a digital commonplace book
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
My apologies to you if you drive a Cybertruck. But even you have to acknowledge that your “truck” is an acquired taste… at best.
I was driving with someone far more circumspect than me the last time we were overtaken by a Cybertruck. I was moved to write this poem by her unusually frank reaction to the passing monstrosity.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Here’s a weird one, I know. It popped out of my mind as I listened to a haunting rendition of “Love Story” on trombone. I’ll not ruin music for you by spelling out the connection between what I heard and what I then wrote.
How can I defend writing something so strange? Well, I’ve noticed over the years that when I’m sitting under even the best teachers, I sometimes articulate questions that wake up my fellow listeners. It’s funny: I’ll ask a question, and two or three minutes later, someone else—who was asleep—asks the same question, as their mind clicks into action. When YOU read this poem, does it awaken anything finicky or easily grossed-out in your psyche? Perhaps you can then share my reliance on a patient, understanding Creator—a Creator who clearly likes messy, slobbery MATTER.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
[I have written this up, but decided it’s unwise to post the full explanation at this time; suffice it to say that this belongs in my “After The Fire” collection]
In my poem, I leave the question hanging out there: who is recharging ME? An unanswered question makes some people feel uncomfortable. I’m sure the day of answers will come.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Susan had the living room of our temporary housing looking pretty spiffy until yesterday. That’s when she brought upwards of 16 boxes home from the remediation company warehouse. It’s stuff that ServPro hauled off after the fire. We’re going through it deciding what to keep and what to toss. I just went through a box of materials from back when I served a church with graphics and newsletter layout. That all seemed important for many years. Maybe it was. God knows. If it was, its importance will not be diminished or lost by my throwing away samples I retained until now.
As I do this, I think of people who lose EVERYTHING in a fire or other disaster. What a mind-bender that must be!
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
We’re being undone by a man and movement that ANYONE should recognize as unserious, undeserving, and unworthy of power. But, as Hamilton said, “The masses are _______.” Evil likes to think of itself as elegant, but even the Devil’s unitard is baggy. I’m asking ChatGPT to illustrate that…. Here you go:
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
I don’t set out to write seven-line stanzas. It just happens. How can I pretend to understand the mind of others, when I don’t understand my own? What I DO know is that selfishness and self-centeredness threaten any and all understanding of truth. God have mercy!
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
[sung to the tune of “Don’t You Dare Drop My Insurance Policy”]
Susan showed me something about our homeowner’s insurance that’s gonna have me feeling nervous until we figure out what’s going on. In this poem, think of the mountain climb as if it were buying a house at age 34 and paying for insurance 31 years before having to make a significant claim. Susan wants me to consider that the odd thing she showed me about the insurance may constitute a blessing. She may be right, but I’m Scottish, and penury is always just around the corner.
This poem will go in my “After The Fire” collection. The background photo is of a fire in the Sangre de Cristo range, which we witnessed on one of our mountain climbing trips.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Some of us have great friends we’ve never met in person. Others’ friends are strictly flesh and blood. My wife understands that writers sometimes develop friendships afar. She and I have one mutual friend who has corresponded with a famous writer (Philip Yancey) over the decades. Knowing that friend—and the writer—it isn’t surprising at all.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
The other day, I was in the living room of a friend. As we talked, I looked over at his bookshelves, and half of one shelf was devoted to books by the biographer William Manchester. Right in the middle was the three-volume biography of Winston Churchill, entitled, The Last Lion. That’s when I recalled with chagrin that I had mistakenly told someone recently about listening to the three-part “Last Lion of Manchester” (as though Churchill was from Manchester). I understand much of what I listen to or read, but accurately retain only a fraction of it. Despite this intellectual weakness, I feel compelled to write poetry, and harbor the fond hope of evoking important thoughts in others. It CAN happen, but only as God uses weak things to achieve powerful results.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
I like most cats, and squirrels are fine when they’re not in the road. But condescending cats who like to lecture… I can do without their goad.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
One of the most challenging, seeming non-sequiturs in the Gospels occurs in John 12. Why did Jesus care that Greeks wished to meet with Him? Do we? Or are we just looking out for “OUR PEOPLE” (“us,” but especially ME, MYSELF, and I… the unholy trinity)?
