Day 4: August Flight (30 days of poetry challenge)

 

August Flight

by Timothy Reed 

wax wings 'neath molten honey

we squished along in the muck and grime

of an August breeze, malicious. 

Some sweetgum and hickories

approach for a wet-smack kiss

I, suddenly anxious, dive for the underbrush. 

_______

Day 3: Care-Keeper (30 day poetry challenge)

Care-Keeper

by Timothy Reed

A muffled cry on eggshell air

pressing down; holds fast the earth.

My empty vault of words to spare

but just two arms for what they're worth.

Two arms like time's arms, growing fat;

they jumped and spun, began to win

with my arms bound and tongue held fast

I watched you shrink with spirit thin

as winter marched in hot July

and ate you up with victor's cry

He spat you out one dark-filled night

but didn't weigh the acorn's might. 

I carried that husk on in me

and only by great pains did it shrink

at last I had made some small room free

to add a new aim: a golden link.

A lily upon the time-worn grave

of my old charge, my old dear care

fully of memories strong-clinging to air.

Suddenly a new start, 

new and fresh to daily learn - 

my new subject, love's dark burn

and I became a better man

for every blood-drop shed, hard-changed plans

and then a third, a nursery

and all my captive fears set free.

They learned to fly and daily make

my heart a warmer home of peace

when freed from brazen fear and take

heart, that as a steward I earn my keep. 

_____________

*form roughly based on Sylvia Plath's "Family Reunion"

Day 2: My Frying Pan (30 day poetry challenge)

My Frying Pan
by Timothy Reed


Rather than babbling bygone tropes
being fast-held by aged convention,
I’ll just come out and say it:
Home is where my frying pan is,
the locus of daily bread.

As I cut, chop, simmer, and sauté sense
out of the daily aches and pains.
On busy days, it may as well be a symphony,
a saga, or a Sistine Chapel -
each flip of meat and veggies an ode to pointillism

as I realize that life is always a mosaic
(and home too, for that matter)
of moments, good and bad,
shared food, a table full
and you don’t have to like it all.

Day 1: Pixelated Dawn (30 day poetry challenge)

Pixelated Dawn
by Timothy Reed 



pixelated dawn
we lag as all stars upload
virtual, separate

Goshen

 

Goshen 

by Timothy Reed

Oh thee of green-gilt hills,

of rain and fecund flock. 

Goshen: my home, my own.

Goshen: my home, unowned.

Oh thee of promise bright, 

of cheer and laugh and sun.

Of dancing sons and full-bright moon

of firstborn right and nation’s boon.

Oh thee of slavery’s sweat,

of blood and mud and grit. 

Goshen: my home, my own.

Goshen, “my home” I groan. 

Oh thee of much-spent years, 

oh thee of endless tears. 

Goshen: my home, alone. 

Goshen: my home. 

To thee of strawless brick

To thee of souls made sick.

Of Nile red and moonlight dead —

Goshen. 

Oh thee of my slain son!

Of mothers’ gutted cries!

Goshen! 

Goshen, ’tis thine own speech

of darkened years and plans 

that struck our blighted ears,

that penned our blackest fears. 

Goshen: my home, my own.

Goshen: my home, disowned.

 

Oh thee of gleaming eye,

of myrrh and glinting gold.

I’ll pluck that sight 

one God-knit night

And leave thee all alone.

Goshen. 

Contra Collins

 

Contra Collins

by Timothy Reed

I once read a poet

who always spoke of sleeping

back to back with his wife,

and I envied

that sort of stable sleep. 

Clearly he had a cardigan comforter

and was at home in his skin -- 

and I envied. 

Seems I sleep in all sorts of 

weird geometry, sometimes near

sometimes far - getting an existential crick.

My vertebrae seizing and clenching -- 

their own protest agains the draconian 

confines of my skin. 

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"

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?