Tag Archives: Love

Monsoon of Mercy

At dVerse Poets Pub today, Abhra tells a tale of the monsoon season in India. The “prompt” for the day is fairly vague, so I drew from Abhra’s story about how the hot, dry summer is followed by the monsoon. And I tapped into the discussion in the comments to Anthony’s post Pub Talk: Poetry and Making a Difference. I’ve written this as a Kyrielle because I’m finding a like this form a lot. It has just enough repetition to suit me.

Monsoon of Mercy

Sin and shame deeply scorch my soul
Freedom from consequence my goal
But my choice left me dry, not whole
Healed by Your monsoon of mercy

She was the victim of my choice
Never will I hear her small voice
Yet in His arms she can rejoice
Healed by His monsoon of mercy

Now there is no condemnation
Only grace for Your creation
Regret remains a grave fixation
Healed by Your monsoon of mercy

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Slips Away

I’ve been thinking a lot about my sister Peggy lately, perhaps because her death is the subject of the first chapter of the book I’m working on. Yesterday the refrain for this Kyrielle came to me and then I finished the poem this morning.

Slips Away

Quiet descends on deep darkness
My soul housed in this jar of clay
Groans bitterly in God’s winepress
Her soul slips silently away

Regrets of wasted time oppress
Why did I wait another day
I am here now nevertheless
Her soul slips silently away

Over memories I obsess
Jesus come save her soul I pray
His peace descends on me to bless
Her soul slips silently away

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Let’s Have Lamb

Let’s Have Lamb

I was thinking
Why don’t we have lamb
instead of bread for communion?

Since Jesus was the Lamb
of God who was slain
shouldn’t lamb represent His body?

I’m not complaining, mind you
I don’t even like lamb
And everyone loves bread

But it just seems odd
and somewhat illogical

Then again, the whole thing
often strikes me as a bit illogical
That God would love us enough
to die for us

Perhaps at that Last Supper
God, because He is omniscient,
could foresee
what a hassle it would be
to serve lamb with our wine
in church each week

And so we get bread
regular or gluten-free

For the Poetics prompt at dVerse Poets Pub yesterday (continuing today), Kanzen asks us to write a poem about food.

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Have No Fear

So I’ve written two Kyrielles, Let Me Carry You with the rhyme scheme abaB cbcB dbdB, and An Odd Kyrielle with the rhyme scheme aaaR bbbR cccR. There is a third rhyme scheme option with the Kyrielle, and that is aabB ccbB ddbB. I just had to write one. I started with refrain and went from there.

The refrain is something I’ve been saying lately, as I’ve talked with people about the book I’m working on about living fearlessly. I’ve finally learned that as long as no one can take Jesus away from me, there is nothing truly to fear.

Have No Fear

Thieves and frauds may steal my money
Many days will not be sunny
Sometimes I’ll lose what I hold dear
They can’t take Jesus, I’ll not fear

Often times we will lose at love
Find hard times we can’t get rid of
Walk through fog that won’t ever clear
They can’t take Jesus, have no fear

This life abounds with death and pain
Into dark days will pour cold rain
Sometimes people will laugh and sneer
They can’t take Jesus, I’ll not fear

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An Odd Kyrielle

After writing my first Kyrielle yesterday, I apparently had Kyrielle rhyme schemes on the brain when I went to bed. Once the lights were out, the first stanza of one with the rhyme scheme in which the refrain does not rhyme started forming in my mind. When I had repeated to myself four or five times I realized it wasn’t going to let me sleep, so I flipped on the light and write it down in the notepad I keep on my nightstand. It’s kind of silly, but silly is good sometimes.

The handwritten version

The handwritten version

I wrote the next two stanzas mostly in the shower this morning. Then when I read it to my son, he wanted to know if the refrain had to end with purple. I said, “I picked purple because it is a word that doesn’t rhyme with anything.” He replied, “You could have used silver. Or orange.” So I decided to mix it up and alter the refrain to include all three of these non-rhyming colors.

An Odd Kyrielle

I think that I shall never see
A Kyrielle as odd as thee
With rhyming lines one, two, and three
And a fourth that ends in purple

I fear that I shall never write
A sonnet with the meter right
But can pen lines poetic, light
And a fourth that ends in silver

I love that I shall ever rhyme
I see with Thee and climb with chime
Ending three lines with words like time
And a fourth that ends in orange

 I’ve shared this for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub. I added the picture of the handwritten version because Bjorn is talking about pictures and poems together. This is the best I’ve got on that score.

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Let Me Carry You

The other day I was reading some entries in The Poetry Dictionary by John Drury. I know, that sounds pretty nerdy, but I love learning new poetry forms and trying them out. I found a new form called the Kyrielle. It is a “French four-line stanza form in which each line contains eight syllables and the fourth line is a refrain.” There are three different rhyme scheme options for this form. Eventually I want to try all three, but just have one to offer for today.

This particular Kyrielle is written for my fellow blogger Bryan Lowe at Broken Believers blog, which I sometimes contribute to. I’ve been posting there this week to help him out because he’s struggling with a severe bout of depression. I’ll be posting this at his blog later this week, too. If you think of it, please say a prayer for him. His ministry to the broken is important and he could use the extra prayers and encouragement to keep it going.