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
This vague notion settled over me tonight as I lay listening to songs I heard in my youth. The songs haven’t changed, but I HAVE changed—AM changing—especially in response to troubles. Like I said, though… it’s a vague notion, a lot more hope than sight.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
I paused a YouTube video to express this response. The psychologist in the video was talking about a certain malignant narcissist who threw rocks at babies when he was 10 years old. The psychologist lamented that there is no hope for the malignant narcissist, that one never outgrows that disorder.
No disrespect to mushrooms…. It was just the image that came to mind while I was watching the video. Probably for two reasons: 1) I associate degeneracy with fungi and 2) mushrooms have the general shape of miniature trees, but can never “grow up” to serve as trees serve.
ChatGPT obliged me with a background image (one prompt and three refinements).
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
This poem took a dark turn when I rearranged lines in the third stanza. That’s when I changed the title from “Indifference” to its current title.
On a positive note…. One of my greatest frustrations in the months before I got cataract surgery was an inability to clearly see little flowers at my feet when I went for walks. Now, I can see them clearly. And I’m still undignified enough—and limber enough—to lie down on the ground for close-up photos of the little flowers. Better ON the ground than IN the ground. Better now than later.
A BONUS CONFESSION
Let’s be honest: for every single thing I notice and appreciate in God’s creation, there are trillions of other things I take for granted. I’m as guilty of indifference as anyone else. That’s being honest. But here’s a vile habit I have; perhaps you recognize it in yourself: I find one small instance of goodness in myself (e.g., appreciating small flowers) and then I look around to see how that instance is not widely shared or practiced by humanity. Why make the comparison? To elevate myself, of course!
That’s my confession. Do you forgive me?
SPEAKING OF PERVERSITY
I’m hyper aware of ambiguity. Sometimes that gets in the way of normal conversations. But it’s part of what I enjoy in writing poetry. Ambiguous words and phrases raise questions that nudge the brain off its timeworn trail.
Take, for instance, “they” in the last line of the second stanza. Does “they” refer to the people who do not appreciate the flowers, or to the flowers themselves? Which dies?
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
I know this will put me at odds with some friends and family. But who, better than these comedians, is telling the truth about the infantile idiocy in Washington? Prophets, poets, comedians… we have the same duty.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
This poem was inspired by the Trump administration’s machinations to get Jimmy Kimmel suspended from his late night talk show.
Lines 7 & 8 are a deliciously ambiguous part of this protest.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
This poem explores implications of John Walton’s view of the “rule and subdue” mandate in the Genesis creation account. Here’s his view (from what seems like a good AI summary): “For Walton, therefore, the ‘rule and subdue’ mandate is humanity’s active participation in God’s ongoing work of bringing and maintaining order. The world is not ours to dominate, but God’s cosmic temple to be managed on his behalf.”
I like Walton’s attempt, but I’m having trouble understanding how man could be expected to bring any meaningful degree of further order to Earth, much less to the cosmos.
I suspect that Walton’s understanding of “rule and subdue” (as meaning “bring order”) leans heavily on his understanding of the context. On the other hand, I haven’t studied the Hebrew words in other contexts, so my suspicion is pretty flimsy.
When I posted the poem, two of my more savvy friends commented:
What if dominion isn’t as controlling as we like to think, but rather tending to the unique natural beauty, form, and function of God’s beautiful world. Prune here. Clear there. Thin elsewhere, taking part in how it’s shaped.
(This, of course, could apply to every sphere of authority.)
–Laurie Pearce Mathers
I agree. I think the best word is “stewardship.” And yes, our ability to steward well is surely hampered by the fall, but also, I hope, helped by the ongoing work of redemption.
