Writing

  • Little Star

    Dr. Julie Thorpe 24 December 2017

    Little Star

    What is your name,
    Your deep name that called to mine
    Glowing vermilion? Tiny
    Ten toes, cleft fingers
    Flung in startle reflex.

    But when I pick you up
    You stink! Reeking
    Of faeces, a honeypot
    For flies to carry your spores
    Airborne from the volva, then
    Burst open as a hollow shoot
    In the ground. The cycle begins

    each Advent, growing
    Star-shaped, blood and guts
    Of the earth’s startled cry
    To be picked up in its smell
    Of fear.
                I name you

    Little Star
    And lay you in the bed
    Of Mary’s garden
    Beside a pink geranium
    For safekeeping
    While I wait
    To hear my name.

    ©Julie Thorpe
    Image star pink geranium, wikipedia

     

     

  • Tis the season

    Tess Ashton 15 December 2017

    Tis the season

    bird on a wire

    let me hear your song

    bird on a wire

    you can do no wrong

    for your singing is

    as love to me

    your tender trill

    thrills my ear and soul

     

    bird on a wire

    tell me where your voice

    comes from

    your plumes so soft

    that write upon my heart

    and i shall leap upon

    the horse dressed in red

    up on the goldy-green hill

    beyond the people

    waiting for the train

    so still

    and i will try to catch your maker

    before the sun comes up

    while he is cool and resting

     

    bird on a wire should i find him

    i will ask why do the birds

    sing so prettily to us

    and why do they

    talk of love

    tell me lover

    i shall say

    what it is love bears

    to play for us that love-torn

    sonnet

     

    i’ll tell him i have heard your trill

    that the flowers have appeared

    in our land

    that the winter has gone

    and the rains are over

    already i know the answer

    this is the season

    of the turtledove

    we are to arise

    and come away

    ©Tess Ashton

    Image Two turtle doves, Felipe Lopez, www.images.unsplash.com

     

     

     

  • God of Small Things

    Ana Lisa de Jong 14 December 2017

    God of Small Things

    My God is the God of small things.

    Seeds....
    Newborn babies.

    Nutshells that contain multiple truths
    in humble small containers.

    My God is the God of small beginnings.

    Like breathing
    or opening eyelids.

    If we but move today
    we can accomplish what he asks.

    God, my God of swaddled babes
    that fumble for the breast

    He teaches us the worth of
    lying still in trust.

    My God is the God of humble things.

    Caves.
    Beds of straw.

    Lives that don’t amount to much
    if judged upon their origins.

    My God is the God of silent things.

    Wombs.
    Passages in the dark.

    Quiet incubators, within which cells divide
    and muscles stretch towards the light.

    God, my God of birth pangs
    and pain that finds release

    He teaches us that the dark
    often precedes new life.

    My God is the god of honed things

    Parred down.
    Simplified.

    A carpenter sanding back the wood
    to reveal the grain beneath.

    My God is the God of beloved things.

    Neglected.
    Abandoned.

    Rescued for nothing they have done,
    but because of a plan of redemption.

    God, my God of Christmas coming
    somehow the wonder of Advent

    is knowing we need do nothing
    but let new life be birthed in us.

    ©Ana Lisa de Jong
    Living Tree Poetry

    Image Tim Humphreys, www.images.unsplash.com 

  • Summer

    Summer

    Scarlet, indigo and azure
    kðhatu veined with gold
    and lapis lazuli
    fireflies of silver.

    Textured tapestry
    ocean breeze
    soft petals
    caressing skin
    nestled in warm grass
    blush of pomegranates.

    Breath of ancient trees
    rush of many wings
    symphony of cicadas
    in the afternoon.

    Honey from manuka flowers
    devotion of bees
    sweet wine
    rosemary
    in the drowsy air.

    Salt on lips
    kisses
    strawberries
    passionfruit.

    Flamenco dance of cinnabar moths
    sacred fleeting butterflies.

    Sitting by the fire
    memory re-members
    summers past
    expectant with possibility
    assisting God in a miracle.

    ©Hilary Oxford Smith

    In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible Summer. And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back. - Albert Camus

    Image Manuel Meurisse www.images.unsplash.com

  • I Walk Dangerous Paths

    Liz Knowles 3 December 2017

    I Walk Dangerous Paths

     

    I walk dangerous paths
    the line
    between right and wrong
    I am not always right
    (I am not always wrong)
    no parallel lines
    these
    they
    converge in places
    where boundaries are not defined
    and
    I dream
    of arrival.

    ©Liz Knowles
    This poem first published in Candles and Conifers, ed. Ruth Burgess, Wild Goose Publications
    Image www.veritidas.org