#8 – The Stafford Challenge: Threads

Another poem for the challenge.

Below is the verse that I used for a prompt, if you would like to use it for your own writing prompt. My notes from this verse were also inspired by recently reading Corrie Ten Boom’s book “The Hiding Place” (I highly recommend it if you haven’t read it).

“I am the vine; you are the branches. The one who remains in me and I in him produces much fruit, because without me you can do nothing.” — John 15:5


Threads

I sew flowers along the hems of my garment.
Bright red thread curls around my fingers,
crudely and inexpertly grafted onto filthy, white cloth.
I get bored with daisies, so I switch to peonies, roses,
then move on to giant, red grapes.
I will sew without skill or abandon,
seeking all the while for my mind to be still,
to be focused on nothing but Your face and meager
imitations of your creations.
A black flea lands on the petal of a grand lily—
full-flowering and majestic in wobbly red outlines—
and I bless the flea. For his callousness.
His thirst for blood. His desire to spread a sickness so beyond himself,
that will soon course through my veins
as I course through the garment with thread.
All are for a reason. A break in solitude.
A reminder of filth, of death, of enemies’ darts,
of the precious red winding through,
leading life imperfectly toward You.

#7 – The Stafford Challenge: Coming Back

So … after a seven-month break (yikes) from the Stafford Challenge, I feel the Lord guiding me back to writing poetry. Not only writing poetry, but continuing this challenge (if you don’t know what I’m talking about, check out this post). I know most of the year has gone, but the beauty of this challenge is that it’s never too late to start. Even if you don’t pick up a pen until the last week of December, you will have accomplished writing seven brand-new poems for the year, which is a lot more than zero.

Here’s my poem for the day. It was based off a devotional journaling prompt I came across: “I’m coming back to you, Jesus.”


Coming Back

Dark days cover like a hard blanket, worn out from much use. No longer soft or enjoyable to the touch, a comfortless reminder of the past when sin used to feel home-like. The dog in me wants to return to its vomit stains, live that carefree life of self, where I could laugh so hard that I couldn’t see the pit where I was kept, mucking around in filth. Like a pig with brains, but the brains don’t help. Just makes you aware of your pigginess. And then, the day’s blanket got a little warmer, covering my cold, naked skin. It reminded me of something else, like if I dug a little deeper into those folds, shrunk down and climbed into the fibers, some sweet, gentle voice would find me, telling me that I’m His child and that I need to come home.

Day 5 (and 6): The Stafford Challenge – Two for … Wednesday?

Well, I dropped the ball yesterday and didn’t get my poem posted. So, that makes today a two-for day! I only wish it was Tuesday and not Wednesday so I would have that wonderful alliteration for today’s title.

These poems got a little dark on me, but I think this almost always tends to happen when I write. I do embrace the light in my life (abiding in Jesus is the only place to find true peace), but when I write, whatever I’m troubled about comes through. I hope if you are reading this you find them intriguing.

Day 5 (and 6).


Judge Not

The judgment finger is upon her. She turns to the wall, accepts death, weeps bitterly from the mouth that used to laugh at the prophet. “This one only ever tells me bad news. Where’s that girl who only ever tells me bad news?” Her goblet slopping fine wine down her fingers glistening with polish and jewels. “You are well, princess! You are loved! Your life will be nothing if not romance and pleasure for all your days!” She laughs, white teeth shining, smoky eyes lazily glancing over the overdressed dead under black, weighty lashes. “Where is the one who always gives bad news?” “Gone! Gone!” They bow, hoping to please. ” We beat her, excluded her, wrote nasty things on her social media. You’ll never hear her ugly, plain words again!” And she runs her weak fingers down the stucco wall against her bed, thoughts swimming and lingering with dread.


Something Hurts

Uneasy in spirit and soul. Electricity tickling the back of my neck. Part of it, a face in pain. The one I love. The look in his eyes touching somewhere I’m not conscious. The other part, the death of someone I said was nice. Who’s that? I don’t really know him. We met a couple times. He’s nice. Found dead. Took a minute because he’s always alone. Nothing unusual, even when the dogs barked a little more. He’s nice. But dead. Found naked. Alone. Dirty dishes. Dog feces. Face down. Found him there. Skin like wax. Cold. Alone. Thought I would have to explain the broken door. Apologize. Say, I’m sorry, dude, we were only worried you weren’t answering your phone. Stacks of filth. Something lingers on the back of my neck. He’s nice. He was nice. A nice guy.

Day 4: The Stafford Challenge

I took a day off yesterday (Sunday) to study my Bible, go to church, and pray and relax and refocus on God on His Word. I’ll probably take every Sunday off for this challenge, but since this is the Christian-ized Stafford Challenge, I think taking a day of rest every week is appropriate and necessary, to shift it all back to Him.

I also thought I’d include my Bible verse inspiration with this one. I probably won’t do this every time, but sometimes someone out there is looking for a fresh word from God and I always want to enable the Holy Spirit to do His thing.

