Night Errands

 

Night Errands
by Timothy Reed

the trees are a sea tonight

and every hope asks

of me a dark shibboleth.

azure and astute, the sky

exacts its flesh-pound

even as I gaze -- sent on an errand

seeking an errant sock

Shift

Shift

by Timothy Reed

Blind plates grasp and grind
bluntly, blindly
gobs of fist in a hair-split world
tectonic histrionics 

contingent

 

contingent

by Tim Reed

I used to say
creativity is contingent on conflict
so why have I been so dry
when all that’s within is conflict? 
that critical pressure
on which I used to rely
and by which, let words fly
has failed me
and I’m left in the swirling mass
of my tangled thoughts and desires

maybe I can’t create because the fight 
is myself versus myself
like the blocked barrel of a gun backfires
like a car with a jammed tailpipe —
the explosions that used to propel
now just propagate pain and inaction
and maybe the reason I feel directionless
is because it’s hard to steer a stopped car

and I’m stuck in the reality 
of where I am, which is far from what I wanted
so far from where I’d imagined
and I’m so tired of sweeping up broken dreams
tired of tossing them in the street
to pave the way for those who actually
get there. 

if sweat equity could ever be enough
I’ve paid
I’ve paid 
I’ve paid
I’ve pleaded and plotted
and hustled and hurried
and just ended up filling bubbles and filing forms
sucking down the last drops of my naive determination
while I drag myself through this endless cycle

what I once thought was a mountain to climb
has been scaled by the roulette table for others
and here I am, adrift and sweating in drifts of snow
miles below the summit and wondering
if I could live with myself, even if I could make it back down
but I know I couldn’t
I never could
I never will
And maybe it’s a grace the snow covers those it’s killed
so I can’t see the wreckage of my cold companions
brought to ruin on this peak

I’m not looking for pity —
I’ve sampled enough of that delicacy
to know the platitudes and expressed gratitude
are just a panacea meant to pacify
this gnawing ache in my gut
but it burns and bubbles and is never satisfied
all I want to do is discover
why. 

But I’ve written for years 
that ends are not always clear
and maybe my job is to stop reaching so high
and just live in the moment
but it’s hard to understand why
and I feel so done with wrestling 
 the muscle-bound doubts of my own mind’s eye
that’s strained and stretched to see 
but maybe I’ve been blind. 

All I know is that simple peace and happiness,
which seems so easily grasped by others 
feels like the dark hole of burying my head in sand
And in such a small space it’s easy to see
but I can’t help but wonder if I was constructed differently
why contentment is such a challenge
I long for simplicity, but maybe it’s just because I’m so tired
of myself. 

I used to say 
creativity is contingent on conflict
so I hope that my pen reflects
the war-zone inside my head. 

Meier & Frank

Meier & Frank

by Timothy Reed

swirling magenta grass

and a gardenia sea-breeze

the sun glints on gilded edges

and the fake plants hold 

their leaves, dumb and blind

to the fluorescent bars

in this forest of mirrors and mannequins

you and I roam, expressing

knee and palm imperialism

searching the carpets

beachcombers looking for pins

__________________

I'll never forget going to the Meier & Frank department store as a young child, where my sister and I would roam around. We would marvel at the gaudy displays and overbearing perfume counters while searching the floor for straight-pins they used in the men's dress shirts. Those memories are as real and vivid to me as any other and take me back to some of the sweetness of my childhood years. 

SBSPC: "Glass" & New Members

"For presently we see through a glass in obscurity; but then, face to face. Presently, I know in part; but then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known." (I Cor 13:12)

glass. 

it reflects, refracts, splits, conceals, reveals

forms barriers or openings

cuts, restrains

or it can guide our eyes to the most beautiful of things

it can be colored or plain

transparent or opaque

shattered or whole

fragile or strong

I hope you enjoy our poets' reaction to the concept of glass. 

We have two new poets joining the circle this time:
 Kendra Fiddler
Amy Marshall

Trust
by Maaike


See in these hands
shards of an ocean, 
blue stabs, broken 
glass.

Nearness is a dagger
all I touch bleeds. 
My wounds beget 
wounds. 

Trust is suicide. 

He reaches, grasps tight
the Red Father cradles my blue. 
His tears fall, crystallized 
glass, 

each one a world that is 
whole. In His grip, plaster eyes
crack. Through the dust I see
you, 

my enemy of glass. 
but what is this 
red, 
red, 
red around us? 

wounded and wounder side by side
tears bathe shards,
blue runs into liquid rivers 
crystallizing in courage 

(still the Red Father sands 
the shattered self, 
polishes, smooths) 

Nearness is a promise
the ingathering of an ocean
fragments build a globe
of blue,

and trust is life. 

We are children of the King
encircled by a rainbow, 
enthroned by a sea of glass. 

