Here’s a little poem I wrote recently for our annual campus poetry slam–just for fun. It’s based on a real-life event that occurred when I had my first summer job back in high school.
She dials the number of the orchard.
She will have strawberries for supper.
Succulent and squishy,
juicy jewels,
treasure amid the tangle of vines.
Delightful. Delectable.
Sour and sweet, with the tiniest of seeds and –
“Hello? Yes. How much are your strawberries?”
Soon she will spoon them over short, spongy cakes.
Perhaps a pie, oozing cool glaze.
Maybe her mouth will taste them plain,
red, sticky juice coarsing down her fingers, or –
“Ma’am? Strawberry season is over. You missed it.”
I am sorry, daughter of Eve.
In a perfect world
there would always be strawberries.
I peer into the looking-glass
and for a fleeting moment
glimpse your mind’s-eye.
A dusty china teacup,
frail,
cracked,
stained by the dregs.
Hold it to the window
and see how thin it is.
Note its delicacy,
worn from years of use.
Watch the sunbeam reflect
off the thin, silver rim
where you put your mouth.
Handle it gently,
but know this:
I am not yet broken.
They sit alone,
in silver silence gleaming
through the thin, white shroud
that covers them with gentle folds.
Within them wait the wafers and the wine,
a symbol lingering through the years
to make a memory come alive.
He lay alone,
in shadowed silence resting
‘neath the thick, pale wrap
that bound Him up, His body dead.
But then within, the man began to stir,
returning through the door of death
to prove the power of our God.
I stand alone,
in spellbound silence wondering
at the thin, dim veil
that keeps Him from my seeking eyes.
Beyond, with arms outstretched, He beckons me
to rise above this wordly wall
and let my soul commune with His.
DUST
A thin
layer fits
foot to
footprint,
revives
a moment
we don’t
remember
but can’t
forget.
– Father Leonard Cochran. O.P.
It was a small thing he asked of me,
a thing that would have cost so little.
But small things are easily forgotten,
ignored,
set neatly aside for another day.
For there will always be another day —
until there isn’t.
So now I carry one, tiny regret
like a millstone dangling from my heart.
I’ve been walking the track in the evenings as I love to do in the summer. The mountains, the creek and the cornfields make a majestic backdrop for my exercise. A few nights ago I saw the first lightning bugs of the season.
While walking home I remembered the many summer nights that my family went to visit my grandparents when I was a child. Memaw and Ben lived on a farm several miles outside of town. I loved to step out into the back yard after it had gotten good and dark. Far removed from the city lights, the lightning bugs twinkled among the Black Angus cattle like a host of tiny fairies.
And then there were the stars. So many more stars than we could ever see in town, and so much more magnificent. I would stand there, gazing up into the heavens, loving the God who created all of this splendor and who still had time to love me.
And so it was that walking home from the track the other night, I recalled a poem I wrote some years back. I’d like to share it with you now: (more…)
THREE-FOLD TORMENT
By Denise Day Spencer
Let me share with you His pain,
Who for all our sins was slain,
Who for me in torments died.
– Stations of the Cross, St. Ann Roman Catholic Mission
He stumbles ‘neath the load.
It is not heavy, yet it crushes.
Merely a mangle of thorns
Woven as a crude crown.
Thorns that boldly dare to mock their Maker.
He stretches out His hands,
Ready to embrace, but not fondly.
Only the ore of iron
Hammered into soiled spikes.
Iron dares to agonize its Author.
He writhes upon the tree.
Alone, and utterly forsaken.
Simply a structure of wood
Fashioned as a cruel cross.
Splintered wood now dares murder its Master.
He gazes on the crowd.
Mankind, pinnacle of creation.
One whispered word could destroy
Thorn, iron, wood, mad men.
Yet the Savior dares to speak:
“Forgiven.”
