Two decades later you sit in respite care, slippery
algae gluing the folds of your brain, black gaps altogether
where words once lived. What kind of garden is this,
what mysterious weeping willow pond,
what quiet place you sit in, deep within yourself.
I would meet you there and walk with you a while,
if I could. If I could reach you. This brief passing
of shade over your face will too fade away,
replaced by the light of seven suns in the fullness of day
when you step into Love and are made new,
according to the original design of the One
whose face is now yours, as in a mirror.
Wait for me in that garden, Mummy,
for your daughter comes running to you
to dance in the prisms of your face
all alight with wonder.
]]>
Look, I am bursting with it:
seed-knowledge and something to say!
Before I was, I resided in the winter crust, here
where sugar crystallizes in the green apple;
yes, I was the prescience of myself
before ever being it.
But you, rescuer and revealer,
did see the petal blue in the bud in the seed,
did quicken me with a kiss.
How could I resist?
So I burst the shell, eat the darkness,
stretch my green legs inside out
to become it. This is the fruit of the bud
of the seasons I carry, holed up as treasure;
it is the name you have given me,
the name I tell no one.
View the painting that inspired the poem.
]]>My mother is a garden, is a universe unto herself
in the eternal backyard of Baker Street.
In polka-dot halter and flannel shorts,
she bends down to tend the runner beans,
she bends down to tend to me.
A silhouette as large as any sun,
and I, small and green as a caterpillar
among the rows of strawberries.
My milk teeth bite berries red with summer,
still on the plants she said not to pick.
Gentle with her hands, we invent galaxies
among the rhubarb and squash leaves,
a wonder of constellations among the plum
and pear and apple of the trees.
My mother is a garden, is a universe I chart my life to,
a map of stars I use to orient reality:
I am here
I am loved
I am planted
in the world you created that now grows
as a garden goes on beyond you.
She picks me up as I come running and swings me higher,
higher, into the blinding light.
]]>
Let the waters fill you to overflowing,
living springs that surprise you every time
with joy and a deep compassion toward yourself.
Let this peace rest on your head
like a patriarch’s hand in blessing
as I anoint you daughter, I anoint you son.
Let these springs welling up to eternal
fill every dryness in your person,
as you drink and become the beauty.
View the painting that inspired the poem.
]]>I am with you, pilgrim,
through farthest reaches of your broken mind,
the desert-bone beaches of solitude
you traverse like a champion would,
crying blood, better than a man ever could.
No one catches you like I can, myself
charging on winged fire to keep up.
I am with you, pilgrim,
through darkened centuries of Mexican night,
amid language and bitter spice alone
you have tasted; still I was, imperceptibly
holding you under my feathers and cloak,
so none could get at you, evil or good.
I am with you, pilgrim,
through your locked confinement, solitary as a cell.
Glassed in, seeing out yet to the world unseen:
which is the terrible, parallel vision of the seer,
who beholds all yet is held by none.
Instead, is held, jealously, by the fist of God.
View the painting that inspired the poem.
]]>Hide me now, cover me with linen as your garment, which is love.
All gold are your feathers and silver with dew,
as I hide under the wings of the dove
and listen to your heart steady, beating.
I will never leave your side, made woman as I am of your rib.
Hide me now, cover me with love as your garment,
which is over me.
View the painting that inspired the poem.
]]>Just this morning your shoulder blades sprouted wings,
equal parts muscle and feather, angel and dove.
White with the peace at the centre of every battle
waging for your call, my love, the word I spoke in childhood.
Return to your pure soul, who you are in quietude.
Sense now the plumed flight quivering at your back,
as you step to the edge of the roof in this silver mining town
and lean into the whisper of wind there.
Another word for faith: knowing the second after the leap
your own spirit-body will rise up beating,
equal parts muscle and feather, angel and dove.
One who lives under the everlasting understands such things.
View the painting that inspired the poem.
]]>You've searched long enough—it’s time to come home.
Enter now the prepared city; pass through the gates that open now
in this moment of reading. A window in heaven! A ladder to me!
Now is the time to pass through this world’s veil
to celestial shores, the way you’ve known it should be.
I walk with you there on streets of gold, as you are becoming:
radiant in my likeness, and altogether fragrant with presence.
View the painting that inspired the poem.
]]>Behold, your soon breakthrough!
The Spirit is a bird rising,
swift healing on the wing.
View the painting inspired by the poem.
]]>Flutter of a small heartwing, threaded like a hummingbird.
Do alight on me, Spirit, a motion so minute as to appear still in its beating.
I want to settle this striving once and for all,
wearied am I from the constant battering against the bars.
This is the lesson: a smoothing happens in accepting captivity.