Christine Renee Hand Jones
GETTING PERSONAL
My interest in this subject isn’t just academic. We’re living in an apartment right now while our house is being restored after a fire broke out because a dying pecan tree dropped a limb on the electrical service. One could say I was negligent, since that pecan had dropped all its leaves. I could push back that the tree dropped all its leaves in the summer of a previous year and then roared back to life the following year, so I did not KNOW for sure that it was dying. But a look around the back yard would confirm that I am not the neat freak I once was. There is more disorder there than I’d have allowed when I was younger. Without going into details, I’m going to chalk that up to the down side of some healthy developments in my life. Put simply, I’m a recovering perfectionist. Order isn’t as important to me now as it used to be.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
I have held off on posting this poem for two months now. When I wrote it, I was angry that 27 campers and counselors needlessly died when their Christian camp on the Guadalupe River was inundated by flood waters. I had watched news coverage and recognized flooding that happens frequently and predictably in that area of Texas. This time, the death toll rose to 135.
I have watched the response, and learned that people in the area have repeatedly refused to implement measures that would save lives. Now there’s lots of talk. State government has taken preliminary measures. Will anything change? I doubt it.
(background image by SonnyLeroy on Pixabay)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Lately, in reading the Bible and its interpreters, I have felt the need to better perceive God’s patterns of provision. In the big picture I hope to find strength for the grind of this day’s particulars.
(the background image is from a hike between Breckenridge and Frisco in Colorado)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
I sometimes joke that I’m a “wooden-headed literalist.” Well, the more I write poetry, and the more I examine myself, the more serious I get in this self-deprecation.
Lately, I have been considering the work of John Walton (Old Testament scholar and Professor Emeritus at Wheaton College). There may be others who have tried to account for metaphor in Genesis, but Walton’s is the first serious attempt that I have encountered. The hamster wheel in my cranium is spinning wildly—and wobbly—as I think through his propositions.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
The other morning, while I was driving to work and listening to NPR, I had a bad reaction to some fantasy. An author of children’s books began reading his latest work, and it was too full of names for my liking. In protest–to nobody listening–I blurted out “In the Kingdom of Whoop-de-doo….” Then and there, I knew I had just saddled myself with writing a poem. It has taken several days. How was I going to get myself out of this? With one last night’s sleep, I figured out how to bring it to a swift and merciful end. So here you go.
(background image by Osman Zöllner on Pixabay)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
I hope that before reading this background, you will make sure you have entered the scene. Let your imagination picture my companion, Reality, and his reluctance to be clothed in metaphor.
I wrote this poem after reading various versions of Psalm 73:16-20. There must be some translation difficulties in this passage…. In the Modern English Version, verse 20 goes “Like a dream when one awakes, O Lord, when awakened, You will despise their image.” What if this translation is correct? What if Asaph really wanted to picture God having a nightmare but then waking up and scorning the characters in His nightmare?
“Oh no! Absolutely NOT,” a voice in my head insists. “God does not sleep. The Bible tells me so.” And I can imagine others–maybe you–saying the same thing. We limit how the poet is allowed to picture God. It must jibe with our systematic theology. Increasingly, I see this as a stilted and mistaken approach to understanding God’s words.
(AI-generated background image by Judas on Pixabay)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
At this rate, my first chapbook will be titled “After The Fire.” The last time I lived in an apartment was 1983. It takes getting used to. And it’s prompting some poetry!
(background image by Alexa on Pixabay)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
A more autobiographical poem has never been written. Like most of my white on black poems, this is the product of a dark night. It’s this simple: either in the middle of a sleepless night, or when I give up sleeping before dawn, I write a poem. My phone (where I write poems) is still in dark mode. That means white text on a black background. Sometimes I just do a screen capture and post. Other times, I recreate the effect in an editing program. The dark scheme seems appropriate.
Autobiographical
This is one of the poems I wrote after a branch fell on our electrical service and caused a fire in our house. You can probably see the connection to that in the poem. But there are other things that I have to give up as I grow in wisdom and humility. That’s what I mean by “bodies of all sorts.”
The accuracy of the last stanza is debatable, but worth contemplating.
