Picture this:
The promise of God
burning in your heart like a brand:
You will see the one
come to console His people Israel
before you see the end.
Picture this:
Fifty years.
Waiting.
Your family, your friends
move away,
die...
and you wait.
The promise of God
burns in your heart like a brand
at first. But time cools,
and you are alone, and you wait,
and doubt creeps in.
Years tick by, one minute at a time
and the Messiah has not come.
You cling to a trust that fades with every decade.
You begin to feel small
in your empty house
and your prayers turn from "bring my Mashiach"
to "bring my death"
You hear the whispered reply,
"Soon,"
and don't know which prayer
is being answered.
Years.
Doubt.
And still you pray.
One warm night of despair
of lost hope
of betrayal.
The promise of your youth
is a promise unfulfilled
A betrayal
by the God you have served so long,
so faithfully.
You cry out
and He is silent.
You sleep
and the darkness is empty.
Picture this:
You wake
feeling shame at your despair.
You set out for the temple.
You start at a slow walk
(your joints creaking with every step
and the dust kicking up into your lungs)
but soon
a growing sense of urgency.
You cannot run
but you pick up the pace
faster and
faster and
Picture this:
A young couple in the temple
presenting their child to God
redemption in silver
and a sacrifice of two turtledoves
A common event.
And there is nothing extraordinary
in the appearance of the couple
or the baby--
but God whispers in your ear
and you know.
Picture this:
You shock the young parents
take their son in your arms
You are not bothered by his smallness
how he has appeared,
He, the Messiah,
as a tiny, chubby, sleeping baby
You can only marvel
at the faithfulness of your God
and you weep
For your nation,
and for its deliverance,
nestled unobtrusively in your arms.
You weep
and kiss this tiny babe's forehead--
the savior
the Mashiach
you have waited a thousand lifetimes to see.
Picture this:
You sit in your chair
and hear a story you have heard
once a year, every year.
Maybe you yawn once or twice.
Are you bored?
Is this the usual, the ordinary?
Instead, picture this:
You have been waiting all your life
to see the deliverance of your soul
waiting
for something you cannot define.
You wait......
waiting for so long
that you begin to wait
not for deliverance
but for death.
And then
in the moment of your greatest despair,
you see the Messiah, the Christ
this sleeping baby in your arms
and you are filled with wonder
and you weep
with the joy of the prodigal's father
of hope restored
and the promise
of life renewed.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Advent poem: Simeon
Picture this:
You live in Jerusalem,
the holy city.
The graying hairs in your beard,
the lines cutting deep into the corners of your
eyes, and beneath your eyes,
on your forehead,
your pace slowing,
your strength seeping out of you with every moment--
more gone every morning you wake--
all the telling signs of age
weighing you down,
pulling you into the dust.
Yet you live.
Picture this:
As a young man
you devote yourself to God
pray, sacrifice, go to synagogue, and
do everything to please God.
You see the oppression of your people--
of God's people--
a Jewish boy struck by a Roman soldier
beaten
and left for dead in the streets
and you weep.
You pray
for the consolation of Israel
God's chosen people
the broken.
Picture this:
The Holy Spirit comes to you
in a dream
a whisper in the darkness
a small voice,
as to His servant Moses.
His plan revealed: The promised Mashiach
the redeemer of Israel, the King
born as a humble man...
the Lord tells you
you will see this man, God's chosen Man
before you see death.
You wake;
you remember;
you believe.
Picture this:
Fifty years.
Waiting.
Your family, your friends
die,
move away,
leave you alone...
and you wait.
The promise of God
burns in your heart like a brand
at first. But time heals, cools,
and you are alone, and you wait,
and doubt
doubt creeps in.
Years tick by
and the Mashiach has not come.
You cling fiercely to a trust that fades with every decade.
You begin to feel small
in your empty house
Your prayers turn from "bring my Messiah"
to "bring my death"
You hear the whispered reply,
"Soon,"
and don't know which prayer
is being answered.
Years.
Doubt.
And still you pray.
One warm night you fall into despair.
Your prayers are of lost hope,
of anguish,
of betrayal.
