Winnowing

Winnowing
by Timothy Reed



though you be winnowed,
don't weep for the chaff lost -
rejoice in what remains. 

It Is Enough.

The Ship Passes

The Ship Passes

by Timothy Reed 

Should I charter a ship

of ample speed and strength

to match pace with dawn or dusk

or even pry back the darkness

'til gilded sun yawns in the West

Would time stop, every watch now dead? 

Nay, for the ground would still be

speeding by, underfoot, underheart 

perhaps the past is not so static a thing,

for time draws her breath

from the Passed

in the passing. 

_____________________________________

How is time defined? Perhaps it’s not that we’re passing through time, but maybe time is passing through us. Time draws its life from us, and from that which passes away - passes behind. History is a collection of endless memories and former things - those memories and former things allow time to exist.


That motion of constant passing is the past - the passed. That ties into the idea of “freezing time” by fast enough motion. It could never happen, because to do it, you would be passing life, memories, lives, at an even faster rate... We misunderstand how time and life work at a fundamental level.

Speaking in A New Tongue

Speaking in a New Tongue
by Timothy Reed



as Abram spoke
with clumsy tongue
so I trip, falter
as I learn the idiom
of trust.

Bloom

Bloom
by Timothy Reed



light does not appear
it comes to term
every drop a sprout
growing - lengthening
like time on tree trunks

every bulb lends
tulips of red
daffodils of yellow
kaleidoscopic wildflowers
blink in and out of bloom

no face holds harm, distrust
every man a friend
every woman a sister
and I imagine, anticipate love
from each blurred visage

Uncreation

Uncreation
by Timothy Reed


God's first work was to create light
our first work is to bring darkness
God's crown was resting from work
our crown is working without rest

we birthed death

Why do I believe in resurrection?
Because every day the dead rises in me.

Heaven forbids a decaying hand
should touch that fruit
until it is draped in the incorruptible

I walk back to the garden
but feet lead their own insurrections
The way is barred by a flaming sword
...for now 

Keeper of the Dead

Keeper of the Dead
by Timothy Reed


I am the Speaker for the Dead:
the Keeper of the Dead
and Dying. 


the only gift I can give
is to walk with them
to that dark door
and fasten it gently
Once they have passed


I am the Keeper of the Dead, 
and the Dying seek me out. 


I keep the Dead,
for I cannot bear to let them go. 

SBS Poet Circle Presents: Current

In this edition of the Slowly But Slowly Poet Circle, we started a thought-journey from the prompt "Current". This word has powerful elements of ambiguity and association. Currents surround us daily and shape our lives in so many ways - currents of time, water, air, electricity, social mores, and so many more. Current can bring life, as the current does in the sea. Current can bring death, as it does in floodwaters. Current can be motion triumphing over stagnation; current can cause erosion, shaking us to our very core.  "Current" forms a perpetual partition between past and future. Current can be viewed as the only time we truly possess, but can also be idolized over either the past or progress. 

Several of our poets have chosen to give some notes (found at the end of the post) giving some insight into their own journey from prompt to poem. We hope that you enjoy our interpretations of the concept of "current".

My hands, these hands,  
slide the blade into white apple flesh,
dice the fruit smaller than you could think, 
it hungrily drinks the wine, turns pink. 

Then they pass fire and water 
over the white tablecloth, press it into submission, 
prepare to dress the dining room table in priestliness. 
Here we will build our story with sweet mortar
a story with a shadow reaching farther than Babel’s. 
God still gathers his exiles. 

We pass water over our own bodies, 
pass brooms over the whole house,
cleansing in preparation for the feast of tears,
the feast of freedom. Why is this night
different from all other nights? 

I peel white, clinging shells of eggs
smooth reminders of a burnt house of God – 
and they have killed the Sri Lankan family of God --
there is blood spattered on the house of God. 
They have killed. Teach me, 
teach me to ask. 

The cinnamon will seep into the honey, 
into the wine, into the apple, tonight. 
It will become one taste. 
The lemon has sharpened the chicken 
which sleeps in our fridge, browned like matzah. 
Redemption is something we prepare. 

Dry, browned bread of affliction arrives 
in large, pierced squares. Amanda stitches
white cloth napkins, hides matzah in glory 
just as white covers our own battered bodies, 
we are so far from Eden 

yet so close to Paradise tonight. 

is a single thing current?

when the moment has

passed through to the present past

Who could have known when I boarded 

this tin can, barely beyond babe, what lay ahead?

How could I have known that map-study, 

though sincere, was still only basic?

Good was my faith, yet naive my foresight,

the day I pushed off shore, and married the current.