Here’s a picture of one of our actual old trees. Later this week, we’re meeting with an arborist to talk about that tree’s future.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
This poem has been percolating for several days. It addresses my growing recognition that poetry is physical, not just intellectual. That means two things:
1) the POET must choose words and rhythms that are fun, pleasing, or soothing to read out loud.
2) the poetry READER must be enticed to read the words out loud; sub-vocalization works for some, but it’s not ideal.
A Little More
I think I’m making a little progress in #1 from above. It’s a bit like long-distance running. You run for weeks and months and then one day you seem to have found a new gear. It may not show up in times; you may not win more races. But you definitely feel it. In the case of poetry, your brain just lands more easily on choice words, phrases, and metaphors.
In case it didn’t occur to you, “carry food to upper floors” in the second stanza is a picture of writing for the mind only, a merely intellectual exercise. It parallels “tickle only the brain” in the first stanza.
So, do you read poetry out loud? Did my poem encourage you to keep at it?
For some related poems, put “Dancing” in the “Search This Site” tab.
(the background image is from https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Mathiss_-Hallwylska_museet-_87002.tif)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
The view out the living room window of our temporary housing* is parked cars, the pavement, other apartments, and above it all a hint of sky. This is my view as today’s reading takes me to the pastoral scene of young David—ruddy, with beautiful eyes, and a handsome appearance (1 Samuel 16:12). I can imagine him walking in soft meadows, cajoling the sheep, and strumming his harp. I can imagine the scene because I have been there—as a child in Mexico and as a man in the alpine meadows of Colorado mountains. THAT is my Father’s world. Not this.
“DIMENSION”
Here I am playing with an idea that intrigues me. One prominent proponent of the idea is the Anglican theologian N.T. Wright. From an AI Overview:
N.T. Wright proposes that heaven and earth are not two separate locations, but rather two different dimensions of God’s creation. He suggests that heaven is not a distant realm to escape to, but rather an aspect of our present reality, the “God-dimension” that is interwoven with our earthly existence. The biblical vision, according to Wright, is the restoration of all things, with heaven and earth united in a new creation.
I don’t know enough about the concept and it strengths or weaknesses to say any more just yet. So I’ll leave it there….
___________
*this is another poem born of my experience living in temporary housing after our house fire earlier this month
(background image by Zdravko Shishmanov on Pixabay)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
I am trying to capture my thoughts and impressions of moving into temporary housing after our home of 31 years was partially destroyed by fire. One night in friends’ houses, three nights in the home of a vacationing church family, eleven nights in a hotel, and—finally—moving into an apartment for the months to come…. It’s a recipe for broiled impermanence, for a taste of dwelling—but not indwelling.
Soon after we moved into the apartment, I reported maintenance issues to management. I had to wonder why the tenant who just moved out had not complained about an inoperable dishwasher, an obviously clogged dryer vent, and a stuck shower diverter. From the mail that continues flowing into the mailbox, I gather she was a young woman. Naturally, she would not have had the maintenance savvy and expectations of a 65-year-old homeowner. At my request, management jumped right on making repairs. In contrast, the young lady must have suffered in silence— living here, but barely.
Our relationship with dwellings can serve as a metaphor and extension of our relationship with solid, abiding truths. If we don’t inhabit them fully, they are vapid, meaningless, and empty.
THREE TRICKY THINGS IN THIS POEM:
1). The sixth line of the first stanza has a word—“ev’rything”—that is doing double duty. It’s the subject AND the object.
2). In the second stanza, I’m picturing the flat, minimally inhabited world as a magician’s flash paper. From an AI overview:
“Flash paper, also known as nitrocellulose paper, is a type of paper that burns quickly and completely, leaving behind no ash or residue. It’s primarily used by magicians for dramatic effects in performances.”
3). Conversations reveal one’s depth… or lack thereof. When a shallow person engages in serious conversation, their world is revealed to be as insubstantial as a magician’s flash paper. I am blessed with family and friends of a better sort. Recently, I got together with my friends Jim and Darol at a wedding reception. Our conversation plunged immediately into deep waters. You would never guess it had been months since we had last seen each other. We had been longing to talk with a friend about the interior life, about living in homes richly furnished for eternity.
