Somewhere, long ago, I lost a language.
Words, like jeweled coasters perched light on window-sills,
just out of sight; carefully lettered, dim-lit hallways,
diffused in a dappling dawn –
a reverie in lost sentences referencing only themselves.
I sought what little I could find,
rummaging in refuse, refusing the catalyst of tongue
and tooth when, better equipped, silence met me instead.
Still, as phrases found the furniture of faith,
they stood a bit taller than the mouth that spoke them,
and, in a final flash of familiarity, returned.
Last summer I was privileged to prepare and lead a class on the Psalms. A big part of the experience was, upon completion of our more “formal” study, we’d write our own Psalm. The class produced some powerfully moving, deeply personal works. Perhaps not unsurprisingly, mine came out as a Lament.
I share here that Psalm and encourage you to share some of your own work in the comments!
Sketch found here
O Lord, God of faces, where now is your face?
And why have you hidden from us your gaze?
Where once we walked together,
now we thrash and reel and hack.
Darkness has become our only ally;
and hopelessness our truest friend.
For those of insolence and hatred rule over us;
the ruthless and ragged become our destroyer.
Therefore, falsehood and lies bind us;
and the absence of truth shackles us.
We have become party with wolves and…
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When your matchless woes meet the seamless stretch of dusk,
and the last wisps of darkest night part for it,
and memory becomes hazy, less insistent upon its way;
when your thoughts creep out, undecided, but curious,
and venture out to something they don’t yet know
but from which they no longer hide;
when all those bruises, brought to ripeness
are more visible but less painful, and
you begin to wonder why they’re there,
where they came from, their purpose;
when tides again rise and fall, taking out
the bad with the good, the sand with the treasure,
and your shores appear complex but not strange;
when clouds and sky appear unyielding but conciliatory
in their pronouncements, less wanton in demand,
and you remember your green from their grey;
when friends no longer squint or squirm or hide their
skeptical smirks, but raise a glass to your shared blemishes,
and arms link with stories told and mouths, made
joyful-heavy with wine sing wordless songs;
when all this combines to reveal what is
seeking you –
Dear friends, I thank you and your engagement with me on this National Poetry Month endeavour. It’s been a fun way to keep me writing and to enter just a little more deeply into poetry, specifically Haiku.
Let’s have some fun with our final installment for National Poetry Month, shall we?
Monday, April 29, 2019
It may have been just
a glimpse, a shadow that died
as night became day.
1st Sunday of Easter, April 28, 2019