Good Friday and Easter Sunday
Wonderful poems! I need to read them again, slowly and aloud.
Oh my goodness--what a glorious metaphor between bread-in-process and salvation-in-process. WELL DONE, Jody. Let rise indeed--He IS risen!
These are both so, so good, Jody.
These poems are wonderful, and "Recipe for Awakening" is just stunning--the sounds, the meaning. Thank you for sharing these.
Here is my own poem for Holy Saturday:
Saturday by Rebecca D. Martin
It starts hard and definite.
An anguished cry, a black sky.
The rending of everything right
into wrong, or different.
Do we talk about the time in between?
I have always hated undefined spaces,
the far mountain peaks with
who knows how much distance
between now and arrival, or passing by.
The broad swath of field, even with flowers.
The sky too wide.
Give me rock and stone. Let me
drive through the heart of the mountain.
This place is no place, but we call it
home. When may we leave it?
Please. When will we get there?
"... alone, not-gathered.
The tree bore fruit
but there is no one
to eat of it.
is it still a tree?"
Such a poignant question, as are those following.
Then, the declaration.
I am so glad to have read this on a rainy morning, thank you.
AND THIS:
...
"Let rise"
I will carry your words with me into the day, Jody, sobered, hungry, yielded . . .
Wonderful poems! I need to read them again, slowly and aloud.
Oh my goodness--what a glorious metaphor between bread-in-process and salvation-in-process. WELL DONE, Jody. Let rise indeed--He IS risen!
These are both so, so good, Jody.
These poems are wonderful, and "Recipe for Awakening" is just stunning--the sounds, the meaning. Thank you for sharing these.
Here is my own poem for Holy Saturday:
Saturday by Rebecca D. Martin
It starts hard and definite.
An anguished cry, a black sky.
The rending of everything right
into wrong, or different.
Do we talk about the time in between?
I have always hated undefined spaces,
the far mountain peaks with
who knows how much distance
between now and arrival, or passing by.
The broad swath of field, even with flowers.
The sky too wide.
Give me rock and stone. Let me
drive through the heart of the mountain.
This place is no place, but we call it
home. When may we leave it?
Please. When will we get there?
"... alone, not-gathered.
The tree bore fruit
but there is no one
to eat of it.
is it still a tree?"
Such a poignant question, as are those following.
Then, the declaration.
I am so glad to have read this on a rainy morning, thank you.
AND THIS:
...
"Let rise"
I will carry your words with me into the day, Jody, sobered, hungry, yielded . . .