The promise of your youth
is a promise broken
unfulfilled
A betrayal
by the God you have served so long,
so faithfully.
You rage bitterly against your God
and He is silent.
You fall asleep with wet cheeks
and the darkness is empty.
Picture this:
You wake
feeling shame at your despair.
Under influence of your guilt
and something else--
perhaps nothing but a feeling...
you set out for the temple.
You start at a slow walk
(your joints creak with every step
and the dust kicks into your lungs)
but soon
a growing sense of urgency.
You cannot run
but you pick up the pace
faster and
faster and
Picture this:
A young couple in the temple
presenting their child to God
redemption in silver
and a sacrifice of two turtledoves
A usual event.
And there is nothing extraordinary
in the couple
or the baby--
but God whispers in your ear
and you know.
Picture this:
You shock the young parents
take their son in your arms
You are unbothered by his smallness
how he has appeared
He, the Mashiach,
as a tiny, chubby, sleeping baby
You can only marvel
at the faithfulness of your God
and once more
you weep
For your nation,
and for its deliverance,
nestled unobtrusively in your arms.
This child
destined to cause the falling
and rising
of Israel,
opposed
so that the thoughts of many hearts
may be revealed.
You weep
and kiss this tiny babe's forehead--
the savior
the Mashiach
you have waited a thousand lifetimes to see.
A promise fulfilled
and all despair is forgotten.
Simeon... praised God, saying:
“Sovereign Lord, as you have promised,
you may now dismiss your servant in peace.
For my eyes have seen your salvation,
which you have prepared in the sight of all nations:
a light for revelation to the Gentiles,
and the glory of your people Israel.”
-Luke 2:28-32 NIV
You live in Jerusalem,
the holy city.
The graying hairs in your beard,
the lines cutting deep into the corners of your
eyes, and beneath your eyes,
on your forehead,
your pace slowing,
your strength seeping out of you with every moment--
more gone every morning you wake--
all the telling signs of age
weighing you down,
pulling you into the dust.
Yet you live.
Picture this:
As a young man
you devote yourself to God
pray, sacrifice, go to synagogue, and
do everything to please God.
You see the oppression of your people--
of God's people--
a Jewish boy struck by a Roman soldier
beaten
and left for dead in the streets
and you weep.
You pray
for the consolation of Israel
God's chosen people
the broken.
Picture this:
The Holy Spirit comes to you
in a dream
a whisper in the darkness
a small voice,
as to His servant Moses.
His plan revealed: The promised Mashiach
the redeemer of Israel, the King
born as a humble man...
the Lord tells you
you will see this man, God's chosen Man
before you see death.
You wake;
you remember;
you believe.
Picture this:
Fifty years.
Waiting.
Your family, your friends
die,
move away,
leave you alone...
and you wait.
The promise of God
burns in your heart like a brand
at first. But time heals, cools,
and you are alone, and you wait,
and doubt
doubt creeps in.
Years tick by
and the Mashiach has not come.
You cling fiercely to a trust that fades with every decade.
You begin to feel small
in your empty house
Your prayers turn from "bring my Messiah"
to "bring my death"
You hear the whispered reply,
"Soon,"
and don't know which prayer
is being answered.
Years.
Doubt.
And still you pray.
One warm night you fall into despair.
Your prayers are of lost hope,
of anguish,
of betrayal.
The promise of your youth
is a promise broken
unfulfilled
A betrayal
by the God you have served so long,
so faithfully.
You rage bitterly against your God
and He is silent.
You fall asleep with wet cheeks
and the darkness is empty.
Picture this:
You wake
feeling shame at your despair.
Under influence of your guilt
and something else--
perhaps nothing but a feeling...
you set out for the temple.
You start at a slow walk
(your joints creak with every step
and the dust kicks into your lungs)
but soon
a growing sense of urgency.
You cannot run
but you pick up the pace
faster and
faster and
Picture this:
A young couple in the temple
presenting their child to God
redemption in silver
and a sacrifice of two turtledoves
A usual event.
And there is nothing extraordinary
in the couple
or the baby--
but God whispers in your ear
and you know.