Only the quietened bird opens the ribcage from within
and, with new feathers, begins the real flying.
View the painting that inspired the poem.
]]>At the opening—silence for half a time.
Not even the angels, seven,
with their trumpets, seven.
What does it conceal, the seventh seal?
Come! Open! Beckon us all!
Declare eternities eventual.
We shall become incense smoke rising,
as the prayers of the saints, golden,
on the altar mixed with blood, golden.
View the painting that inspired the poem.
]]>Search for it as hidden; dig for it as buried.
Treasure unimaginable, I speak of!
Peel back the veil of mortal stain we call logic
and find the real wisdom (He has a name).
This king returns your meagre offering:
gold of Ophir, aromatic gum, balm of myrrh.
One hundred talents and all the gems she brought with her.
This is why we worship.
Such a sovereign inspires forfeit.
View the painting that inspired the poem.
]]>You who are looking only on the surface of things
know there’s a world beyond what this one tells you.
The secret within the mystery: dive into the well
you stand at the edge of, pearls glinting on the bottom.
Go on. Prove them wrong.
Strap on your gear and collect the underwater visions
seen only by the seeking.
View the painting that inspired the poem.
]]>In burst of light, in rent of sky,
the undead shall see it—
hear the trumpet cry!
Listen, I tell the mystery:
We will sleep not, but be changed all.
Trumpet! In a flash!
In a twinkling at the last.
For sound the trumpet will, and the dead will:
Be raised imperishable. Be changed!
For perishable must itself imperishable,
and mortal with immortality clothe.
When then, the written true will come saying:
Death swallowed has been.
Where, O death, is victory?
Where the sting?
The sting is sin and the power is law.
But thanks be! To God!
He gives us Christ, our victory through.
—1 Corinthians 15:51–57 remixed
View the painting that inspired the poem.
]]> in•ter•space noun |ˈintərˌspās|
a space between objects: volcanic rock that has been crushed into fragments
and the interspaces filled with turquoise and oxide of iron.
In the space between elements,
distilled to the core, the individual is sifted.
Valuable extracted from worthless, turquoise and iron from carbon—
the unformed diamonds we might yet become.
Yield under the heavy hand that brings the crushing!
It does render your rock precious stone.
View the painting that inspired the poem.
]]>Divine the internal river, flowing inside your praise.
Sense it, man, a buried gusher, black as oil in the vein.
But first, this small matter of access:
You must tap the source with your own hands.
Tell me, why is the pickaxe still in your belt?
Such is the ancient way of prayer:
the best water is found only by the thirsty,
with hands and hearts like claws.
Yes, springs the well eternal, I have even more than that.
This longing is blessed too, if it leads me to you.
View the painting that inspired the poem.
]]>You’ve come through flame, that’s why you’re glowing.
Don’t be so alarmed others speed to your light.
It is the soul smelted down that has proven its worth.
In the same way, you cannot buy compassion
but must carve it, heart-shaped, of your own flesh.
Your furnace is their freedom—burn!
Refined though not as silver, I’m coming out of this beautiful,
for at the end, we are all salted by fire.
Behold! My change comes, both eventual and suddenly.
Though it take years, though it kill me,
I’m still calling it miracle.
View the painting that inspired the poem.
]]>You felt nothing coming, a horizon of sameness that pushed your heart into the ground like a seed. Little did you see the tendrils rooting outward, green and white with expectancy, all the hope you had to lose to become. Is the kernel bursting open a death, or an orchard of apples out of winter?...
]]>You felt nothing coming, a horizon of sameness
that pushed your heart into the ground like a seed.
Little did you see the tendrils rooting outward,
green and white with expectancy,
all the hope you had to lose to become.
Is the kernel bursting open a death,
or an orchard of apples out of winter?
To become the dream, lie down.
Let the birds bury you with the makings of their nests.
I promise you, one season later or two,
you will arise no longer the outer husk but the tree,
a gleam of harvest in your eye.
View the painting that inspired the poem.
]]>The heaviness you feel, a weight of gold on you,
embroidered purple on that mantle you’ve always admired,
what I am giving you. Oh, sure, it’s a drag,
carrying an other-worldly burden
that requires the full participation of heaven to bear.
Such increase comes to those who obey the hard way,
what would kill a lesser man.
Not you, the lesser man doesn’t realize he’s the one must die,
must swap his bristles and goat-leather rags for the noble raiment
made of Spirit, made of Christ.
Hallelujah, don’t kill yourself in the process.
Precious heart, let me do the separating,
bone from marrow, soul from Spirit.
It takes a sharper knife than you’ve access to,
and a surgeon’s touch.
