Tag Archives: poetry

The Romans 12 Cycle: Teacher

Posted on by under Liturgy and Stranger Things, The Stories, Uncategorized

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In the lavender

By the lake I write the

Stories. Very few will ever read. Too busy

With the summer sun to learn.

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Autumn annotates

The footnotes of falling leaves.

The mountains are my 

Tablet. I write with the ink

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I sip hot coffee

By the fire, a book in hand.

I thread the needle

With my  tinder thoughts in the

Winter land’s cold hard facts.

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Speak forth the gentle

Green of reason threaded through

The broken mirrors.

Pieces make sense reflected in

Reality’s tapestry.

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I am not the year

Nor a season, month or day.

I am but minutes

Unmasking the threads

To the finished work, God’s hand

 

 

The Romans 12 Cycle: Servant

Posted on by under Liturgy and Stranger Things, The Stories

I stir lemonade,

Sigh and wipe my weary brow.

I wax thankful then

As summer solicits for

The seasons’ warrant.

Rake the leaves. I’ll burn

This body to dust, if that

Is what it takes. I’ll

Do it gladly. My heart is

Woven in the mountain skies.

I am winter’s snow.

You will find me in the work.

No matter how dark it

Gets, I will be the finger

Which pulls the thread no one sees.

In Secret Spring’s green

I snip the weak threads. I break

The mirror. I sweep 

The pieces into place. Glimpse

Reality’s tapestry.

I am not the year

Nor a season, month or day.

I am but minutes

Who work the threads leading

To the finished work, God’s hand.

The Romans 12 Cycle: Prophet

Posted on by under Liturgy and Stranger Things, The Stories, Uncategorized

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A hot summer day,

Once again I read someone

Else’s mail. Sipping

Lemonade as I crochet

Edges of reality.

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The leaves fall. As I

Count the dry bones, I breathe forth

The silence of death

Woven from mountains and skies

Which hem in the Beloved.

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My breath twines with snow

Yet to come. They rebuke me

For seeing the dark,

But what choice was I given?

The winter is my needle.

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Spring’s my thread of green.

New like the shards of broken

Mirrors. Pieces placed

Like manifold wisdom, glimpse

Reality’s tapestry

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I am not the year

Nor a season, month or day.

I am but minutes

Who count the threads leading

To the finished work, God’s hand.

That Last Beautiful Day

Posted on by under Liturgy and Stranger Things, The Stories

 

My Daddy sings over me

At Midnight,

A Lullabye

Of that last beautiful day,

To calm my quaking 

At the coming of Samhain

“When leaves

Fall like snow,

Dawdle of Autumn,

Come too late

To sip the dynamite

Of a summer day.

Daughters of Destiny

And Sons of the Way

Lip sync

The song of the Equinox

With lips lusting for

The laryngitis

Of that solstice

Where silence settles the lagging light

Laid in the lap of love.

Listen for the lyric

That links the winter’s night

With the Fire Children

Born of Light and

More than a night of passion,

But three days of sorrowful celebration

Bringing life longer

At the back than at the front

Singing, ‘Dive further in and deeper back.’

The longitude of faith

Makes the loop

Around the globe

In dulcet tones

Until all have heard

In equidistance.

So Then

That last beautiful day

Is still to come.”

Razors

Posted on by under The Stories

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Glance in the mirror

Morning stubble’s reflected mask

Raccoon’s eyes moor the darkness.

 

A broken vow

makes it a day for sad songs on Youtube.

I sigh. The mirror fogs.

 

I am a lump.

So I sparkle coffee-stained teeth.

Mint and aluminum phosphate smack the smell away.

 

My razor hides for hours the stubble

Which signals sorrow.

All these signs that say I still miss you.

Given…Free Will

Posted on by under The Stories

Given…Free Will

By J. Lillie

Divine Interruptions, repetitions

Seasons

 Spring

 Summer

 Fall

 Winter

Life

Death

All gather at the wedding or casket.

Always the same, crazy drunk dancers

Shy

Wall

Flowers,

Baked

Stuffed

Chicken

And

Green bean

Almondine.

We can’t escape the circle.

I can’t say, “I won’t walk the circumference of the dance floor”

Neither can you. But still we say it.

I

Will not

Be

Moved. I

Will

Break the

Cycle.

We end up on the other side anyway,

Having never moved at all, or run at it

Like some desperate groom chasing his bride.

Some old man chasing oxygen from plastic tubes.

Calendar

Script

Schedule

Liturgy

Agenda

Cycle

Circle of Life

Guided Tour

Itinerary

Every vacation, work week, church service,

math problem, sentence, curriculum, culture,

biology, clock, world, solar system,

galaxy, universe, cell, family dinner,

 baseball game, track meet, sermon, and campaign

Has its order

Prelude

Introit

Welcome

Invocation, Gospel, Law, communion, committal, after party

Drawing us to our ends. We are all stuck

In the Divine equation, wedding, funeral

We are all stuck with our free will.

Just a Two-Numb-Fingered Musician

Posted on by under The Stories, Uncategorized

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At our last C.cada artists gathering the group project was simple poetry. I wrote several poems and here is one from the “I Am Genre”

Just a Two- Numb- Fingered Musician

I am  just a two-numb-fingered musician.

I wonder what I am going to play next.

I hear the sound of shofars.

I see vultures in Har Megiddo.

I want to see the Rider Whose Eyes Blaze Like Fire astride his whitened steed.

I am  just a two-numb-fingered musician.

I pretend to be a superhero.

I feel brave enough to defeat the Dread Dormamu.

I touch the Time Stone.

I worry that I will miss the bigger picture.

I cry when I hear the song, Hiding Place, especially that second verse.

I am just a two-numb-fingered musician.

I understand Jesus is Lord.

I say, “He’s my Savior!”

I dream visions of the future with background music.

I try to worship through them.

I hope my song tells people of the bigger picture.

I am just a two-numb-fingered musician.

Emrys Of the Fields

Posted on by under C.cada: Arts and Stuff, The Stories, Uncategorized

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And why must you know from where I come?

Carmuthen, Aelecti or Demetia’s throne?

An incubus’ child or

A son of a desert mother?

And why must you know from where I come?

The walls still fall.

Don’t they still blame the dragons’ work

On the Devil’s child?

 

And why must you know from where I come?

I am Emrys of the fields.

Ambrosius chained.

Neither madness nor lineage ever speak my choice.

 

And why must you know from where I come?

 We all see dragons white and red.

We all see the boar from Tintagel arise.

We all  master error.We all choose our God.

Merlin’s Lament

Posted on by under The Stories

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And in the end what does it matter?

All the mists of Avalon?

All the mysteries covered in wode?

All the shapes I’ve shifted to make the kings come home?

 

And in the end what does it matter?

I’ve spoken from the shadows.

I’ve answered my fate and said my prayers.

I’ve built this Camelot behind the throne.

 

And in the end what does it matter?

Has Morganna really gone?

Has Arthur sailed the Way?

Has Nimue ever loved me alone?

 

And in the end what does it matter?

I’ve still met the eschatos

I’ve become the tree.

I’ve let the magic drain from my bones.

The Thin Box

Posted on by under The Stories

 A thin box on a pedestal leaning back

In a white room full of empty pregnant things

A white room and everything in it makes

The thin box cast a shadow in the wrong direction.

  It is the impossible shadow that moves against the cast of illumination. It winds away from reason even as it makes its own perfect sense.

It runs away from the thin box, surrounds the thin box and fills it up with nothing.

The upside down shade is stuffed in the thin box by a God who loves a mess and by man who loves to hurry.