive a known ancient code phrase for “suffering and bondage.”

The story though begs a more feminine interpretation. The imagery of being turned in on oneself yet asked by Christ to move forward intones a message not often recognized as Christian. Jesus’ humiliating argument in favor of Sabbath grace and healing referencing the need to water a thirsty ass shames the “keepers” of sabbath places.  And despite the insulting reference the crowd of broken spirits- I suspect many of whom were women -respond with delight and seem energized!

Jesus further encourages with parables of yeast and mustard seeds, moving then to kitchens and gardens– home places for women. The mustard seed would stir up thoughts…

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Easter

in-rain

Smooth and loose inviting touch

…soft puppy-belly-wrinkle-like

not morning’s bite so crisp or cool

but Friday peaceful inside-out.

The sigh, drawn breath… pain and all

embracing life most tender there.

A gaze embalms the heart to flesh,

enmeshed triune incarnate life

…soft puppy-belly-wrinkle-like

smooth and loose inviting touch.

 

Photography courtesy of Pat Cegan