(background image cropped from one by Gordon Taylor on Pixabay)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
In case you didn’t read between the lines, we had a house fire. Our excellent neighbor Don put me and my son up for the night while Susan slept at her friend’s house. Jonathan slept in a guest room and I slept on a sleeper sofa in my neighbor’s den. I say “slept.” There was very little sleeping that night for any of us. As I lay there, I could look through Don’s kitchen window at the roof of our house. The background photo is one I took as I lay there, feeling compelled by my muse to memorialize the occasion in verse.
“Days That Lie Ahead”
As I write this commentary, it has been one week since the house fire. I’m learning some new lessons and relearning old ones:
1. Don’t worry…
2. There are people who love in practical ways…
3. God was providing for us to pay insurance premiums all those years….
One highlight was the way St. Bart’s Anglican Church snapped into action. The Associate Pastor over Worship and Pastoral Care, Jen Crider found us a luxurious home to stay in for several days while the owners were on vacation. Friends and family extended offers of help, although I didn’t know how to take them up on their offers at first. A special new friend (he’s a fellow poet!) and his wife washed clothes for us. Others donated cash. We feel loved. We’re experiencing some anxiety and plenty of confusion about the process. But we’re confident this will all turn out for God’s glory and our growth as His children.
Below is a poem I wrote on the second night after the fire. By then, we were comfortably ensconced in the home Jen Crider found for us (the Darnells bravely welcomed us three humans and our three cats into their home while they finished out their vacation).
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
This poem is just poking fun at myself for what I described to a friend as my IBS. That’s irritable brain syndrome.
The Shirt
One of the most thoughtful gifts I’ve ever been given was the shirt I’m wearing in the background image. By giving it to me, my friend Sten-Erik said, “Your face gives away everything you’re thinking. And we still love you.”
Snee
I meant to come up with a nonsense word… something, anything other than what someone talking with me might assume I’d say at the end of that sentence. So, if you go look it up, don’t try to make sense of how it fits in the poem. That’s not the point. Rather, the point is “Hear me out, and don’t interrupt when you don’t know what I may say next!”
I have some friends who are spectacularly good listeners. See this poem I wrote about one of them: Silence, The Lingering Wisdom.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Hopefully there’s not much ‘splainin to do about this poem. Right? I know that’s all too rare.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
I sometimes joke that I’m a “wooden-headed literalist.” There’s some sting in the joke because it’s partly true. Combine having one foot “on the spectrum” (self-diagnosed), and another in a background of fundamentalist and dispensationalist thinking, and literalism is my unfortunate tendency. I struggle—am struggling—to properly appreciate the work of fellow poets from millennia past, as recorded in the Old and New Testaments. To correct this tendency, I have begun reading authors like Peter Enns and John H. Walton. Eventually, I’ll probably get to Walter Brueggemann.
Friends, what other authors do you recommend?
[background image: The Destruction of Leviathan by Gustave Doré (1865)]
See Job 41 (https://www.bible.com/bible/111/JOB.41.NIV)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
When I read Psalm 19 this morning, I was jarred by a seeming disconnect between the first 6 verses and the remaining 8 verses. What does the sun, in its dutiful, energetic, warming course across the skies have to do with us as we contemplate God’s words?
This poem expresses one possible connection between the parts of Psalm 19, namely that we could learn a thing or two from the sun. Perhaps I am just distressed by the context we’re living in right now. I see a disconnect between God’s words and the way many respond to them in the America of 2025.
(background image by Leopictures on Pixabay)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
When I walk at White Rock Lake, I often encounter young men playing chinlone, which I understand is the national sport of Myanmar (formerly known as Burma). Watching those young men use their heads and feet to keep a little rattan ball in play reminds me of the countless hours I spent doing the same with a soccer ball when I was a teenager.
I admire their athleticism, and miss the days when I myself could spin, reach up with my leg and intercept a ball with just the right extension and just the right force to keep it up in the air.
