I’ve decided to make some of my poems public, so this is the page to find them!
On "The Lord's Prayer", July 2021 The Lord's Prayer. I memorized it as a child, Reciting it by rote Sunday after Sunday, Before I even knew What "hallowed" meant. It seems so simplistic, Doesn't it? So unsophisticated, To rely on pre-formatted sentences, Even if supplied by the Savior. We age, and we add words. Our list of requests grows longer. Yet, When I can no longer ascertain If my heart's desire is pure Or tainted by selfish motives, When what is "best" for me May bring harm to another, Even unseen, When divergent choices Both appear optimal, Or when I don't know The lesser of two evils, When I see injustice I cannot resolve, When another's distress Disheartens my spirit, How, then, shall I pray? For what shall I ask? Shall I string phrases together, Or quote Scripture, To sound like I know something? Shallow responses Are hollow promises, A "there, there, Everything will be alright," Like patting a child's head, A refusal to recognize Real Suffering That stuns into silence. My understanding is insufficient; I have no answers; I've arrived at the end of my Self. One thing only remains to be said: "Our Father, who art in Heaven..."
I Once Saw a Hen Mourn, July 2021 The two white-feathered chickens, The only ones in the mixed-breed flock, Spent their days together, Separate from the others, Somehow aware they were different, Finding solidarity in their similarity. One day, one of the white hens Suddenly died of old age, A heart attack, presumably. That evening, the remaining white hen, Entering the coop alone, Paused at the door, And let out a plaintive squawk, In a single moment expressing All the feelings surrounding death: Love, Sadness, Release, Resolve. The next morning, The white hen joined the others, As much a part of the flock As if she had always been.
The Old Farmer, July 2021 The spry, seventy-six year old farmer Swung his leg over the tractor seat Like he was still twenty. As I picked nettles, he talked Of the historic cemetery on his property, Of his solar power system, Of ticks and Powassan. His knowledge is deep and ever-expanding, Like the roots of the plants he grows, His brilliance buried by social expectations, Belied by a modest disposition And plain work clothes. Rising, but not setting, with the sun, His strength and stamina outlast That of many men much younger. His zest for life reveals a man- Who would never say- He is in love, with his land.
The Coming of Rain, June 2021 The dropping temperature, And the strong breeze, Confirmed the weather forecast: Rain was coming. The dark, gray clouds rolled in Followed by thunder in the distance. The bumblebees became frantic, Flitting from flower to flower, Faster and faster, Among the foxglove, Determined to gather more pollen Before the rain forced them home. I heard the rain before I felt it, The brief rustle of a leaf That could have been an immature peach Softly falling from the tree Under which I was raking. The first drop landed on my cheek, Gently, Like a tender kiss.