Picture this:
You shock the young parents
take their son in your arms
You are unbothered by his smallness
how he has appeared
He, the Mashiach,
as a tiny, chubby, sleeping baby
You can only marvel
at the faithfulness of your God
and once more
you weep
For your nation,
and for its deliverance,
nestled unobtrusively in your arms.
This child
destined to cause the falling
and rising
of Israel,
opposed
so that the thoughts of many hearts
may be revealed.
You weep
and kiss this tiny babe's forehead--
the savior
the Mashiach
you have waited a thousand lifetimes to see.
A promise fulfilled
and all despair is forgotten.
Simeon... praised God, saying:
“Sovereign Lord, as you have promised,
you may now dismiss your servant in peace.
For my eyes have seen your salvation,
which you have prepared in the sight of all nations:
a light for revelation to the Gentiles,
and the glory of your people Israel.”
-Luke 2:28-32 NIV
Friday, November 25, 2011
"You don't know where you're going till you get there,"
says the old man after the subway train pulls
out of the station, brakes screeching
dragging itself laboriously
along the tracks like some
massive wounded beast
His teeth are yellowed
stained and rotting as he smiles at you
over the crinkled brown paper bag
clutched in his two
knotted hands
There are two people in this car:
you and him
(no one in their right mind takes the sub at 3 am in this city)
and he sits uncomfortably close
two rows away even though
there are more than enough available perches
much farther away
from you
He smells
like earth; not a bad smell
sort of like
fallen leaves after the first snowfall has come
and gone;
not bad
but other.
"I read that in a book once."
He persists in talking
even though you made a point to avoid
eye contact
You can't tell if he's addressing you
or an invisible seatmate.
The train moves through dark tunnels,
flashes of rail and branches disappearing into a lightless distance
spray-painted bursts of color
signs of rebellion and anger
flying by your window
"You know I used to be a lawyer?"
Out of your peripherals you see him take a swig of whatever is in
the glass bottle in
the brown paper bag
One of the car's ceiling lights
keeps flickering and it's
casting chairs and poles into warped shadows in the aisles
for the briefest second at a time
making the vibrant orange plastic of the seats
vaguely sinister
The old man is slumped in his seat
against the window, asleep,
ragged coat bunched around him
mouth hanging open
breath fogging up the glass
outside which the world is slowing down
as the train pulls into the next empty station
with a wrenching squeal and a
shuddering stop.
It's your stop and
you get out of your hard cold seat
to go out through the sliding double doors
after a voice above announces
they're opening
you walk out
to go up the stairs and
down the hall and
into the street where
it's a lonely ten minute walk to
your empty apartment -
home -
The doors meet again behind you with a thump of heavy rubber
and you stop and turn
to watch as the train moves on,
pulls away in a burst of cool stale wind
the old man inside your car
still slumped against the window
to dream.
out of the station, brakes screeching
dragging itself laboriously
along the tracks like some
massive wounded beast
His teeth are yellowed
stained and rotting as he smiles at you
over the crinkled brown paper bag
clutched in his two
knotted hands
There are two people in this car:
you and him
(no one in their right mind takes the sub at 3 am in this city)
and he sits uncomfortably close
two rows away even though
there are more than enough available perches
much farther away
from you
He smells
like earth; not a bad smell
sort of like
fallen leaves after the first snowfall has come
and gone;
not bad
but other.
"I read that in a book once."
He persists in talking
even though you made a point to avoid
eye contact
You can't tell if he's addressing you
or an invisible seatmate.
The train moves through dark tunnels,
flashes of rail and branches disappearing into a lightless distance
spray-painted bursts of color
signs of rebellion and anger
flying by your window
"You know I used to be a lawyer?"
Out of your peripherals you see him take a swig of whatever is in
the glass bottle in
the brown paper bag
One of the car's ceiling lights
keeps flickering and it's
casting chairs and poles into warped shadows in the aisles
for the briefest second at a time
making the vibrant orange plastic of the seats
vaguely sinister
The old man is slumped in his seat
against the window, asleep,
ragged coat bunched around him
mouth hanging open
breath fogging up the glass
outside which the world is slowing down
as the train pulls into the next empty station
with a wrenching squeal and a
shuddering stop.