Here’s a short video of the guys playing chinlone at White Rock Lake. Music is from their boombox.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
This was the first draft of an experimental stream-of-consciousness poem. So, don’t work too hard at making sense of the metaphors, unless you’re a therapist and really relish such puzzles!
The Occasion
I wrote this poem the morning after an encouraging, highlight-of-the-year conversation with Darol, my mountain-climbing buddy of many decades, and after thinking about how young George Herbert was when he wrote his short poem “Hope.”
The Mood
There is definitely some melancholy in recognizing that the myriad prospects of youth have dwindled down with the passing of years. But there is also a growing recognition that the number of prospects is far less important than the quality and reasonableness of prospects. If you know me well, you know what comes next: some lines from Robert Browning’s “Rabbi Ben Ezra” ….
What I aspired to be,
And was not, comforts me:
A brute I might have been, but would not sink i’ the scale.
Another Guide
A few years ago, when I was already in my 60s, I wrote a poem and commentary that serve as the antidote to this melancholy. In that post, I suggest that even in old age, we can be “full of promise,” and we’re “never too old to grow.” But mere inertia, mere sliding, is an inadequate guide for this precious autumn of life.
Understand a Little Better?
When I explain my poems to family and friends in person, I can see when the lights of understanding go on. But writing, I never know. That’s why I often ask for feedback. Did my commentary open any windows into this poem?
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
My assignment for this blog post is to mention
– my father’s intellectual honesty
– a sermon in Conclave that int’rested me
– a book by Peter Enns
– an exchange with one of my super-smart friends
Here goes….
What do we do when clouds pop up in the clear blue sky of our beliefs, be they beliefs about the natural or supernatural world?
I wrote this poem to myself while the question was troubling me more than usual.
Here’s the setting….
One of my newest friends is skilled in poetry, theology, and science. In conversations with him, it seemed like a perfect time to revisit the Genesis creation account. How do Genesis 1 & 2 shed light on reality? It’s a huge question, but I thought that with my friend’s help I might make a little progress in clearing up my confusion. We talked, and he loaned me a book with lectures on this topic by the esteemed Bruce Waltke.
So, I’m reading those lectures. At the same time, I’m listening to books by Peter Enns. Waltke and Enns both taught at Westminster Theological Seminary in Philadelphia. Although I haven’t accessed the source materials, I know they had a serious, respectful dialogue highlighting “fundamental questions about how to approach biblical interpretation, especially when dealing with apparent contradictions or historical and scientific challenges” (that’s an AI summary). The Enns book I’m currently listening to is The Sin of Certainty.
I also heard certainty challenged from another quarter. In the movie Conclave, the Ralph Fiennes character preaches a sermon that includes these memorable lines:
Certainty is the great enemy of unity. Certainty is the deadly enemy of tolerance.
Criticisms of certainty resonate with me. My father was a theologian and writer. He “knew his stuff.” But he was also intellectually honest. That is, he recognized and readily acknowledged what he DIDN’T know. He was characterized more by humble faith than by certainty. Having grown up with that model, I am repulsed when people think they know more than they really know. I’m skeptical—and dismissive—of their certainty.
And now to my exchange with a super-smart friend—not the poet, not my father, but another friend…. We were discussing the question of whether or not heaven will always be distinct from earth. In part of my argument for a future unified Heaven/Earth, I mentioned my notion that
Jesus’ “going up” in the Ascension [might be] an accommodation to man’s limited apprehension of the unseen world. Hints of that world are sprinkled throughout the Bible. Think, for instance, of Elijah’s being whisked “away” in a chariot of fire. Or a passage nobody ever mentions: the 70 elders’ vision of God and His sapphire pavement in Exodus 24.
It was that argument where I got the idea for the metaphor in my poem. Jesus is received into the clouds and thereby hid from the disciples’ sight. The clouds are a transition between the seen and the unseen.