Verse of the day:

He remembered that they were but flesh, a wind that passes and comes not again.

Psalm 78: 39 (ESV)

Day 4, here we go. Back to it.


Passing Wind

A wind that passes and comes not again. She’s not here anymore, gone with the fading breeze, all traces slowly disappearing in the minds of those she loved. When You breathe, Lord, do you inhale it all back to Yourself? A universe is born in it, millions of atoms knitted by it in a womb, a seed with all it needs to grow into a mighty oak, to be felled and die, food for the skittling insects. Breathe into mud, he is man. Death sneaks a crooked cough into her lungs. You pity our flesh, tried it out a bit yourself once and groaned. Though love kept you in that frail man-suit, itchy like a cheap sweater. She holds that holy flesh to her lips, covers them in tears and breathy cries pouring over that skin in oil-like praise. When his breath covers her in its gentle gusts to take her away, she’s ready.

Poem: I wish you knew

I wish you knew (by Veronica McDonald)

I wish you knew…
that God is like Christmas
all peace and joy
and goodwill towards men
and women and children and doctors and lawyers
and salesmen and telemarketers and tax collectors and
that prostitute you called trash the other day and
threw a bottle at and that bum that lives in the
doorframe of your dying dad’s derelict
apartment building and the drug addict who smashed
the glass of the fire escape window and
that policeman you called who was
pretty sympathetic on the phone but
ultimately did nothing even after you complained
on Twitter all day in a long thread about the
state of things around this country of ours and
God’s like, I got this, just take this gift of
Christ that I can implant into your soul forever, just
take it, and it’ll feel like the best part of a Hallmark
movie after that girl from the big city discovers the
true meaning of Christmas and every time you sink
into that deep dark pit of demon-hell abyss, that joy’ll
pull you out and show you a glimpse of how maybe
life could be if it were dipped in something more
substantial than two-year old Christmas chocolate. I’m
making all things new and all things good
my child, just come and rest in my arms
soft as your grandma’s but stronger than
Superman’s, what can man do to you? But
you’re like, whatever dude, I got this with my frail
flesh and failing brain and all the power
the internet allows me to my 3,000 cyber
friends who waggle their fingers in
agreement with my many on-point
opinions. And God’s like, OK, I’ll give you your
space, but like, call me sometime, sweetie. And
eat your veggies. And call your mom, too, she
loves you. She’s only ever wanted your unfailing love
(like me) ever since she held you crying and cooing and
pecking at her neck like a dove, after going through
the agony of birth pains, tired but calm and
melting in that baby-gaze that covered her
like grace.

Photo Credit: “The Virgin, Baby Jesus, and Saint John the Baptist” by William-Adolphe Bouguereau, 1881 (Public Domain).

Book Review: ‘I Close My Eyes and I Almost Remember’ by Matthew J. Andrews

In his debut poetry collection, I Close My Eyes and I Almost Remember, Matthew J. Andrews takes a creative, and somewhat dark, look into the lives of different people from the Bible. In the book’s description, Andrews states that these poems were “born of spiritual crisis,” which is exactly what this collection feels like. Each poem is filled with doubt, struggle, and the weight of consequence as he guides the reader through the imagined perspectives of various Bible characters from Genesis to Revelation. What stands out the most in this collection is that the transformative power of God’s love is largely absent; Andrews leaves God’s actions and the tremendous weight those actions leave on mankind, but without the comfort of God’s love and His promise for a glorious future. In these poems, God is closely associated with fire, while ash lies in the wake of His intensity. Those who encounter God, rather than God Himself, are the focus. Each poem presents subtle reminders of man’s frailty and mortality by evoking images from creation—dirt, dust, ash, water, breath, and blood. These images capture our weaknesses and the frustration of human existence, reminders that we come from dust and to dust we shall return. After the suffering and struggles seem to end in the final poem, “The Gardener,” the reader is reminded that it’s all to begin again, as the Gardener feels the desire to plant a new Eden. The trail of pain and hardship traveled as the result of the events in the last garden makes the reader feel hesitant—was it all worth it? Will it be any better next time?

The more I read and meditate on each poem, the more I experience Andrews’ amazing capability to make each person of the Bible come alive with his or her humanity laid bare. My favorites are “Exile” and “Unfinished Psalms from the Private Notebook of King David,” though all of the poems were able to captivate with their unique viewpoints. This poetry collection is a great read for anyone familiar with the Bible, and will likely prove to be especially rich for those well-acquainted with the stories Andrews uses for inspiration (he does provide notes for context). In the poem, “Mary Remembers,” the speaker (presumably Mary) states, “I have heard the story so many times, I close my eyes and I almost remember.” If you feel you have heard these Bible stories “so many times,” then I recommend this book. Andrews causes you to forget what you know, and see these people with fresh eyes. At the same time, he causes you to think deeply on the relationship between God and man, pointing to the struggles and doubts that occur in all of us, and offering no easy answers.