It's your stop and
you get out of your hard cold seat
to go out through the sliding double doors
after a voice above announces
they're opening
you walk out
to go up the stairs and
down the hall and
into the street where
it's a lonely ten minute walk to
your empty apartment -
home -
The doors meet again behind you with a thump of heavy rubber
and you stop and turn
to watch as the train moves on,
pulls away in a burst of cool stale wind
the old man inside your car
still slumped against the window
to dream.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Colors
It occurred to me, yesterday
that the colors of nature
never clash,
are perfectly synchronized.
red orange brown gold
green yellow: leaves
blades flowers stones;
blue black purple pink
white gray: sky and water
in colors indescribable
far better dressed
than by any painter's hand.
The Psalmist reflects often on the glory of nature
but he always seems to leave out
God's impeccable taste.
that the colors of nature
never clash,
are perfectly synchronized.
red orange brown gold
green yellow: leaves
blades flowers stones;
blue black purple pink
white gray: sky and water
in colors indescribable
far better dressed
than by any painter's hand.
The Psalmist reflects often on the glory of nature
but he always seems to leave out
God's impeccable taste.
This is a poem about the weather.
The sun burns bright
lending a glow to the browning leaves of fall,
glimmering through the trees
uninterrupted by clouds in the infinite blue
of the heavens
The man on the television
assured, armed with his plaid bowtie
and disarming smile,
"Clear skies and sunshine,
All day long, folks"
That was the forecast yesterday, too
but it poured
suddenly, in the early hours of the afternoon
and caught in the downpour, I learned
how a weatherman can be wrong
Today,
the forecast calls for perfection.
Today,
sun shining,
not a cloud in the sky,
I carry an umbrella.
lending a glow to the browning leaves of fall,
glimmering through the trees
uninterrupted by clouds in the infinite blue
of the heavens
The man on the television
assured, armed with his plaid bowtie
and disarming smile,
"Clear skies and sunshine,
All day long, folks"
That was the forecast yesterday, too
but it poured
suddenly, in the early hours of the afternoon
and caught in the downpour, I learned
how a weatherman can be wrong
Today,
the forecast calls for perfection.
Today,
sun shining,
not a cloud in the sky,
I carry an umbrella.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Assessment Paper 1
I did not really know what to expect coming into this class. And now here we are halfway through the semester, and I guess I am here to write about what we've (I've) done and what I've noted and what I want to see happen in the last half of this class. It's probably unrealistic - it being a poetry class and all - to hope for a little more structure, so I will try to think of more requests/suggestions/ideas to give by the end of this assessment paper/blog post. Incidentally it is very hard to treat this as an actual paper since I am writing it on a blog. It might also be because I'm not sure how to approach an assignment like this to begin with. But anyway, here goes nothing.
I honestly have probably not spent as much time as I should to work on this class. I have done all the readings as well as several books of various poets' works which have been very helpful. Before this class it was very rare that I would find a book of poetry and just sit down and read it, and I feel like what I've read has helped me get a better feel for what a poem is, and work on my own style of writing. I haven't spent as much time as I should have in writing, mostly because I am really bad at writing things like poetry and the things we do in this class when I do not have some kind of inspiration. I don't like forcing myself to try to find something I'm not feeling. I've been putting as much effort as I've been able to, though, considering the inspiration droughts I regularly experience. And I really do feel as though I've improved since my first disaster of a "Beginnings" poem. I have been having some trouble with the "liturgy and worship" aspects of the class, just because I am not used to writing with the type of language that that requires... I haven't been doing many prayers because my first two were my normal praying-language as well as fairly personalized, which isn't what I was supposed to be going for, and I'm not sure how to change that. I don't like most communal prayers, especially written ones that can be read or memorized; they usually strike me as insincere and as a result I find it difficult to pay attention or try to "pray along." So I would have to change my perspective on this subject to be able to write these prayers, and I just don't know how to do that.
I did wake up every three hours to try to do that Hours poem series in one day, for which I think I should get some bonus points.