The greatest soul is the one whose legs
do not buckle under the load,
which is God’s very hand on you,
and the separation from your peers that entails.
The greatest soul will rejoice in the heaviness,
knowing that it’s glory
such the world could never buy, not with all its money.
View the painting that inspired the poem.
]]>Wandering through a barren decade, thirsty the entire time,
I didn’t realize sweetwater springs were there running,
subcutaneous and dormant, beneath the skin of my mind.
Foolishly I thought water was a surface thing, available to all,
when rather it is divined by those tuned to a finer frequency;
it must be mined beneath the seen geography.
Another eye I need, a keener vision to discern in the sand
a sea underground, and all the promised land
(from ancient of days) you have wanted me to find.
View the painting inspired by the poem.
]]>Get up on a high place, stop only at the top.
Near me on a rock, I’m passing by.
See the back of me, don’t look away.
I might just turn.
The secret is, see, don’t stop when you hit rock.
Hit back, hit harder; hit with your head
until you become stronger than what assails you.
Ha! What assays (tests) you likewise
assays (proves the gold in) you.
Be both definitions.
Allow the first to produce the second.
I am learning: Stillness is a colour and rest is a place. Do not be hasty to leave the green room. Stay awhile, he says. Sit with me. Let us hold silence in our mouths and taste the centre...
]]>I am learning:
Stillness is a colour and rest is a place.
Do not be hasty to leave the green room.
Stay awhile, he says.
Sit with me.
Let us hold silence in our mouths
and taste the centre,
which is quiet as a leaf.
Follow my example as I follow the example,
holding to the Christ teachings.
It is the Lord’s Supper you eat;
for as you eat each of you goes ahead.
Received from the Lord, I also
passed on to you—the Lord Jesus
on the betrayed night was bread
and He (taken, given, broken) said:
“This my body is for you;
do this remembrance in me.”
In the same telling way, He the cup:
“This blood is my covenant new;
do this—drink, remember,
whenever—and I will sup in you.”
Proclaim the death until He comes!
Therefore: whoever’s of the Lord
ought to examine himself worthy/unworthy
before he (takes, gives, breaks) the bread and the cup.
Anyone without recognizing the Lord’s body
eats and drinks himself judgment—why among
many are weak, sick, or fallen dead.
And when I come, I will (come again!)
give further direction.
—1 Corinthians 11 remixed
]]>You’ve come to this shore, longing—
a voice, a word, a sign there is more.
O, were it written on parchment,
your length of days transcribed on a scroll,
that you might follow your own direction
in advance of the journey.
Instead, write this: your name
in the book of life, your tomorrow
blank as sand after the wave.
There is strength in surrendering
to that which is greater.
View the painting that inspired the poem.
]]>for Thomas Rogerson Hunter
This is the picture I have of you, impossibly
tall, leg bone knit to arm bone and a head
hard as a melon eclipsing the sun.
(In this peek-a-boo Northern English light, you are the sun,
are my four-year-old concept of sky).
It must be summer: This is the season
grandparents and cousins appear,
three birthday parties for Emma in July.
Grannie is loud with her hands, throws these upward,
releasing invisible balloons and confetti,
her secret laughter at the rainbow
only she among adults sees. We, young daughters,
dance in her gold dust, our leap-year of reunions
ring around the roses, pockets full of posies,
hush now, hush now, we all fall…
A wild beast growls and snaps at us
with teeth he can also smile. His stay in his head.
We scream between terror and delight,
two words the container of our existence: Don’t stop!
This is the picture I have of you, framed in black
on my mantelpiece: Patriarch of 11 Pinfold Lane
on his determined way to the green, impossibly
tall, leg bone knit to arm bone, fists rigid at the sides
as if braced for what will come.
Never one to blink, you stare it down anyway,
ready soldier. Atten-tion! Hup!
The wild beast growls and snaps at the camera
with teeth he can also smile.
On your head a fedora, in your hands leather
driving gloves like a whip coiled to stave off slowness,
time, age, these nuisances which hinder.
Blast! Away with you, mortal shell!
I do now explode impatiently and splendidly
like a rocket straight up.
For this I know:
I was always destined for glory.
Jesus with his went disciples called Gethsemane the place,
and he, “Sit here while I there and pray.”
He took two sons of Zebedee, began sorrowful
and troubled deeply, “My overwhelmed sorrow is soul
to the point: death. Stay and keep me.”
Going farther fell he with his face prayed
the ground, “My Abba, everything possible
is taken, this cup be from me. Yet not I but you.”
He returned to his found disciples and sleeping—
“Could men not keep me one hour? Watch temptation fall:
The willing spirit is but the weak body is.”
