Day 12: Lovers' Quarrel

Lovers' Quarrel 

by Timothy Reed 

In starry cottage robbed of balance

‘ere the dawn of firstborn day

two lovers split and promptly severed

left their home and parted way.

By the burning light she smolders

in her silent rage she bakes 

cakes from gardens, blackened forests — 

steals the shimmer from the lakes.

In the evening glow she softens

as her sorrow blends with care. 

As she ponders past offenses,

breathing frost into the air.

He grabs his pail and gets up early

with yellow boots and whistling birds;

tries to bury seeds of sorrow 

‘neath the dirt and ‘neath the words.

Things he said and left unspoken,

memories stacked in hay-bales, grey. 

He spills his pail in torrents streaming, 

sets a match to end of day. 

Still they fight, and still they suffer

o’er our sorrow-torn landscape

bringing good and bad together

in their lovers’-quarrel wake.

We sit beneath them, sit beside them

in each dire situation

as we look on earth together

longing for their re-creation.

_____________________

The challenge today was to imagine the seasons as people and to write about how they feel. Since I've spent a good portion of time in the tropics, I tend to think of two seasons rather than four. Both seasons have things harsh and gentle about them. Consequently, since there are two seasons, I personified them as a fighting couple. They are farmers, meant to tend the earth. Now, in the excess of their sorrow and anger, they unintentionally harm the very earth of which they were given to take care. This certainly describes the seasons, but also our relationships and the natural effects and progression of grief and broken relationship. 

Day 11: Transition

 

*Take the third line from your last 14 text messages sent and arrange them into a contemporary sonnet.

Transitions 

by Timothy Reed

When do you guys want to get together?

 It was complicated because we were still settling in.

It looks like they're still in process there in Anapolis.

(this was too funny not to share from Facebook)

No, I’m not familiar with those terms - are they indigenous people groups?

I’m going to put him down for his nap

(Hope it gets fixed faster than the wall.)

Never knew you’d get me to wax philosophical over dessert did you?

Would you guys like a cucumber, green pepper, and gluten free bread?

They live in our building and are also taking language classes at interclass

Imagino que está fase de adaptação é difícil.

Nada com o zelador?

O técnico veio aqui… o ventilador na máquina é quebrado. 

Comunicação sempre e trabalho duro, neh?

Day 10: Sonho de Creme

 

Sonho de Creme

by Timothy Reed 

the first thing is the sugar,

powdered and forward-facing

reminding me of the church 

parking lot, waiting for my dad

to finish talking to his friends. 

If only I had known then 

how quickly powdered sugar dissolves. 

a rich fluffy canvas

like that house on San Luis,

plain but familiar, warm. 

the knowledge comes late

that it could have

just as easily been

bitter, sour, or burnt. 

Finally, a sweet vanilla cream —

not oversweet. The reality of 

a Crayola sunset in lieu

glass-slipper promises, false. 

Something true and unspeakable

in the pleasure of that flavor

put in layaway by my 5-year-old self 

to be rediscovered here

in the least-likely of places. 

Desserts are more difficult

to recognize now. 

Day 9: Equatorial Spring

 

Equatorial Spring

by Timothy Reed

earth has grown fat

under the tutelage of tilt

as continents lean close

for a sun-kiss and hope

springs eternal near the equator -

unbridled life breaking through.

You don't need winter

to appreciate spring

but it does help the ray

shine more sweetly,

and makes each wet

drop more benevolent. 

Day 8: Kinetic (30 days of poetry challenge)

 

Kinetic

by Timothy Reed

years of covenant are 

counted out in hours, 

minutes, and seconds

each pendulum swing

starts at faithfulness,

ends at sacrifice, and 

has passion at dead center

love is kinetic.  

Day 7: Glen Arbor (30 days of poetry challenge)

 

Glen Arbor

by Timothy Reed

Landlocked in a sea of green

who would ever have known your treasure

- you had kept your secrets from us

you taught us the constant beauty that

underneath, regardless of winter's chill

you wait to be born with the kiss of spring

we strolled through your streets

young, frustrated, contented, longing

as you tried to exert your motherly care

on our wait-weighted souls

Louis Armstrong's trumpet swelled and burst 

through an artisan's open garage

as clay took shape - made meaning from mud

your dot on the map there on M-22

reminds me of all buried gemstones

unseen and forgotten, but precious. 

Day 6: Maxine (30 days of poetry challenge)

Maxine

by Timothy Reed

a hand-me-down

perhaps once loved, but now

in this tank, out of sight

out of mind, out of reach. 

My only warmth: this red bulb.

My only home: this dome - calcified,

chocolate-brown and untouchable

by no fault of my own.

My conscience, lily-white, bears down 

upon the heart, late-turned tender

who cannot reach past 

the glass box of time. 

 

Day 5: Key to the Delta (30 days of poetry challenge)

 

Key to the Delta

by Timothy Reed

A mud-stumped green

boot of cheap rubber - 

my golden key to the delta;

kept the blood-suckers at bay

held fast my bone, crushed 'neath a tire. 

You cracked in the black puddles

of that tundra-heath in Marshall

and let in the sog, a torrent. 

_______

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"