Viewing entries tagged
Poetry

Poem: "An Ode To Mistletoe"

Poem: "An Ode To Mistletoe"

It's November and the season for giving thanks. I am sharing a poem I wrote a couple of weeks ago encouraging us to become wild lovers of the woods.

"God's Green Earth:" A Poem from Love Heals

"God's Green Earth:" A Poem from Love Heals

Image Credit: Peggy Napier 

Image Credit: Peggy Napier 

 

In celebration of my new book Love Heals coming out on September 5th, I wanted to share some of my favorite passages on here with you. Let's start with a poem: 

The story of faith begins with the unfolding of God's love over the earth. Love is written into the very fabric of creation. Throughout Scripture we read about love's healing power, from the first vision of a garden with a tree of life until the last vision of a kingdom where that same tree stood, with the leaves that were made for "the healing of the nations" (Revelation 22:2). Today we can imagine the roots of that tree running under our feet, calling us to remember God's healing power all around us and in us...

God's Green Earth

There are days when hillsides blush in tenderness

And moments when valleys are unshadowed. 

There are seasons when streams roll with justice

And all creation blooms where it is planted. 

There are times when we feel God's pulse

Through lapping waves, clapping trees,

And the woodpecker's happy drumming. 

There are mornings when we feel the sunrise

Like warm tea on the backs of our throats.

There are spaces where even weeds

And crawly things call us back to grace. 

That is when our hearts sing "alleluia" 

As we fall in love with God's green earth. 

(I can't wait to share this book with you. So excited. Thank you to everyone who has preordered it.)

A New Poem: "Hearts a Leaping, Christmas Morning 2016"

A New Poem: "Hearts a Leaping, Christmas Morning 2016"

On the morning after O Holy Night,

When bleak mid-winter greys the sunrise,

clouded by news and unwrapped wishes,

Christmas becomes a spirit pulling

Hearts made for more than beating.

 

Hearts search like a newborn for the breast

Over the pulse that they knows best.

Hearts skip a beat like a shepherd

Wailing to the wind because a sheep is missing.

 

Hearts quicken like a magi who glimpses a sign

From the heavens that cradle a billion stars.

Hearts ache like all sojourners on cold mornings

Who long to touch skin of beloved back home.

 

Hearts harden like the tyrant who can’t fathom

How poetry changes the world.

Hearts harken angel music that brings courage

In places where fear wants to tighten its hold.

 

Away in the mangers of our thoughts

hearts swell as we revel in the kindnesses offered

This day in the name of the Prince of Peace.

 

Then clinch throats as we recount all the ways

We have failed our truth

And let lesser gods rule our lives.

 

Our hearts leap and flush our cheeks

In the presence of divine wonder that

 eternal and temporal kiss before us.

 

They still, flutter, pound, and then still again

In the space between the light and the dark.

 

On Christmas morning, above all, we remember

Our hearts are made for more than beating

They are made to love

Each

Other

Deeply.  

A New Poem: "Trying To Give Thanks In 2016"

A New Poem: "Trying To Give Thanks In 2016"

An image of the mountains taken by Becca 

An image of the mountains taken by Becca 

Weep with the willow, as the forest burns

And the land cries out,

"I thirst." 

 

Dance with the girl banging her tambourine
Who sold her heart to play
For those who can still hear music. 

 

Wail for the wilting kudzu,

Once your enemy,

That is choking from judgement. 

 

Search for pilgrims who lost their shores

To poverty and war

Combing the beaches for home. 

 

Raise your arms in an act of peace,

Which defies the laws of gravity,

Holding up a rusted ploughshare.

 

Pray for sanctuaries desecrated

Because they withhold bread

To uphold stale doctrine. 

