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Posts Tagged ‘grace’

One Self Portrait

 

 

 

the house on fire

and me still trying

to get all the beds made

 

*

 

One Grace

 

what is the next step—

letting myself not know

until I am stepping

 

 

 

 

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In the manger of my heart

 

 

 

there in the muddle

where I do my best

to keep it swept

but it gets messed up

every day anyway,

there amidst

the drafts

and the animal chorus

something new

and beautiful

is being born—

not because

I prayed for it,

not because

I am worthy,

only because

that is how

miracles work—

sometimes

by grace

we peek through

the cracks in the walls

and see just

how light

even the messiest

places

can be.

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Two Unsuspectings

setting a trap

with honey, catching

myself

*

this song

of relentless yesses

a set up for grace

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photo taken by Karen James

photo taken by Karen James


Calypso bulbosa

A tiny orchid lifts its small cup
to the world. It is only by luck

that we find it, absorbed as we are
in talk of anger and shame, rushing

along the path like sycophants of time.
But grace has a way of finding us

when we need it the most, inviting us
to linger, to stop, to sip beauty, to marvel.

Light sifts through the forest canopy
like a golden shuttle on a miraculous loom

in which we are two threads in the one
great cloth. It seems likely we will leave

this enchanted hour, but for now
this bright cup, this radiant pause,

this intoxication that makes us forget
there is any other world but this.

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Anything else
I can help you find
says the man
in the pharmacy.
Well,
I say,
I could use
some grace.
Any for sale?
He looks
at me
with uncertainty.
No, he says
at last.
Rats,
I say,
browsing
the band aids,
the rows
of antibiotic
creams.
I don’t
even bother
to ask
about
dignity.

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Grace

Spring comes to the sidewalk
in the longer days of March.

The sun warms the slab, and beneath
it the seeds of old weeds start to stir.

They are tiny. And who knows how,
but in the dark, they begin to grow

and put down roots and,
though it seems unlikely,

begin to push through the concrete itself.
First a hairline crack. This fissure is somehow

sufficient to provide light and water enough.
Soon there are tendrils, then whole leaves,

then the yellow blooms of new weeds.
What is it in us that knows to push?

I, too, have wintered in a dark, thick cast, one
of my own making. Cramped and dormant,

I had stopped believing in hope.
But it was not hope that cracked the shell.

Nor was it anything that I did.
It was life’s longing for itself.

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Video Poem: In Unlikely Places

I am such a fan of this blog, Journey of the Heart, and today they’ve posted another of my video poems, this one about the grace that sometimes comes out of what looks like a big big bummer … 

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