I am taking this class seriously and I'd like to think that what I have been able to do reflects that. I know most of my poetry is not silly (the exceptions being one or two of my Hours poems that I tried to infuse with some humor), no matter how badly most of them may be written. I think the category "seriousness of the work" mostly applies to effort, though, which I've already addressed. I try to take all of my classes seriously and I am trying my hardest to do well in this class.
I still don't know what a poem is. A definition would be so helpful, but yes I do understand that poetry is one of those things that can be almost anything, kind of like art. There's a lot of it in the world, sometimes hard to recognize as itself, some of it bad and a lot of it good, but in the end it just is. This of course makes it difficult for me to write poetry, especially since I like to know what I'm doing before I do it. Which is a weird mindset for me, a self-proclaimed artist, to have, when my favorite discipline is based entirely on aesthetics and the audience's response and things that I can't define but have to feel my way towards. I think I just need to stop thinking of writing a poem as writing, and start thinking of it as a form of art, so that I can stop thinking so hard and instead feel the solution. Once I get to that point I think I might actually be not half bad at this poetry thing; I'm just not there yet.
I've never had to use a blog for a class, and I've never been able to keep up a regular blog, so this has been interesting to say the least. I like the blog system because it enables me to actually see my fellow classmates' work, instead of just knowing how I am doing and not seeing progress made by anyone else. I also don't like typing things in Word and printing them out and handing them in when they're due, so this makes my life a lot easier. I do not however think that the blog is always the most convenient thing. I need to get to a computer in order to post things, and not only a computer but a computer with working internet. The Houghton wireless has been a problem for me more than once this semester, and with unreliable service like that it can make the blog system something of a pain. Overall though I think it is a great idea.
The accountability groups are very helpful, except of course for those times when I have little to show my group. But it is always really good to get outside feedback, on anything really, because I know for me personally I am a really bad judge of what I make that is good or bad, and why, so I need other people to tell me what I'm doing right/wrong. Suggestions as to what to do with work are always helpful, since even when I don't take the advice it does cause me to think about my work from a different perspective. The small groups are good too; I've become able to recognize my group members' style and notice their habits because there are so few of them and I deal almost exclusively with them.
For this next half of the semester, as I said previously, I would love more structure and definitions and things to be laid out for me so I can feel a little more like I know what I'm doing and not just being whirled along for the ride. But since I doubt that will happen, here's a more realistic goal: I want to get better at the things we do in this class. We are halfway done and I still feel like I am an awful poet, and I would like that feeling to change to a mostly mediocre poet. I don't think that's too much to ask. Hopefully.
I honestly have probably not spent as much time as I should to work on this class. I have done all the readings as well as several books of various poets' works which have been very helpful. Before this class it was very rare that I would find a book of poetry and just sit down and read it, and I feel like what I've read has helped me get a better feel for what a poem is, and work on my own style of writing. I haven't spent as much time as I should have in writing, mostly because I am really bad at writing things like poetry and the things we do in this class when I do not have some kind of inspiration. I don't like forcing myself to try to find something I'm not feeling. I've been putting as much effort as I've been able to, though, considering the inspiration droughts I regularly experience. And I really do feel as though I've improved since my first disaster of a "Beginnings" poem. I have been having some trouble with the "liturgy and worship" aspects of the class, just because I am not used to writing with the type of language that that requires... I haven't been doing many prayers because my first two were my normal praying-language as well as fairly personalized, which isn't what I was supposed to be going for, and I'm not sure how to change that. I don't like most communal prayers, especially written ones that can be read or memorized; they usually strike me as insincere and as a result I find it difficult to pay attention or try to "pray along." So I would have to change my perspective on this subject to be able to write these prayers, and I just don't know how to do that.
I did wake up every three hours to try to do that Hours poem series in one day, for which I think I should get some bonus points.
I am taking this class seriously and I'd like to think that what I have been able to do reflects that. I know most of my poetry is not silly (the exceptions being one or two of my Hours poems that I tried to infuse with some humor), no matter how badly most of them may be written. I think the category "seriousness of the work" mostly applies to effort, though, which I've already addressed. I try to take all of my classes seriously and I am trying my hardest to do well in this class.