I thought that river to sea was good science, 

but now I see how Solomon knew it’s a cycle. 

Déjà vu, I’ve seen this before in my dreams, or 

maybe I’m back here again, a little deeper, a little faster. 

Am I even on a river journey?

Or paddling in a toilet bowl, striving against the swell

and suck of the current I married in good faith?

there is something perishable
in love, devotion;
it spoils in disuse or cache
as manna rots 'neath moonbeams

yesterday's bread will not suffice
the sundial stares us down each dawn
"all must be new or not at all"

From Maaike:

      *Passover – or Pesach – is one of the feasts commanded by God in the Torah to the people of Israel. Each year, everyone at the Passover Feast relives the Exodus departure of Israel out of Egypt, from slavery to freedom. Since Jesus Christ celebrated the Passover and then was crucified at the hour the Lambs were sacrificed in the Temple, Messianic Jews and some Christians celebrate Passover every year, remembering Jesus’ fulfillment of it. The story is told through specific foods on your plate, and the whole night is carried by questions such as, “Why is this night different than all other nights?” 
     The prompt 'current' inspired this poem on two levels. First, Passover was currently happening while I was thinking about the prompt. But it also has a deeper meaning - since my family annually celebrates the Passover feast, it has become a story that cycles around every year, and every year it shapes my own story just a little more. Yearly rituals like this feel like the current that carries a river (life) along, bringing us always a little closer to home. 

From Heather S: 

Some life decisions turn out to be watershed moments. You make a commitment in good faith, but with little comprehension of the irreversibly life-changing consequences of a single, seemingly limited decision. You wouldn’t have had the courage to start the journey if you’d have known you were doing so, but alas. It turns out, you can’t un-see the world once you’ve seen it. You can’t undo its effects on you, either. You thought you were just committing to spending a college break washing dishes in a Hungarian nursing home. Instead, you stepped onto an international flight and married a timeless global current. And nine years later you’re still trying to keep your head above the water!

From Timothy Reed:

     In the aviation industry, one of the first and most important questions to ask is "Is this information/guidance current?" I wrote several poems thinking about current in terms of motion and water, but wasn't satisfied with my expression of those concepts. One morning, I was thinking about love and devotion and how they are destroyed through stagnation and must therefore be daily renewed. The need for the currency of "daily bread" refers not only to our reliance on God's provision, but also what we must daily bring to that relationship. We also must daily renew love and devotion for those around us, else we are creating only a sentimental façade of commitment. 

(untitled)

(untitled)
by Timothy Reed 

I pledged my blood to his,
and he walked
and he bled

and we have walked
and we have bled
together,

our feet
painting the path
to Golgotha.

But hasn't man always climbed mountains
to be with God? 

Pupils

Pupils
by Timothy Reed


my eyes creak and groan under
the weight of such sight
they stretch to take it in. 

little red cracks in the glass
point to a stormy sea
then inky blackness, fathom upon fathom.

where sight lacks,
words are rolled thin and milky
as paper, sheet upon sheet.

pupils, be pupils
dilate, don't dilute
what you have seen, what you see.



_______________________


"The assumed knowledge of a thing often disrupts the perception of a thing." 

This thought is heavy on my mind lately. I've been thinking about writing and wanting to achieve a more powerful degree of abstraction in poetry. Rather than trying to re-frame life in symbols, I want to see it as a series of symbols and metaphors and to simply use words to capture that sight. That is the weight of sight, and why my eyes "creak and groan", as they try to expand to see more deeply. Also included is the idea that when we don't see things clearly, words multiply "sheet upon sheet". We are hooked on particulars and haven't yet achieved essence. 

"Words, bear witness - don't fabricate (you are not the weavers)."

Summer Storm

Summer Storm
by Timothy Reed

the hours arranged themselves in bookcases 
while the clouds sat overhead like grease in a pot
thoughts, a medley of feverish flotsam and jetsam
eat, eat until I am full to bursting
but the day would not relent
Summer Storm is upon us, it seeps up from the deep

all the light things, airy things, press us down into the blaze
Summer Storm, Summer Storm. 
if we had the kindness of soil below us, we would have hidden 
we stew down, every substance divorced, every issue separated
we become hundreds of ourself, splitting and splitting 
laid out on black iron, haphazardly 

whipping wind and whippoorwill draw us up to the tempest
but only in eddies - they smack of inevitable return
Summer Storm, Summer Storm
Storm on, but I pray for any other season





________________________





This poem is a juxtaposition of a summer thunderstorm and a stew-pot. The subject of the poem finds themselves with their heart and mind stretched between the two, squeezed and dissected by internal and external analysis, issues, convictions, & controversies. In short, it is the turning of a soul upon itself as it wrestles with the core issues of life. 

