[For Jade, my bartender. For TR, my guide. For Becca, my companion. For Mary, because she’s just awesome. And to be clear, I know I’m one of the bodies in this poem too.]
Bodies thirsty for love, not yet
Aware of the fountain within,
Reach for it, again and again.
(Lay out under the stars tonight on my balcony. Watched Sirius shine like a crazy diamond. Here’s hoping we all get our chance to shine so.)
Seeing past the
Time it takes to
Arrive where love
Really can shine.
How embarrassing. Here I am thinking I’m all cool and inventing a new poetic form with my “acrostic” poetry only to find out. Nope. It’s an established form. 😳
I was even thinking I would need to come up with a different name for it, since I was associating the word “acrostic” with crossword puzzles. 😆
Guess one should check into these things. Nothing new under the sun and all that.
Anyway, at least I can put my mind at ease and just keep calling my poetry what it is. Acrostic poetry.
Only the most
Pride in saying
[ And this one is for tripleclicka’s rat. 🙂 ]
Happiness can appear in
All shapes and sizes if you
Let it enter your life with an
Open heart and open hands.
When the flood of
All your experience
Inundates you, let
Time carry you on.
(Favorite thing to do on WordPress, I think, is riff on others’ stuff. Guess I must be a bit of a jazz poet. This one draws on leaf and twig’s post for inspiration.)
Never mind what
One day might be—
Part of me wants to be moved by this post. It’s beautifully, honestly and powerfully written. Poignant, I suppose, would be the word I’m looking for.
But more of me knows: that’s someone else’s story now.
I grew up on Jesus. I loved him passionately. I “asked him into my heart” so many times. Wrote passionate poetry about his loving sacrifice.
But I was in love with Prince Charming. In love with Robin Hood. In love with King Arthur. In love with a legend.
There was a rabbi named Yeshua. He hailed from Naṣrath. He taught about love and compassion. He was a little crazy. Most people who are so willing to defy social conformity are. I don’t know why exactly the Romans crucified him. I have a story in my mind these days of him willingly giving himself up so that they wouldn’t execute his followers, including the woman he loved. A human story. I like it. Maybe I’ll write it down someday. It would be fiction, though, and I wouldn’t suggest anyone “believe” in it.
Easter is coming, and the word should stop Christians in their tracks. You’re about to celebrate a pagan holiday. I have no problem with that myself, these days. It’s all about life to me. Life on Earth. Life in the Solar System. The cycles we experience here. The changing of the seasons. Going from the bleakness of winter to the vibrancy of spring (here in the northern hemisphere, that is).
Stories. We tell ourselves stories. Stories are awesome. Stories can change lives. Stories make life more than just biology.
Jesus is a story. One that has changed greatly over the centuries. One that has undergone so much political reshaping as to be impossible to trace back to historical fact.
Celebrate Jesus this Easter if that is the story that teaches you to embrace life, to forgive self and others, to find ways to hope and go on in the face of suffering.
That is just not my story anymore.