Category Archives: Poetry

More Art than Reason

I’m beginning to believe it is going to be art, not reason, that will save us. And by us I mean all of us.

Not a side, or tribe, or politic or country. But saved from the collective fear that has stolen our ideals of freedom, justice, equality, and most of all humans caring for one another.

If we were to accept that we have but one face, as children of God, then fear fades…like when you meet your first person of different color or religion or sexual preference and discover your coworker, fellow student, or friend-of-a-friend, retreatant or person sitting at the other end of your pew isn’t so bad, or different, after all.

One face that we all recognize as our own, and hopefully with the compassion and compass of more art than reason.

Roque Dalton’s “Like You”
A poem and a poet from El Salvador,
and shared by Hannah Atkins

Like you I
love love, life, the sweet smell
of things, the sky-
blue landscape of January days.

And my blood boils up
and I laugh through eyes
that have known the buds of tears.
I believe the world is beautiful
and that poetry, like bread, is for everyone.

And that my veins don’t end in me
but in the unanimous blood
of those who struggle for life,
love,
little things,
landscape and bread,
the poetry of everyone.

Wash me over with Love

Where dust and grime has collected under years of neglect,
not noticed
Wash me over with Love

Where too parched a land has cracked, deep crevices exposing
deeper pain
Wash me over with Love

Where withered limb bends low close to breaking, nearly touching
the shadow of itself
in separation
Wash me over with Love

Where imagination has all but dried up after too many disappointments in itself
and its reflection
Wash me over with Love

Where histories harden hearts thirsty for recognition
and re-writes
Wash me over with Love

Where storybook pages turn yellow and crackling brittle from
not being turned and read
Wash me over with Love

Where clay river bottoms draw dry, no longer with purpose
of transport or host to fishes
Wash me over with Love

Water always runs to its lowest level;
naturally seeking and serving
the driest and thirstiest of me.
It is the last place of puddle that is filled first
when it rains again.
Wash me over with Love

The Singular Now

Only in God’s Truth,
as revealed in
sacred time and measure,
and by God’s perfect Love,
may we find peace.

And in peace –
joy.

In joy –
energy and enthusiasm enough
to share with others.

In life with others –
remarkable reflections of Christ.

And with Christ –
compassion enough to embrace
living in the collective Love
of one Body.

Here –
in the truth of
the singular Now.

First Light

Snow at Pecos Pond © twyatt 2016Everyone knows snow is not blue,
but it is.

Every morning begins too early,
but not always.

Every day starts with an alarm,
but today I hear church bells
at first light.

And I remember from my dreams
to read John 3.

“Come to the light,
so that it may be clearly seen
that their deeds have been done in God.”

Please dear Father, help me carry your first light as my light to see what good you have created in this world, and in the people of your world. Cast out the darkness of my night so that I might walk into the day of your beauty, your earth, with your people, and yes, even of the bird and prey. By Your first light, let me see you in all.  Amen

Forgiven, forgotten

Sunlight stares downward the darkest of nights
Villains are fought on sloped landscapes of ice
External extremes meet with awkward embrace
Silent-still settles, silhouetted in grace

Morning enlivens the deadwood of sin
Seedlings are launched by the meadow’s soft wind
Locks of logic land on the altars of mutes
Instincts are tempered, then pulled up by their roots

Afternoon shadows deep decades of doubt
Fig trees are blooming past peril of drought
Inky clouds of witness rain truth on the known
Idol hearts are frozen, then captured in stone.

Mellifluous moonlight spates decay of souls
Stratum of histories casts layers and folds
Faithful foretelling rise by sword in the spring
Visions birthed as a child, but dreamt by a King

Starlight is flooding the driest of tears
Crimson drapes hang in the chamber of fears
Swaddling transfigures to impermanent shroud
Seasons of sins forgiven, forgotten now.