SBS Poet Circle Presents: Diary of a Snakebite Death

DIARY OF A SNAKEBITE DEATH 

The first prompt we decided to tackle was this simple, but dramatic phrase. This prompt originated in a historical event in 1957, when Dr. Karl P. Schmidt was fatally bitten by a Boomslang snake. Knowing he was beyond the reach of available medical care, he catalogued in great detail his experience until he lost consciousness and died. Our poets all watched a video on this event (or were familiar with the details) and independently wrote poems from this prompt. We hope you enjoy our look at “Diary of a Snakebite Death” as a springboard for deeper, parallel and divergent thought. 

in a diary of a man
before light split his eyes:
(see below)

in the darkness of her womb
in a half-remembered dream
before steps were taken
‘ere he could even scheme

no cage nor bar
no arm nor wing
could, to safety, pledge
could, to purity, cling

as wee babe, swaddled 
midst warmth and goodwill 
was soon given
above all, meanest skill

the snake, he was there 
his fangs he did bare

venom seeps through 
fleshy rope to

his belly

and that babe became a lad
and that lad became a man
and that man, for all his merit
for philanthropy, for every plan

walked among us, blind, dead
unable to purge poison from blood
unable to hold flesh on bone
his mind a graveyard, his heart - mud

until the day light split his eyes 
broke snakebite, apple-bite
as he entered another womb - tomb 
and gave up vein fight

and gained blood, light, life

diary of a snakebite death
(turn page)

N.
maybe betrayal is as beauty
the answer unveils the beholder’s soul 
not the beheld

O.
just once her eye chances to linger
the glance cracks open the window for longing 
to slip in, sliding down to her soul like a finger

I.
who knew venom dressed in scales?
or that one bite would untether her
who knew the heart’s reach for beauty fails?
or that passion and longing would weather and wreck her

T.
imagination sprung, her mouth begins to water
a deep inhale. Desire,
raw as the hanging fruit, dear as an unborn daughter 
kindles a fire

C.
the pounding of her heart is a hammer to a bell
hearkening back to a word she once knew, and once knew well 
just one word from a voice that was dear
just one word could direct passion, paint things clear

E.
mystery beckons, her mind begins to wonder 
it sweeps open the door

R.
and venom untethered bites her
after all, her heart looks beautiful scaled 
passion and longing right her
where all external compasses failed

R.
fast forward five thousand years
ocean-going folk sing of the lure of far off lands, 
flirt with danger, sail open seas

U.
she lives the meaning of these songs, understands 
oceans are but inner tsunamis

S.
in a world of black and white
at least the thunderstorm is painted blue
at least it summons swords of fire, nostalgic sight 
at least in a world of restrictions
the waters tear down
all walls, all walls

E.
yet each crash carries
craving
for divine eyes and hands, 
the beautiful land lost

R.

beating blood 
pushed through 
the entirety of 
my being
—
punctured, the 
poison penetrated 
the heart of each 
premature person
—
silent secret
sin seeped 
through
the soul
—
the only antidote is the savior.

The Scientist felt the rush
as passion gave way to realization. 
The year? 1957.
The occasion? He’d been bitten.

Desire to know, to experience—it began his end. 
Ever the Scientist, he recorded what famously 
became known as Diary of A Snakebite Death.

Mother Eve knew the feeling.
Desire to know, to experience—it began her end, too. 
Venom creeping, her countdown began.
She accepted her reward
and quietly left the Garden.

To be like God.
To know, experience.

Her final recorded words:
“I have acquired a man with God!”

To co-create with ADONAI. 
To marry Passion with Wisdom, 
the eternal Tree of Life.

Despite herself she became 
the Mother of All Who Live.

To humbly number my days 
and generate for others 
what I myself cannot keep.

I am my mother’s daughter. 
May I be my mother’s daughter.

from Maaike:

This poem is an exploration of the dramatic disordering of body, soul and spirit for our mother Eve, and the thought that the enmity between serpent and woman lived on in desire.

The last “diary entry” is left open and unfinished. The letters retrace to spell ‘Resurrection’. There is an old Jewish idea that by bearing suffering and exile, the Jewish people will repent their way back into the Garden. This poem plays on that idea. In the first Garden, Eve chose to listen to desire over the voice of God. In the moment of resurrection, the enemy of Eve is crushed and Mary hears the voice of God again.



More info on the Slowly But Slowly Poet Circle

Slowly But Slowly Poet Circle

Welcome to the dawn of a new and exciting creative project - the Slowly But Slowly Poet Circle! 

