Poetry
A new poem for spring about… flowers. Published in Perspectives, May 2009.
Three poems concerned with biblical characters. These appeared in The Other Journal in April 2006.
An interview accompanying these poems.
Two poems concerned with the figure of Mary, mother of Jesus. These appeared in Stonework, issue 5.
A poem published in Mars Hill Review.
A choral text, published in Christianity and the Arts, Winter 2001.
Emmaus Road
Some bonus unpublished poems.
* * * * * * * *
Vessel
Fill me,
for I have nothing.
Dry as a desert widow,
I offer dust to travelers.
I pour and pour
till my edges ache.
Mirage of fragrant oil
recedes to thinner
nothing.
Empty,
I set myself aside.
How curious, though—
a pale surface
glossed with light;
spiraled pattern of your making
dashed with color;
I a concave stillness
Waiting, opened
in wonder.
Let me hold nothing too long
for empty
I am beautiful.
Emmaus Road
Passacaglia
Choral text based on Luke 24
by Debra Rienstra
originally published in Christianity and the Arts, Winter 2001 (released for non-commercial re-use)
I.
Weary, weary,
O Ancient One, remember:
but for a drop of water,
but for a little breath,
we are dust.
Weary, weary,
on holiness and horror
the heavens brood in silence.
We travel to the water,
warm and still.
Can these dry hones live again?
O Lord, you know, you know.
Weary, weary
our eyes are dim, they fail,
we are cut off and shanered;
we have grown old.
We had hoped.
We are longing for the word,
water in this wilderness,
O hidden, ancient word,
these bones shall live.
II.
Traveler, have you not heard?
Our minds are bruised and dull, but we know what
we saw.
We saw hope hanging down, like an empty sack,
sagging toward a slit of blackness ripped in time.
And in our hollow hearts, cold stone hollow,
one wisp of dream to tease our grief.
Travelers, O weary ones,
You walk a darkened way and stumble as you go.
You sought an earthly throne to redeem your deep
longing, but the prophets whisper harder words:
the body breaks and bleeds, bitter anguish;
Anointed One is lifted up to die.
Travelers, have you not heard?
The one Eternal God has never looked away,
but turns the gaze of love, steady, full on you,
lifting to the wind all misery …
III.
Stranger, stay with us.
Night falls on tiresome roads,
but your words strangely stir
toward hope.
Come, stay with us.
Bread, simple and warm,
wine, catching the candle’s glow,
light rising among us,
light spreading from center to edge,
light dancing in radiant eyes,
voice, chanting the blessing,
hands, tearing the bread,
flesh passing to flesh.
O Lord!
Emmanuel, the one we love.
Fire of divine love, Lord.
Ancient, eternal one, Lord.
Infinity opens, filling the earth with
new glory.
All is transparent to holiness.
Ancient, eternal one, Lord.
One to Come, O Lord!
Alleluia!
[Coda]
Jesus, come now to us.
We long to welcome you our guest.
Our stubborn hungers never yield,
Nor restless travels cease but in
your rest.
Jesus, open our eyes.
All shadows fly from truth’s bright face,
Your word a wind to fresh our souls,
To open and prepare for you a place.
Jesus, enflame our hearts.
This simple feast draws us to you.
Send us in radiant joy to tell
You live, and love’s glad fire burns
all things new.
Lectionary Text
Once you invite me in, beware:
I toss you from your favorite chair,
I snip the daily news to shreds
And interrupt you in your bed.
By week’s end you wish me away–
I drag around your thoughts all day.
You wrestle me down, chop and twist,
But I, with ancient art, resist.
Come Sunday, sweet as Spirit’s dew
I gentle fall on folks, through you.
A Maddening mystery? Thus your part
To sink a word into a heart.
Resilience
So first thing after they moved in
the neighbors dug up Ruth’s old garden,
a front-yard oddity that had appeared —
shaggy, extravagant, sprawling — wherever
her springtime sweat cast its charms.
The new people pulled out
her spindly jungle of asparagus; tore up
the nasturtium border whose sensuous petals,
like mangoes, you could pluck and eat;
they hacked down six-foot sunflowers;
mowed over silky native grasses that flowed
on breezy days like a woman’s hair.
The little paw-paw tree they decided to keep.
They mowed around it.
Grinning and waving at us as we strolled by,
they spent a hot September weekend
digging and seeding, laying straw,
staking off squares of flat, potential decency.
The straw muddied, winds came,
snow fell then melted, the weather warmed,
and Ruth’s earth took its revenge:
A hundred tulips shot up
in the feeble spring lawn,
raising first their cocked leaves,
then their green, defiant heads.
Ruth's Revenge