Chiaroscuro

     by Kelley Goewey

I was born in darkness and
Blind in spirit since my start.
Light has burned away the scales,
Illumed the shadows in my heart.

Light of Christ and shade of sin:
I am pulled between these two.
Everlasting, by the light,
And by the dark, a death my due.

Ephemeral, eternal, these
My natures war to rule my soul.
Until the light has won, I’m caught
Between the two, chiaroscuro.

Eternal Reverie

Lydia Daugaard

Morning stopped,

To listen to the mighty whisper

Of the heron's unfolding wings.

It stopped for the oaks,

Their arms outstretched 

Against a rosy and roused canvas. 

The sanguine sky with his timid demeanor sat,

Rubbing his slumber-glazed eyes. 

And the morning stopped to admire him, 

Rendering his cheeks an emblazoned red. 

Morning stopped for the barefoot hills,

Scampering with pleasure towards the horizon.

It stopped for the callow ground, 

Set like a dream amidst a lazy tier of fog,

And embellished with altogether flawless beads of dew. 

Morning stopped to compose itself,

Beaming with the youthfulness of daylight.

It is a mystery.

Morning stopped,

But aroused an eternal reverie. 

When Poetry Escapes you

     by Lydia Daugaard

When poetry escapes you,

And you are stripped of your eloquence,

Robbed of your rhythm

And aching for rhyme...

When life lacks color, and confidence,

And you cannot find words,

But only the end of yourself...

When stillness and silence are not enough

To quiet your heart,

And the light in your eyes is fading

Like the day at dusk...

Be still.

I will still be here,

Patiently waiting for you.

I am yours, beloved,

And you are mine. 

Graspings

             by Jessica Stein


You, once, two-thousand years ago,

Were a man. Would that I could 

Grasp the truth of that reality.

When you walked, dust puffed up

In muffled protest to the tread of your

Sandaled, dirty feet. The same feet were

Washed with tears and anointed with 

Perfume, dried with a woman's

Tumbling hair. Did, I wonder, that

Thick, rich perfume sting against cuts

And blisters from days of traveling?

When the people pressed close

About you, and you strained your 

Throat already sore from days

of speaking to reach the outskirts of the people,

Did the smell of their sweat and

Their unwashed bodies reach you?

Did it bother you? But all this,

It is merely the skin, the senses—

Were you ever lonely for the dance

Of eternities you had momentarily left

To get to know us? You were angry,

Once at least, and how your eyes

Must have blazed. How many sunrises 

Did you watch as you hid in the wilderness

With your Father? I wonder whether 

You ever stood silent, heart shattering 

Because of the beauty of this 

Broken, burdened world.

Perhaps you too, along with the 

Spirit, are groaning for our redemption

And the restoring of the earth.

For you too were a man, you knew

and still know our sufferings and the 

trials of the human race. Would that 

I could grasp that truth more fully.

Valley of Dry Bones

     by Kelley Goewey

White bones, dry bones,

Bleaching in the sun.

These are my bones.

I am dead and gone.

Numb and empty,

Marrow scorched away.

Always empty,

Nothing but a grave.

One Day

[A long-awaited guest post: a poem written by my talented writer-friend Kelley Goewey.]

One Day

Reflected stars fade on the water.

How can you call me your daughter?

Shadows shift in endless art.

My hands are clean, but not my heart.

“This is love…” your blood for me.

I wait beside the sunrise sea.

“It’s not enough!” my desperate scream.
A shiver breaks my half-formed dream.

My shadow swallowed up in light.

Heavy soul, consumed with blight.
My head bent low against the sun.

I’m drowning dry; I am undone.

My unworthiness, a theme.

The sea sends back the sunset’s gleam.

Why would you have chosen me?

Darkness damps the sparkling sea.

The moon before me and above.

I cringe beneath relentless love.

Motionless beneath the sky,

I know my sin and yearn to die.

I question this, your holy will.

The tide flows out, my soul grows still.

I cannot see, yet stumble on,

And broken, hope for some pale dawn. 

Ayiti

This poem was written by my sister, Jessica during and after her trip to Haiti this summer.  "Ayiti" is Creole for "Haiti" and "Jezi" is Creole for Jesus.  She'll guest-write a longer prose post later about her experiences, but this was so beautiful I wanted to share it with you.

Ayiti

“When will it end?” the old woman says,

with the weight of water                  

on her back.               

“Jezi, let it end!” begs the mother ahead

with a child on her hip and a

child by the hand.

“When will it start?” says the girl to

the boy as they sit in the

wind in the tents.

And the deep lines of the old woman’s

face, the weary lines and the weary

eyes in the dark face

tell a tale of hunger and thirst

of dust and dirt,        

of pain and poverty in a world without grace.

The mother’s burdens and stoop

of her shoulders and the droop

in her eyes tells of a ceaseless task

and a hopeless future.

But the girl, with head on knees,

dirty hands and bare feet,

waits and wonders when the world for her             

will begin, when it will reveal its treasures.

And the land with bitterness

laughs at her thought

and sighs—and remembers when it

cracked, shook, tumbled their homes

like blocks,                             

crushed their bodies like twigs.