The Slowly But Slowly Poet Circle is a project to explore associations and stylistic variance among faith-inspired poets. For each poem series, the poets are exposed to a common prompt - a word or phrase - and then allowed to write their own poem in isolation from one another, to help prevent influencing each other during the creative process. Afterwards, they all compare their art and publish the result. The goal is to compare and contrast different thinkers and promote more careful and faith-infused thinking in the public through their poems.

Stay tuned for our upcoming project: Diary of a Snakebite Death.

Our Poets:

Timothy Reed - Timothy hails from the place where intuition and reason overlap, driven by the questions of life, embracing both the pain and the joy of the human experience. As the creator and host of the Slowly But Slowly Poet Circle, he hopes to provide thought-provoking content as a challenge and an inspiration to whoever may read this unique poetry.

Maaike -Maaike is Dutch-Canadian and grew up in East Africa. She is pursuing studies in World Arts, and sporadically experiments with words on her blog at: www.shoutofjoy.wordpress.com

bethany rené -  bethany rené is a twenty-something who consistently walks in the tension of the fight for life and the favor of God. her words are like brushes initiating strokes of paint to the illustration of that very journey. yoshi and several plants call bethany "mom". she often spends her saturdays with many friends and cups of coffee. you can find her over on instagram at @withfavorandfight or withfavorandfight.com

Heather S. - Heather S. has chosen to live/love among the brokenness of the world (particularly migration and war) and has drunk bitter tears herself along the way. Poetry, she’s found, has the astounding capacity to hold the tension of reality, allowing neither escape nor denial, yet giving voice. She concludes in one of her poems, “The Poet writes the mysteries and the mysteries write her, too. She eats them and she eats Him—and in writing, at last, she enters His rest.”

Parentheses

Parentheses
by Timothy Reed



"I am... content... in this season." 


"I am

(learning to be)

content

(during the parentheses)

 in this season."

Spice Trade

Spice Trade
by Timothy Reed

they say I am to voyage
and that explains
the way my roots have been cut
my leaves stripped
my stems tied

I feel myself shrivel from inside
a spice
a grain
a husk

I am pickled, preserved
I breathe ether
in salt, vinegar, water


and the dark, rocking parenthesis around me -
the dull hope that throbs through dying veins

once I die and we make port
perhaps I am the spice the new world lacks

Atlantic Taunt

Atlantic Taunt
by Timothy Reed

Go on, chirp at me
cricket in a jar
why do you let yourself be tamed so?
Atlantic, Atlantic

why, even a Pacific harbor
Speaks more dread 
than your shoreline

I see your gulls
have adopted your lethargy
as they glide voicelessly
o’er your placid face

If you hadn’t learned to
farm out your fear
to another face, that evil eye
you would surely have been forgotten

when did you give up your fire, 
water?

I can hardly even smell your breath

Terrible Strength

Terrible Strength
by Timothy Reed


it is a terrible strength
when a soldier's heart
shrinks not for blood and fire

it is a terrible strength
when, after stillbirth,
a mother's eyes grow drier

it is a terrible strength
when we part again
sans tears or ire

it is a terrible strength

yes, terrible.
but strong.

Hindsight

Hindsight
by Timothy Reed


"hindsight is twenty-twenty"

but memory is a Cubist
that cannot record fact
without interpretation

Dali's clock melts for, of course,
time has lost its good name

Hindsight is something,
but the perfection of memory
has betrayed us.

the facade has fallen.
tidy Grecian lines
give way to tangled ink
fubsy, basal fingerprints

time, life, the mind
favor those who begin again

He 

favors those who 
trust, trust, trust

Monochrome

Monochrome

by Timothy Reed

I am surveilled by

dour dames and dukes

(self-ascribed titles)

forever an alien -

societal, perpetual peasant

wondering when life 

was stripped of color,

flavor,

and why thirst for these qualities

has made me a pariah

Yet....

I will not beg monochrome bread.

Let me die an urchin

but a lover of life,

and spite that shell of mankind

entombed in pristine manors

dining on preserved dreams

(dry as bones)

and diluted, dishwasher tea

Eden

Eden 

by Timothy Reed

to say we live is a farce.

we wait with borrowed breath

a stone's throw from Eden

Thought-paths

Thought-paths

by Timothy Reed

“Say what you’re thinking “

But how could I?

Now miles stretch long

and cliff-hands drag paths

Down, down, down

dead ends and detours. 

cliffs may as well be kings

Distance ever grows

Between head and heart

my mouth is a faraway moon

destinations are not always intended.

There. I said it.