 

Lose everything we took for granted,

Stored in secret closets,

With graceful surrender

 

Then use what is left and offer it
To the neighbor who needs it more,
For Love's sake. 
 
 
peace and love,
becca
 

"Walking with Grace:" New Poems

"Walking with Grace:" New Poems

i just wanted to share some recent poetry I have been writing this summer on sabbatical.  some of it was written in Wyoming, some in the woods in Tennessee, and some is just the outpouring from the gift of time. 

love, becca

 

tripped up

I cross my heart at the altar,

then trip over my own two feet.

I get in my way so easily

that roots, open doors, or tiny cracks

throw me for a loop.

Walking with grace is a dream

Offered to flawless women I pass.

I know my mistakes so well.

They are scarred on the back of my hand,

tattooed on my lower back,

and etched on my heart.

I wonder if people see them in my eyes

or read them into every line

I write about mercy.

The times I have tripped

Kept me close to the ground.

Mistakes have taught me everything

I have ever known about love.

My missteps lead me to the place

Where I can trust that

Tripping puts me into love’s arms.

 

still mountain lake

Her silk water reflects landscape in watercolor perfection. 

Clouds sail past like four-masted ships on her canvas.

Wind becomes incarnate, rippling her surface.

The thimble weed and delphinium share the shoreline 

where we come to her curved boarders to quench longing.  

The faithful pine and aspen suiters watch over her.

We are parched for her life-giving water formed 

In the mystery of mountains and carried down canyon aisles.

Mica adorns her with hints of jade that add to her calm majesty.

Silt and mud sink at her feet in quiet repose; 

Their glacial journey long ago laid to rest.

She laughs as rainbow trout swim in her belly,

Hungry for the next hatch of flies she offers with grace.

Breathing in thin air on your way makes you dizzy with dreams.

In her deep black eyes, you look perfectly young again and know--

This is why you love still waters.

 

pearls of great price

When I still spoke as a child

And dreamed of being a dancer

my innocence was traded

For a precious secret pearl.

I placed it in a silken purse

bound to my heart for years,

praying a moth would eat through it

Or a thief cut it loose.

Instead of dancing,

I dreamed of forgiveness

That would let me offer the pearl

More valuable than a widow’s mite.

I could lay on the altar of my youth,

And watch the stone roll away.

Burn the purse as a sign of grace,

And dance around the flame.

Marveling at my unbridled heart,

Done grieving things I can’t change

And holding on to useless treasure

I would be free at last.

 

the edmond-pettus bridge

I drove down to Selma

About 50 years late

To see What its like to cross

That bridge when I finally

come to it.

Weary signs marked the way

Where heroic black men and women took

The high road against violent terror.

Stopping under a Lob Lolli pine

I saw the spans from a distance

And wondered if forgiveness lives

Like an old troll under the Pettus buttresses

Or if its more like water flowing,

long since carried out to sea.

Maybe we are alone in thought,

But maybe its planted in us

By more faithful pilgrims who

Knew their way here without signs.

 

dancing with cicadas

The cicada’s high-pitched,

Wavy, tymbal song

At first blush is incarnate stress.

It builds from white noise

Into the forefront of thought

Pushing peace to the recesses of memory.

The woods sound like a loud club

Where the noise rises beyond reason.

People are drowned out of thought.

Suddenly the whirring becomes the music

and the cicadas call us to the floor with

fluorescent disco wings twerking.

The pulsing sound shifts from stressful

To delight with dervish drumming.

I hope they don’t quiet down until

I feel dizzy from this dance.

The cicada is not made to stress,

But to help us find rhythm and dance.

 

lofty dreams

The storm is brewing in the mountain top.

Clouds are a stage for lighting dances

As thunder rolls in a distant heaven.

Hawks soar low as they scan the meadows

Looking for the needle in a haystack of prey,

Like pilgrims searching for a thought.

Moses saw God near predators gliding on updrafts

Where lofty thoughts dwell

As longings are sated by inspiration.

Mountain tops roar with of power.

Born in the depths of sea, they are the survivors.

We climb their backs to rest with mountain dreams.

 

Photo Credit: Becca at Radnor Lake, Peggy Napier