“Talitha Cumi’ [A Poem Written on the Occasion of the Death of a Child Recently Baptised] (2012)

Today I watched a child who I baptized in March of this year go home to be with her Lord.  I have decided to write a poem for Nautica because she is worthy of a poem.

She is certainly worthy of a better poem than this.  I am no poet and make no claim to understand poetry or the structure of it (which will be evident) or any such thing.

But if poetry simply means the expression of the human heart when it has been deeply moved, then I at least have warrant to put it here.  Regardless, it is for Nautica, and for her mother, Teona.

Talitha Cumi

[Written on the occasion of the death of a child recently baptized.]

Taking her by the hand he said to her, “Talitha cumi,” which means, “Little girl, I say to you, arise.”

Mark 5:41

“Jesus is Lord,” she said

almost in a whisper

in March of this year

when I baptized her

the little girl

saying the ancient creed

before the body of Christ

who cheered and “amen’d”

“Jesus is Lord,” she said

when I asked for her confession

and the water was almost neck high

where she stood and smiled

“Jesus is Lord,” she said

three words

that have changed the world

(including her own)

she said it

and I buried her

under the water

and in the Name

but only for a moment

for she rose from the water

because death doesn’t get the victory

over those who say the Name

“Jesus is Lord,” she said

and we will bury her again

in earth this time

from whence she came

but only for a moment

for the ground will not hold her

just as the water could not

and she will rise

because of the Name

“Jesus is Lord!”

little girls don’t stay buried

death doesn’t win

then she said it in the water

now face to face

“Jesus is Lord,” she is whispering

and He is whispering back…

“Yes, and I love you little girl.”

“A Prayer on Ash Wednesday”

“ashes” he will say “and dust” the cross applying

his thumb will mark with soot my head

and for a moment I will bear

the emblem of what I seek so hard to hide from my own self

the burned Palm fronds from last year’s

triumphal entry

will remind me of His triumph

but more so of my distance from Him

the smudge will be removed by my own hands

washed off with a restrained exuberance

trying to conceal from my own self

that I want the emblem gone

and it has nothing to do with embarrassment

or the questions of curious onlookers

but with the homily in ash, the proclamation

stained and screaming the truth to me

i do not want the ashes of repentance

but I do want the cross they form

and I know I cannot have one without the other

so I take the mark…for a moment

then the mask is reapplied

a light brow where the marked and furrowed once was

but the truth of the mark will linger

for it has been marked on my soul

oh God.

help me to embrace both ash and cross

mortality and eternity

repentance and life

from dust I have come

to dust I will return

but never merely and never only

for by the ash and the cross You have made me Thine

“Miss Clora” [A Poem for a Lady I Never Knew] (2010)

Yesterday, a number of Dawson citizens spent a good bit of time searching for an elderly lady, Miss Clora, who had wandered out of her home the night before. (I was not part of the search party.)  Her body was found yesterday afternoon.

I never knew her and I do not think I ever met her.  She was a stranger to me, and I to her, much, I’m sure, to my loss!  But I’ve been thinking about her death.

I’m going to ask for pity here:  I am no poet and I know very little about poetry other than that I like to read poems I like.  But I’ve written a poem for Miss Clora that I thought I might share here.  It’s simply my effort to honor the passing of a lady who, by all accounts, was a wonderful person.

 

“Miss Clora”

(A Poem For A Lady I Never Knew)

She wandered, Miss Clora did
As folks sometimes do
When the years have been long
And the mind grows tired
And the feet get itchy for a walk

She wandered out, Miss Clora did
Two nights ago, just taking a walk
And it was noticed she was gone
And the search parties looked
A good bit of yesterday

And they found her, Miss Clora
In the late afternoon, yesterday, outside
Where she had wandered
And she was gone, Miss Clora was
Gone, but the body remained

And I never knew her, Miss Clora
Just saw the picture on the Shell station door
Where folks walk in to pay for gas
While Miss Clora walked out
Just to take a walk

And I wonder about her wandering, Miss Clora
(While the rest of us walked our routines)
How she decided to walk out
And nobody will ever know why
“She was confused,” we’ll say

But could it be that she, Miss Clora
Smelled Christmas in the air
And thought of Another who walked
And went out to meet Him
And met Him walking too, right here in Terrell County?

Merry Christmas, Miss Clora!

 

“Halfway” [A Birthday Poem] (2009)

Today is my 35th birthday.  I mention it only because I feel strange today.  And so I’ve written a poem trying to explain why.

It’s laughably bad and violates, I suspect, every rule of poetry.  But I don’t claim to know any of the rules of poetry, and it is my poem, and I’ve tried to express what I’m thinking and feeling.

And maybe that’s enough.

 

“Halfway”

“The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.” (Psalm 90:10)
Three-score-and-ten
It says
Like a doom or a hope
(Sometimes I wonder which.)
If that is so
Then it makes folly
Our mid-fifties label
Of “mid-life”
Fifty is not mid-life for most
Three-tens-and-five is.
And I am there.
Today.
Halfway.
And it sobers a man to think
Halfway
As much behind as lies ahead
But only for a moment
For tomorrow is not halfway
It is closer to the brink
And closer to the end
Than today
And a panic sets in
The question, the stare
And “crisis” need not only apply
To those closer to done
I’ve seen thirty-five years
And I’ve squandered too much
And the reality stings like a blister
Here at halfway
So God be with me this day
Halfway
Mid-stream
(Unless I am closer than I know.)
Oh God of the halfway pilgrim
Of the en-route child
Simul justus et peccatore
Look upon me and smile
Not because I deserve it
You know I do not
But smile at me in the halfway
So I can step into tomorrow
So I can see this frail moment
In the light of glory
That shekinah-enfleshed truth
That calls me home
I give you the halfway crisis
I give you the halfway joy
I give you my halfway heart
Break it and make it yours.