#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 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.

Day 3: The Stafford Challenge (Or the SC?)

I just posted last night, but I’m getting a head start today on The Stafford Challenge (you can read about The Stafford Challenge in my first post). I’m starting to think that writing out “The Stafford Challenge” is a little cumbersome. I might start calling in “The SC” or “The Sta-Cha” or “The Staff-Chall” or “The artist formerly known as The Stafford Challenge,” I don’t know …. Any way, I digress.

Yesterday was my birthday (my 40th birthday! Yikes.) So that was primarily the inspiration for today’s poem. Something I love about poetry, even more than short stories, is the way you can use a poem to create an experience, almost like a painting or photograph, where you just take one scene, one moment, and reveal something profound there. I’m not saying I’m always successful at it, or that this is always my goal with a poem, but I love the potential.

Day 3!

Birthday Fog

Bright bushy camellias turn brown overnight
when the Earth takes a cold turn.
I needed something warm today, light, less gray.
It’s my birthday, you know, God, show a little love.
It’s my birthday and the town turned sopping wet,
the narrow road slick under thick boots.
Overcast gloomy warm in January in a sort of muggy way
that leaves the leaves brown my heart longing and writhing in self pity
like that fat ugly worm on the driveway.
But in this endless cloud of gray warmth
the flowers killed by the world’s ice are coming out again from their tight buds,
letting go and dappling the fog with pink and red and pure-as-heaven white.
The Lord says the clouds are coming
and the gray cloud isn’t always something to lament.
Camellias peel back their full color even while their dead sisters linger,
reminders that He is bringing the dead back to life.
That even the flowers ache to find the light of the King’s face.

Day 2: The Stafford Challenge

The day is nearly over, and even though there were innumerable distractions today no matter where I turned my head, I got my poem in. Seriously, we all can find 15 minutes in our day to get this poem thing done. And if we can’t, well, we probably should be getting our busy-butts out of bed 15 minutes earlier.

(If you have no idea what I’m talking about, here’s my first post talking about The Stafford Challenge.)

Day 2!

Write Again

Creation groans under the weight of my pen, so minuscule a thing as it is. Yet the notebook paper rolls its eyes (punch holes?) at my attempts to mimic God like some cartoon ape properly picking up her cup of tea (pinky out!) with her hand-like feet, right before shoving a finger up her nose and flinging her poo. I screech in frustration, throw the cup, watch the obscene beauty of destruction unfold across the concrete of my cage, wish creativity were as easy as this. But God gathers my monkey hands into His, kisses the fur on my forehead, leads my excrement-flinging self out of the mess inside the iron bars and into the sunshine grass, to array me in the glory so beyond my reach.

The Stafford Challenge: Day 1 (+ starting up this blog again)

I signed up for The Stafford Challenge this month to get to writing poetry again after a pretty long slump (you can read about what The Stafford Challenge is here). So far it’s been like grinding rusty gears together trying to get the poetry flowing again, and after wrestling with God with all my feelings of lameness and talentless-ness, I finally got a poem down.

Is it a good poem? Not really. But it was fun to write poetry again.

One part of the Stafford Challenge is to write down an aphorism before you start. I decided to Christian-ize this challenge by starting with a Bible verse that pops out to me during my daily Bible reading, or a thought that God has placed on my heart that morning. If you like writing poetry, and would like to try the Christian-ized version of the challenge, it goes like this:

Get a blank paper.
Write down the date.
Write down your Bible verse/Holy Spirit-inspired thought.
Write a small diary entry, just jotting down some thoughts.
Write your poem.
Do this every morning, for one year.

Honestly, this only takes about 15 minutes. And then you have a poem to work with. And even if you don’t like your poem, tomorrow you’ll have another poem to work with.

I’m recording these rough-draft poems here because I’ve always wanted this blog to be a space where I experiment with poetry—the good, the bad, and the ugly—and maybe the Holy Spirit will send these to someone and use them for the kingdom in some wonderful, unexpected way.

So, let’s do it. One year of poems, Day 1.

Miss Fishie

Struggling on a line right now, wriggling like a fish. Set myself free—painfully, but only for a moment—or stay hooked and get pulled further and further away from God? Yeah, that’s not really an option, is it? Black nets, hands churning and groping, then waiting. You gave everything: gills to breathe even when things got deep, scales shining against a summer sunbeam—beauty in a blue wilderness. Something shiny pretty made by man will tear open flesh—first your greedy mouth, then your heart—lay you on a slab of unholy sacrifice to carnal appetites—serve you up pierced, scaled (and found wanting), and fried up with some french-fried potatoes and a stale beer at Pete’s Seafood Shanty. (The grip of you much more gentle, like being gripped by Love itself. Can’t slip through those fingers, no matter how slimy I am.) So grip, Father, rip. Until these wide eyes see.

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).