Clouds, like uncertainty, suggest that there’s more and better to know beyond, something ALMOST attainable. A certainty to which we’ll arrive—soon, eventually… just not yet. Another way of looking at this would be that when we cannot control our environment, God may be at work, changing our hearts, or changing our circumstances
A CONFESSION
That last paragraph was supposed to be the clincher of this commentary. I had hoped to perfectly capture in prose what I intuitively wrote in verse. But I didn’t succeed. It turns out I am uncertain of my own meaning. Is that uncertainty fine? Can I let it be? It’s the perennial question of this growing poet.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
On Sunday mornings, I get up early to project lyric slides as instrumentalists and singers at St. Bart’s Anglican Church prepare for their service. My favorite Sundays are those rare ones when singers are accompanied only by the pianist Kevin Howard. While there are other exceptionally talented musicians, my old ears are happiest when I can clearly pick out Kevin’s playing. I don’t know how he does it, but his style opens doors to harmony—and I respond in worship. Today—during practice and in the service itself— this all struck me as a picture of Creation responding appropriately to God under the care of God’s vice-regent, man. Awake, and free to all do what we do best, and that harmoniously—it’s how we’re meant to be.
This poem is for Kevin, who opens the way to harmony.
NOTE: If you’re not accustomed to e. e. cummings’ odd syntax, you may find the last two stanzas especially difficult. So here’s a gloss: I couldn’t agree more with nature in its untrammeled and joyous response to a fine musician’s accompaniment.
About the “prisoned waters….” A fellow poet initially thought I might mean “poisoned waters.” I can’t blame him, since the word should actually be “imprisoned” or “imprisoning.” For what it’s worth, I was thinking about fish in aquariums, and wanted a quick way to suggest that when the musician plays, fish in a constraining environment find their own “open way” to swim free and thus be all the fish they’re meant to be.
________________
(background image by Unachicalinda on Pixabay)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Let me say right off the bat–this poem is sarcastic. I suspect that many people identify with what they think of as good morals and right thinking NOT to please God, but because it puts them in a position of privilege and power over others.
The reason I titled the poem “unkenosis” is that the drive to attain POWER and PRIVILEGE from being “right” is the opposite of the “kenosis” that Jesus undertook in becoming a man and dying on the cross.
Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of the others. In your relationships with one another, have the same mindset as Christ Jesus: Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage; rather, he made himself nothing by taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to death— even death on a cross!
Philippians 2:3-8 (NIV)
And why did Jesus’ “making himself nothing” (also translated “emptied himself” from the Greek ekenōsen heauton) result in death on a cross?
God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.
2 Corinthians 5:21 (NIV)
It was for our advantage that Jesus was willing to die, taking on the mantle of guilt. We must imitate him, not power-hungry pretenders.
See a very closely-related poem: Cross-Shaped Lie.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
We’re headed for a great upending and reversal.
[2] and he began to teach them. He said: [3] “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. [4] Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. [5] Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. [6] Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. [7] Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. [8] Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. [9] Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. [10] Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. [11] “Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. [12] Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.
Matthew 5:2-12 NIV
__________________
(background image by Michael Pointner on Pixabay)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Some people hold up protest signs. Some people march. I write poetry. This protest may resonate most with people who–unlike most Americans–speak English AND Spanish. An “idiota” is… well, I think you know what that is. There’s been a proliferation of them lately.
(background image by Neill McLaughlin on Pixabay)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
I had to write a few silly lines just to stake my claim on the neologism “wisteriously.” It popped into my weird brain as we watched the tortured romance Howard’s End. I wasn’t following all the story, but the flowers sure were pretty!
Scientific descriptions have amused me and inspired doggerel since I was a boy. For instance, there was that line in a Peterson field guide: “mantids are predacious.” Makes you want to write a poem, doesn’t it? No? Maybe it’s just me.
So, here’s the inspiring description: “Wisteria is a genus of woody, twining vines known for their long, fragrant, pendulous clusters of flowers, often purple or blue, but also white or pink. They are deciduous, meaning they lose their leaves in the fall. Wisteria is a popular ornamental plant, often used to decorate porches, walls, and arbors.”
The neologism, big words and odd syntax in this poem may remind you of Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky. That poem begins and ends with these enlightening words:
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
(background image by Yves on Pixabay)