I still don't know what a poem is. A definition would be so helpful, but yes I do understand that poetry is one of those things that can be almost anything, kind of like art. There's a lot of it in the world, sometimes hard to recognize as itself, some of it bad and a lot of it good, but in the end it just is. This of course makes it difficult for me to write poetry, especially since I like to know what I'm doing before I do it. Which is a weird mindset for me, a self-proclaimed artist, to have, when my favorite discipline is based entirely on aesthetics and the audience's response and things that I can't define but have to feel my way towards. I think I just need to stop thinking of writing a poem as writing, and start thinking of it as a form of art, so that I can stop thinking so hard and instead feel the solution. Once I get to that point I think I might actually be not half bad at this poetry thing; I'm just not there yet.
I've never had to use a blog for a class, and I've never been able to keep up a regular blog, so this has been interesting to say the least. I like the blog system because it enables me to actually see my fellow classmates' work, instead of just knowing how I am doing and not seeing progress made by anyone else. I also don't like typing things in Word and printing them out and handing them in when they're due, so this makes my life a lot easier. I do not however think that the blog is always the most convenient thing. I need to get to a computer in order to post things, and not only a computer but a computer with working internet. The Houghton wireless has been a problem for me more than once this semester, and with unreliable service like that it can make the blog system something of a pain. Overall though I think it is a great idea.
The accountability groups are very helpful, except of course for those times when I have little to show my group. But it is always really good to get outside feedback, on anything really, because I know for me personally I am a really bad judge of what I make that is good or bad, and why, so I need other people to tell me what I'm doing right/wrong. Suggestions as to what to do with work are always helpful, since even when I don't take the advice it does cause me to think about my work from a different perspective. The small groups are good too; I've become able to recognize my group members' style and notice their habits because there are so few of them and I deal almost exclusively with them.
For this next half of the semester, as I said previously, I would love more structure and definitions and things to be laid out for me so I can feel a little more like I know what I'm doing and not just being whirled along for the ride. But since I doubt that will happen, here's a more realistic goal: I want to get better at the things we do in this class. We are halfway done and I still feel like I am an awful poet, and I would like that feeling to change to a mostly mediocre poet. I don't think that's too much to ask. Hopefully.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Hours (attempt #1)
Matins
Quiet
the beginning of the day
is the end of mine
all I hear on this path
is the steady chirp of crickets
the moon above is full and round
haloed by clouds
and stars.
I can see my breath.
a single leaf floats before my face
fallen from a tree's branches, high above me
one tiny leaf and I
see the glorious moon and I
am standing here, waiting for you
to give me your warmth
Lauds
A single line of
unsanctioned light making its way
through the closed drapes
I am too tired to sleep
With no sound but a fan and my own breathing
what hour is this when thoughts collide restlessly
skewer each other in the midair of exhaustion
eyelids creeping slowly down
darkness
at three in the morning it is easiest to hear
the earth's heartbeat
Prime
The sun is still fast asleep
and my new day has already begun
Maybe tomorrow
the sun can take my classes
complete the daily grind
for me
and I
can sleep in
Terce
Cold,
misty morning
first class of the day over already
somewhere in the distance, a crow
(or maybe a raven;
I never could remember the difference)
calls out, as if to make the mysterious air
even more alien
a mix of impending winter
and horror movie
another long day stretches interminably ahead
and all I want to do
is forget the world
and sleep
Terce (v.2)
There is a tree
by the music building
on its way from summer to fall
green to gold
some of the leaves are still green, defying winter
that is taking the rest of their brethren
side by side
with leaves the color of autumn
already beginning to brown,
crackle,
die
it's cold out,
and I wonder what you are doing,
and I wonder how long the signs of spring will last.