Let Me Carry You

You lie alone broken and weak
Unsure if you will make it through
Seeing a future dark and bleak
To Jesus let me carry you

Your daily troubles set in stone
Seem heavy with unchanging hue
And though you think you’re all alone
To Jesus I will carry you

You struggle to remember love
Ev’ry feeling painfully blue
I will bring God’s grace from above
To Jesus let me carry you

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Reputation

No one whispers to you
what they whisper about you
to others

Though they might
taunt and tease

And while there may be
truth in the taunting
it’s never the whole truth

Only God knows
the whole truth
your whole heart
the pain in the depths
of your tortured soul

And He whispers to you
You are my beloved
What they say
doesn’t matter to Me
Don’t let it define you

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Nothing to Fear

There’s nothing to fear but fear itself

and bears if you’re in Yellowstone
loneliness if you’re all alone

failure if your theory is flawed
sickness and death if you don’t know God

Yet if God is on your side
there’s nothing to fear
just trust and abide

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You Can’t Go Back to Tuesday

I’m working on my book proposal today. I posted the draft Prologue last week. I’m determined to finish the proposal this week so an editor friend can review it before I submit it to the publishing house editor who requested it at the Faith & Culture Writers Conference. I had a breakthrough this week when I realized the Chapter 1 I’d drafted started in the wrong place. This is the beginning of the new Chapter 1.

I’m planning to include a poem on the title page of each chapter. The poem for this chapter is one I wrote a week after the events recounted here.

You Can’t Go Back to Tuesday

Last Breath

Breathing
in, out again
no other sound so dear
except if you spoke, one more time,
I’d hear.

I sat in that suffocating little room with my sister Suz, my brother-in-law Dick, and the shell of my sister Peggy. When I had arrived earlier in the day I wouldn’t have known it was her in the bed if Suz hadn’t also been there. I hadn’t seen Dick in 28 years; he’d changed, kind of looked like Grizzly Adams after a month in the woods alone.

And Peggy, she didn’t look like anyone I knew. The last time I’d seen her she didn’t look too bad. She admitted the cancer was back, but she covered up how bad it was pretty well. And she had been hopeful, ready to fight and win again. But she wasn’t going to win this time—she would breathe her last in that tiny, sterile room with just the three of us there.

I’d woken up that morning with plans to go to the dentist in the morning—even though I was dreading it—and then in for my annual mammogram and breast MRI. On Friday I was going to go visit Peggy in the hospital. I was told she’d probably be feeling better by then.

But Suz called early that morning and said Peggy had taken a turn for the worse. “You should come as soon as you can. Dick said she was pretty bad.”

I called my cousin Noryce to tell her what was going on with Peggy and to just talk. Noryce always has good advice and knows just what to say.

“I don’t know what to do. I have these two appointments I have to keep, but I want to go see Peggy. Maybe I can just wait until tomorrow to go,” I said. “I should have just gone to see her on Tuesday.”

Noryce, in her infinite wisdom, replies, “You can’t go back to Tuesday. What are you going to do today? What’s the worst that could happen if you cancel your appointments and go? What if you wait to go until tomorrow and she’s already gone?”

She knows the story of when my dad died and I wasn’t there. He had called me and said, “Come see me.” But it cost money to fly to Desert Hot Springs where he was and we didn’t have a lot of money at the time. So I bought an inexpensive ticket for two weeks out. He died a week later. I will always regret that decision.

So I called the dentist to cancel my appointment, worried that they would be upset and charge me for the appointment anyway. “Don’t worry about it. Go see your sister. Give us a call when you’re ready to reschedule.”

Then I called the hospital to cancel my mammogram and breast MRI. They were even more understanding given that my sister was dying of breast cancer. I don’t know why I was afraid they wouldn’t be.

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An Ode to Poetry

It’s Day 30 of NaPoWriMo. I’ve written 30 poems in 30 days, and I’ve read many more poems. In celebration of the month coming to an end I wrote an irregular ode to all the poetry I’ve written and read.

An Ode to Poetry

O poetry, you make me laugh
you cause a chuckle to escape my lips
when written by one with a sense of humor
maybe even a chuckle and a half
if the poet who writes your daring words
winnows away the boring chaff
and uses to his advantage a gaffe

O poetry, you often cause a tear
to press against my eyeballs
ready to fall any moment I fear
when a poet writes on a topic dear
and if her writing is especially skillful
it’s possible you’ll find me bawling
if you lend an ear
and I’m touched by the words I hear

O poetry, how you make me think
between my life and another’s is a link
simply from words on a page, a small bit of ink
a connection is made, not there before
a bond of creativity and awe
fostering a desire our glasses to clink

O poetry, you change my mood
you make me crabby if you are lewd
even though I’m not a prude
yet sometimes you are my sunshine
when happiness and mirth you do exude

O poetry, sometimes you bore me
when you’re filled with trite clichés
but please don’t take it personally
I love you nonetheless

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