What Can Happen in a Second
by Annie Valkema
I.
the perch closes its mouth on the worm
my hand jerks the pole
lungs swell quickly on a gasp
water wrinkles as fins protest heave
fish surrenders
guilt surfaces
II.
air pushed through open lips
a sigh, a puff of disappointment
or a clipped whistle
at the dog who ran
too far down shore
III.
there is a green aura
where the sun touches the water
on the horizon
we cannot help but call
out this science to strangers
all facing the fading heat
while waves break
and wind pushes
we anticipate the mystery
absorb it like humidity
on our goose-pimpled flesh
when it is over
in a second
we smile shyly at those
same strangers trudging
through sand
back to car campers
differently warm
by Annie Valkema
April 13, 20213
After Mary Oliver
by Travis WestChristmas morning came and went
and still our pond is peppered with geese,
the sky alternately filled with their
rusty-hinge wings and their incessant honks,
harsh and exciting.
If Mary Oliver was right, and their
south-bound invitation is simply to
love what you love, perhaps it’s okay to
love the north, the cold, and winter too.
The soft crunch of boot on snow.
The magic of visible breath.
The sudden pink-on-blue of morning.
The wild wind reminding you as urgently
and frantically as the geese that
you are, in fact, in this moment,
alive.
Travis West
April 27, 2021
The Hardest Part is Starting
The Hardest Part is Starting
by Travis West
The explosive flutter of quail taking flight;
the plastic twist of hummingbird gossip;
the frantic grate of a hummingbird warning
to a trespassing blue jay.
The sharp pain of exquisite beauty:
the sun rising as the moon sets;
the gentle embrace of verdant hills.
The slimy tracks of early-morning snail commutes
that silently call us from our sleeping tombs
to greet the day and face our fears once more.
But how can I do this
without community, without worship, without routine?
I am trapped in a cage of my own making:
excuses, rationalizations, fear.
And just like that a hummingbird brings me back to myself
to this moment
to the swirling sound of insect song
to the truth:
We have all we need.
Liminal Space
by Linnea Scobey
the plastic twist of hummingbird gossip;
the frantic grate of a hummingbird warning
to a trespassing blue jay.
The sharp pain of exquisite beauty:
the sun rising as the moon sets;
the gentle embrace of verdant hills.
The slimy tracks of early-morning snail commutes
that silently call us from our sleeping tombs
to greet the day and face our fears once more.
But how can I do this
without community, without worship, without routine?
I am trapped in a cage of my own making:
excuses, rationalizations, fear.
And just like that a hummingbird brings me back to myself
to this moment
to the swirling sound of insect song
to the truth:
We have all we need.
Travis West
April 27, 2021
Liminal Space
by Linnea Scobey
“When you are between your old comfort zone and any possible new answer … the sacred space where the old world is able to fall apart, and a bigger world is revealed …” — Richard Rohr
It’s Sarah and Abraham, every dragging year
between the promise and the child.
It’s Israelites at the foot of the mountain
waiting for Moses’ return.
Leaving Eden, leaving Egypt;
Isaac bound upon the altar.
Joseph barred by prison doors,
Jonah crushed by whale ribs,
Hagar in the wilderness, withering.
Empty stomachs, hands, nets.
Every year hobbling through the desert;
every night water pummeled the ark.
Mary and Martha at the grave of their brother;
disciples hidden in a locked room;
stone in the mouth of the tomb.
It’s the layover, the stoplight,
the waiting room. The era between tests
and results. The dark womb
of sky before the dawn. The interlude
between chorus and verse, the space
between two bodies. The inhale
of each wave before
it overtakes the shore.
The time between blossom
and berry, between a star’s birth
and visible light.
It’s a dial tone, then ringing, before
there’s an answer. It’s standing at
the knocked door, waiting
for it to open.
Linnea Scobey
April 20, 2021
Lovesongs
by Annie Valkema
I.
We go together
like Methodists and poker,
like bars and bad marriages.
II.
The goodness of spouses,
black coffee and confession
are underrated.
III.
I imagine receiving postcards
from the afterlife:
I don’t miss you but I’m waiting for you.
I’m counting the days
but I can’t tell you the number.
Your dad says hi. He’s playing softball.
I joined the choir.
IV.
Thick-ankled girls dance in cotton skirts
like cotton candy clouds,
Tilt-a-Whirl waltzes.
Dance with a Dutch girl
and your sleep will be easy.
Annie Valkema
April 13, 20212
Amaryllis
by Julia Spicher Kasdorf
He who plants the ear, shall he not hear?
- Psalm 94:6
Who set the heart like a bulb
in the chest, shall He not bless
in the chest, shall He not bless
the blade that tears brown
husks, parts dirt, thrusts
husks, parts dirt, thrusts
a green budded shaft
to blast this blossom
to blast this blossom
horn straining toward
the window’s bright pane,
the window’s bright pane,
transparent plain between
gaping scarlet and snow?
gaping scarlet and snow?
Oh, whoever lit this winter
sun must also love love.
sun must also love love.
Julia Spicher Kasdorf
April 6, 2021
No comments:
Post a Comment