Poem: Desire (that girl I once knew)

Desire (that girl I once knew)
(by Veronica McDonald)

Desire’s changed.
She used to be sort of sexy
like sweet-smelling trash
with heroin-chic cheekbones
and pouty cigarette lips.
A loud laugh often played on those lips
muddled like it was underwater
under the wave of noise that came in
an unending hum.
Her purple, anorexic fingers
poured Kamikazes and tequila shots
down my throat in bursts of fire
that woke that Thing living inside of me
like she’d smacked it with a hard slap
of glitter and nail polish.
And that Thing would move
into my hands, making them
pull on the man smiling at me
grabbing his hair, his belt loops
pulling on his hips.
And my ears would fill with music—
not sweet, but hard, tribal
banging in time with the pounding
in my chest.
My nose would fill with the stench
of scotch, smoke, sweat, him
my eyes catching muted lights
glimmering against hot skin.
Seeing her now
the Thing stirs, anticipating her familiar smack
but she’s different, so changed I didn’t
recognize her at first.
Her smile’s big and warm wriggling with
nicotine gum.
The long glittering nails are missing from
hands that remind me of Grandma’s—
soft, tissuey, reaching for everything
as if it were fragile and precious.
She is light— light as air, light as
a breeze, as a violin song playing
for the sky.
Arms outstretched she reaches for Him
eyes only on Him
and it’s all for Him
only Him.
Without looking, she strokes
the Thing inside of me with the tip
of her finger and suddenly
I want Him, too
because everything around Him
is crisp and clear and fresh as a spring
Because He’s pure
Because He’s truth
Because He’s home.

Photo credit: “Woman Holding a Glass” by Paul Gavarni (Public Domain)

Poem: Nerd

Nerd (by Veronica McDonald)

Timmy wore the word “NERD” on him
thick and stinking like bilge water
like being smart and following the rules
(the ones teachers policed like lawmen)
was a bad thing, a bad smell, like Timmy’s warm
Waldorf salad breath.
He wanted a friend but couldn’t find one
in the forest of baby-joy as he picked through the trees
with an ax that had a steel handle marked by hard FACT
‘cuz the kids scatter at his noise like willow-o-the-wisps
blinking and disappearing in the corners
of his squinting eyes.
He has black lettuce stuck between his front teeth
when he tells a girl in his class about the scientific
impossibility of Santa Claus, and of his bringing toys to every
child in the world and that even if reindeer could fly
the physics of it all was just ludicrous. Think of the speed
in which he would have to travel, and even with the time-zone changes
his body would not physically be able to withstand the speed.
And the girl looks at him and nods and feels a revolted pity
as he fidgets with nervous fingers through the magic dust
on his desk, peering into his electron microscope.
She tells him there’s food in his teeth and Timmy turns red
dark red, redder than the girl thought possible
redder than Santa’s hat, and she comes to the horrifying
realization that it was all said to impress her.
Mrs. Sanders creeps up behind them and grabs Timmy’s shoulder
(like she owns his intelligence and all that comes with it)
and tells him to go back to his microscope
while she chuckles in her mind at the thought
that one day Timmy will be CEO of the world
and the rest of the kids who teased and ignored him
and called him “lettuce-teeth-Tim”
will regret that they did not also conduct a scientific investigation
into the impossibility of Santa Claus
and that she, Mrs. Sanders, alone could revel in the inevitability
of Timmy’s future success and her small but vital role in it all.
Timmy obeys because he must, and goes back to his microscope
but in the corner of his eye he watches
as the girl drifts away like mist
and floats out of the classroom window —
open just a crack for the possibility of a breeze —
away into the sky behind a cloud
to meet the hidden Sun.

Photo credit: “Child Leaning on His Elbow” by Paul Helleu (Public Domain)

Poem: i am

i am (by Veronica McDonald)

i am meat
wrapped in baby doll plastic
laid down on the slab.
i name me “Jane”
paint bright red lipstick on my lips.
Don’t stop there.
Why be so predictable?
i draw the lipstick down
the curve of my chin
onto my chest
draw a large bleeding heart
between breasts that are too small
so i label them “MUSCLE.”
The plastic almost feels like skin
it bounces back under my fingers —
too perfect — so i scratch it
then cover the marks
in “Soft Honey” foundation.
i get bored
so i name me “Fred.”
i spell it “FREED” in bold black letters
stitched into my abdomen
with a broken needle.
i cut off my long brown hair and glue it
under my nose, like a mustache.
i leave the lipstick.
It makes Fred unique
a creature rarely seen.
i pierce his body
with transgressions;
a few earrings first
then a tongue cheek nipple throat-ring.
The beauty and uniqueness are almost
complete.
He looks feminine —
whatever that means —
so i name him “Jane.”
i give her red contacts
to match the lips under her mustache
bleach what’s left of her hair
until the smell burns
and the hair has lost all
naturalness —
whatever that means.
This is my body
it was made in my image
it reflects
nothing
deeper than existence
it is my birthright
my machine.
The meat inside begins to rot
the juice leaks from somewhere
onto the slab.
i polish the skin
spray it with $500 perfume
maybe it’s Chanel
maybe it’s made from the sweat
of starving children—
i don’t care.
Eat drink for tomorrow we die.
i’m so beautiful i could cry.
so i do.
brown-red tears pour down my cheeks
and i can hardly smell it
anymore

Photo credit: “Smarra” by Tony Johannot (Public Domain)