He a second time prayed, “My Father, I drink it.”
Their eyes were heavy the third time, saying the same.
Then he said to the returned disciples, to them, “Enough!
The betrayed hour has the hands of sinners. Rise!
Let us! Here comes my go!”
Are you still sleeping and resting? Enough!
Look, the near hour is, the Son of Man is:
Rise, let go! Here comes!
—Matthew 26:36–46 remixed
]]>Light falls like Mexican afternoon showers
in the eternal ochre spring.
When we tell the truth about ourselves, inside we release children and fountains,
our rainbow hands clapping to express the wonder.
How water and sunshine kiss in the air and explode into colour,
the way we want to explode in the presence of such a love.
One day we will all walk through prism and become the fullness
of the spectrum, now contained in white. Finally be the colour
we want to be in the presence of such a light.
Playful dancing child in halo of shimmering light, the end of summer touching your head like gold.
I’ll be gentle with you, like I’m learning to be with myself. We’ll meet like kids on the sidewalk for the first time.
What’s your name? we’d ask, and give it matter of fact, that would be enough. Let’s play.
So here I am, soft tummy and curls, asking you, what’s your name.
Come out and play, because I have sunblock on and my garden is green with growing and we will not hurt each other, we will laugh much, heads thrown back.
And here’s a secret: the Jesus man is glowing in white and he’s my friend too, and he will be friends with you.
We will be safe children and fast friends and patient hearts, strung like daisy chains.
We will be.
]]>
Please God, whatsyourface, give me a rest from the crushing heaviness and abyss of pain, belly of the earth opening up like a sinkhole and you know there’s no coming out of it. Or you downspiral, and there’s a bottom to it, which looks like you on your exercise mat on the living room hardwood, your guts coming out through your nose in thick sinews of snot. Hey, so that’s what giving birth feels like, through the eyelids, past the epiglottis and out your tonsils. Cells are not designed to carry this much pain.
We. Give. Up.
Says the collective force of your body/mind/soul.
Here’s you, right before the knife. Turning the bullet between thumb and forefinger, your last flare prayer you’re shooting up before you load the chamber. Struggling with the childproof push-and-turn lid of the prescription you know could do some real damage, here’s hoping, here’s wanting them to understand in physical terms the gravity of your condition, here’s how it feels, like a hospital stay, like one last poem, like a bone breaking the skin
I. Am. Unable to go on.
Here’s you, on the brink of a bad decision, the worst decision.
I see you. I hear you. This is real for you, sure, but this is not Forever Real. And this is you, but this is not Redeemed You—this is you in the before photo, pre-miracle, pre-breakthrough, pre who you’ll be on the other side of your win. Don’t check out before your room service comes, girl.
Humour me, sad one. Let us dissociate together for a moment, shall we? See yourself as you are now, in your most abjectest state of misery—nay, end-of-the-world agony! Oh, glorious misery! Now, hold my hand here, and step back. Take one step back, maybe five, get some distance for a sec. That you? That’s not you, that’s not the real version of you, the eternal transcendant you—that’s you in process, warring out your joy, fighting for your life.
Let’s say a cheer for That You. Let’s be kind, rub her back a bit, those crying, aching shoulders. Let’s be tender with this raw heart, don’t make any sudden moves, like you’d approach an animal in the wild. We move slower and get down lower, unthreatening.
Now I’m gonna blow your world open.
Here’s Real You: head up and back, teeth glinting in sun ‘cause, guess what, you’re laughing, head thrown back into sun, throat singing with the opposite noise to weeping, making laugh lines as we watch. Oh, this is a Laughing One, this one can hum through grocery aisles, light with song, a heart like a balloon always praising Up Up Up. Oh, she’s a rejoicer, she knows how to be thankful, how to look for hope where there is none.
It’s an internal vision, it’s the sight of the newly blind who remember how sunrise looks, day in, day out, even though there’s night in equal measures, that’s not where she rests her eyes, no, but on the horizon line that fairly trembles in the foreknowledge of dawn. With that kind of track record, day following night ad infinitum, stretching backward and forward through time as far as east is from west, how can we doubt the light will come?
Oh, she’s a hoper, and it’s like a battle weapon, it’s like a light saber, sending those storm clouds a’running. Hope does that to the atmosphere, sends doubt and fear and despair packing.
Here’s you, herald of daybreak, breaker open of skies, messenger of life.
OK, so, now choose. The version of you, you want to be. It’s available, and possible, and happening even right now, as you see Light-Filled You splashing in fountains of happy bubble. It’s happening, girl, that’s you now, on the inside, making your way out.
Let’s look at what is real and walk in that direction, toward the sound of children playing.
]]>