A Wednesday Examen

blind girl

Glance, and I will escape you.

Look, and I will show you.

Behold, and I will move you.

Observe, and I will educate you.

See, and I will change you.

Changed, you will see me.

A Tuesday Examen

lily pads

 

 

 

 

Scattered across lonely seas

dwell the lilies of desire.

Dotted between the balancing

 

green are other frondish delights 

with fingers extended on palms

upraised, deterred by nothing

 

but the gentle floating away of

newly made ripples, starting

from a center and pushing out

 

to the edges where the shoreline

awaits to receive what waves may come.

They have made big what once

 

was small, white-capped wonder

from still and never-sunken petals.

The end exhumes the beginning

 

but little beginnings brought

such proud endings, humbled

by endless sandy sleep. Here

 

God is waiting.

God is watching.

God is cooking fish. 

waves crashing

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lily: www.parentdish.com

Crashing waves: www.123rf.com

A Sunday Examen

tree sap

God’s tears like sweet nectar fall

in swollen rivulets down the back of my life.

The words of the day jumbled in

tumbling silence portray what little

is left to say from one with too much to say.

So I do what should be done

at the brink of evening. I draw the shutters

on a well-muscled mouth housing                                                                                                   

too many pointless words and

listen.

Image from www.flickr.com

A Saturday Examen

baptismal font

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Let the baptismal waters drown this insubstantial

love and choke the complexities of my lostness.

Cleanse my spiritual palette and don

the insignificance of wayward wants

upon your crested waking.

Splash your drops of salvation, dampened perfection,

on this tired brow, furrowed from wrongdoing

and convince a soul, drawn in ink

of the erasable foes of night.

Evening examen-ate

evening compline

Rooting down inside the soil of today’s plantings,

what is there to find of nourishing value

to those forced to hunt for food?

Will my table be full of happy gleanings,

the imperishable crumbs of imperfect bread

dipped in the eternal whimsy of                 Photo: www.trappist.net

God’s good thoughts?

Will those left knocking outside

the door of my own inner garden

remain in hungered silence?

Or, will the gardener open up

the squeaky gate that leads to nowhere

and feed paupers on a king’s repast?

If only that can be found,

then this has been a good day.