Stained. 
by Timothy Reed

we espouse transparency –
if only fate were so kind
purpose is not always clear

garnet and amethyst 
emerald and aspen
(arsenic grants the richest hue)

the yellow king no longer reigns –
he must pay his admission as
fragmentation becomes 
the basis of beauty. 

Topsy turvy, topsy turvy.

As they behold the window,
they no longer wonder
what’s beyond.

Window 
by Amy Marshall 

You're near.
Right 
     on the other side 
     of the glass. 

Warm clouds obscure
I'm               holding breath – 
Hoping to see...

Can you see me? 

Finally gasp

  as The Light goes through it. 
Prismatic Hope

I can see

All of me is seen. 

Untitled
by bethany rené




the fragile glass heart

shattered, scattered, fragmented 

under weight of grace

Shattering Shadows
by Kendra Fiddler

Language—
one of too many
cloaks concealing 
the Divine.

Institution
an occultation,
a haze on the glass
into which we look,
bringing only
shadows.

Answers 
a distraction
impeding 
transformation,
keeping us all
clothed.

The forms empty,
the words mere form;
religion itself void
     of life.

Sanctuary too dimly lit,
     with too many curtains,
light ever veiled—
     glory always concealed.

What good is Scripture
     if God is not speaking?
What good is church  
     if God does not attend?

God tore the curtain
two thousand years ago
but institution stitched 
it shut again.

Hungering,
     aching,
          burning
with no one
     to unveil me—
          or Him.

(How can they 
introduce you
when they haven’t
met Him either?)

Thirsting for face to face
but seeing only mirrors
     and smoke,
curtains
     and thunder
unquenched,
     unsatiated,
          unfilled.

But reconversion
     pursued me.

God is uniquely present
in prisons of death
and darkness, even those
made of curtains
     or ourselves.
Suffering, the womb
     that incubates,
the blaze that purifies,
     that strips of self
     and calls forth love,
where glory spills,
     messy, over
     all things.

The dimness cleared,
     darkness lit
The forms were breathed 
     on, came to life;
The Words cut into me
     and I live, now, pierced. 

I’m asked,
How can you love Him 
     if you have not known Him—
ah, but how can you know Him
     unless you have loved Him?

With unveiled face,
I see the face 
behind the veil

and it is God
and me
and 
everyone.

Introduction to our new Poets: 

Kendra Fiddler: 

Kendra has just discovered the necessity of poetry in the last two years or so and is quickly making up for lost time, jotting down poems or parts thereof nearly every day. "From" is a slippery question that's difficult to answer for nomads, but she quickly belongs just about anywhere. She's currently pursuing graduate studies in comparative theology of the Abrahamic Religions.



Amy Marshall: 

Amy Opal Marshall is a globetrotting, mountain-climbing, coffee-drinking student of Christian theology and spiritual formation. She is passionate about the Church, singleness, and marginalized people. Her greatest aspiration is to love God with all that she is, to love all people, and to love all of Creation, so she’s living her days in that direction.

Amy occasionally shares poetry and other sorts of musings at abeautifulgrace.blogspot.com

(acceleration)

(acceleration)
by Timothy Reed



white mouse, black mouse
gnawing at the branch,
blend to grey, blend to grey
as we counter-rotate, accelerate

the day hastens - we need not ask











"There is an old Eastern fable about a traveler who is taken unawares on the steppes by a ferocious wild animal. In order to escape the beast the traveler hides in an empty well, but at the bottom of the well he sees a dragon with its jaws open, ready to devour him. The poor fellow does not dare to climb out because he is afraid of being eaten by the rapacious beast, neither does he dare drop to the bottom of the well for fear of being eaten by the dragon. So he seizes hold of a branch of a bush that is growing in the crevices of the well and clings on to it. His arms grow weak and he knows that he will soon have to resign himself to the death that awaits him on either side. Yet he still clings on, and while he is holding on to the branch he looks around and sees that two mice, one black and one white, are steadily working their way round the bush he is hanging from, gnawing away at it. Sooner or later they will eat through it and the branch will snap, and he will fall into the jaws of the dragon. The traveler sees this and knows that he will inevitably perish. But while he is still hanging there he sees some drops of honey on the leaves of the bush, stretches out his tongue and licks them. In the same way I am clinging to the tree of life, knowing full well that the dragon of death inevitably awaits me, ready to tear me to pieces, and I cannot understand how I have fallen into this torment. And I try licking the honey that once consoled me, but it no longer gives me pleasure. The white mouse and the black mouse – day and night – are gnawing at the branch from which I am hanging. I can see the dragon clearly and the honey no longer tastes sweet. I can see only one thing; the inescapable dragon and the mice, and I cannot tear my eyes away from them. And this is no fable but the truth, the truth that is irrefutable and intelligible to everyone." - Leo Tolstoy, "My Confession"