#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.

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 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.