Sext
Sunlight at last
and I'm stuck inside
meetings and classes and work and
the sky is so blue
I listen and take notes
(like the good student I am)
but my teacher lectures in front of an open window
and behind her the leaves are falling
drifting down on the breeze
waiting to crackle underfoot
their siren song
whispering
"a painter never made such colors"
None
In here
I'm surrounded by white-washed walls
carpet covering earth
instead of dewy blades
white columns replace the towering trees
fluorescent bulbs are the sun
I sit behind a desk as outside
the light of day
begins to fade
trapped behind a desk in this paper forest,
compressed and stolen from nature,
where the only green
is in the binding of a book
Vespers
Sometime between then and now,
the sun went away.
dusk is settling in
the day almost done
yet there is still so much work left to do
tonight, and even more to do
tomorrow.
the greys of dusk to the blacks of night, and then
the breaking of a new morning.
Vespers (v.2)
Dusk makes me feel nostalgic.
There is something sad in the way
the colors of the sun
are replaced by the greys of evening
the way brilliant prisms
become drab ghosts of their former selves.
rainbows are muted, colors banished
the grey time reminds me of a distant past
just as the sun reminds
of your promised joy
Compline
The stars are veiled by clouds
the moon invisible tonight
colds seeps in
through the cracks in a heated room
as exhaustion seeps in
through the cracks in my tired mind
soon sleep will come
and then
the return of the sun
Looking out,
a moment of stillness.
I close my eyes
and hear you in the quiet
Quiet
the beginning of the day
is the end of mine
all I hear on this path
is the steady chirp of crickets
the moon above is full and round
haloed by clouds
and stars.
I can see my breath.
a single leaf floats before my face
fallen from a tree's branches, high above me
one tiny leaf and I
see the glorious moon and I
am standing here, waiting for you
to give me your warmth
Lauds
A single line of
unsanctioned light making its way
through the closed drapes
I am too tired to sleep
With no sound but a fan and my own breathing
what hour is this when thoughts collide restlessly
skewer each other in the midair of exhaustion
eyelids creeping slowly down
darkness
at three in the morning it is easiest to hear
the earth's heartbeat
Prime
The sun is still fast asleep
and my new day has already begun
Maybe tomorrow
the sun can take my classes
complete the daily grind
for me
and I
can sleep in
Terce
Cold,
misty morning
first class of the day over already
somewhere in the distance, a crow
(or maybe a raven;
I never could remember the difference)
calls out, as if to make the mysterious air
even more alien
a mix of impending winter
and horror movie
another long day stretches interminably ahead
and all I want to do
is forget the world
and sleep
Terce (v.2)
There is a tree
by the music building
on its way from summer to fall
green to gold
some of the leaves are still green, defying winter
that is taking the rest of their brethren
side by side
with leaves the color of autumn
already beginning to brown,
crackle,
die
it's cold out,
and I wonder what you are doing,
and I wonder how long the signs of spring will last.
Sext
Sunlight at last
and I'm stuck inside
meetings and classes and work and
the sky is so blue
I listen and take notes
(like the good student I am)
but my teacher lectures in front of an open window
and behind her the leaves are falling
drifting down on the breeze
waiting to crackle underfoot
their siren song
whispering
"a painter never made such colors"
None
In here
I'm surrounded by white-washed walls
carpet covering earth
instead of dewy blades
white columns replace the towering trees
fluorescent bulbs are the sun
I sit behind a desk as outside
the light of day
begins to fade
trapped behind a desk in this paper forest,
compressed and stolen from nature,
where the only green
is in the binding of a book
Vespers
Sometime between then and now,
the sun went away.
dusk is settling in
the day almost done
yet there is still so much work left to do
tonight, and even more to do
tomorrow.
the greys of dusk to the blacks of night, and then
the breaking of a new morning.
Vespers (v.2)
Dusk makes me feel nostalgic.
There is something sad in the way
the colors of the sun
are replaced by the greys of evening
the way brilliant prisms
become drab ghosts of their former selves.
rainbows are muted, colors banished
the grey time reminds me of a distant past
just as the sun reminds
of your promised joy
Compline
The stars are veiled by clouds
the moon invisible tonight
colds seeps in
through the cracks in a heated room
as exhaustion seeps in
through the cracks in my tired mind
soon sleep will come
and then
the return of the sun
Looking out,
a moment of stillness.
I close my eyes
and hear you in the quiet
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