Autumn Seventeen

When did the hills 

gather this golden?

yesterday's horizons

turn amber in waves?

I slept with green outside

my window and woke 

to topaz, russet, moving 

yellow, mellow against the sky.

-Jody Collins c. 2017

65 is Just a Number

There is no statute of limitations on vision.
My old eyes register a darting messenger of
God's blatant, creative joy. Watch the winged
creation hover in a web of air.
Spy a sleuthing intruder
snap-tapping its way
across the wood, tunneling
away and down the outside stairs.
No expiration (yet) for hearing,
cataloguing birdvoice and the
chipclacking of breakfast
at the feeder, the squeaking
insistence at the fountain.

Teach me to number my days, Lord,
to register the ways the wind
ruffles the tablecloth in the morning's
gentle breeze, how cool, shortened
shadows signal this sea change
of a season rippling towards
quieter times.
May I live this calendar daily
not ticking the days toward the end
but aware and alive and about your
business, not counting the days, but
living into your addition, subtraction
multiplication, division, the only
math that matters.
c. Jody Lee Collins 2017

Inventory

Lavender linaria spikes upward,

miniature clouds stalk-perched

     as they reach for the sky.

Hummingbirds crowd-feed

     in the waning afternoon sun.

Carnations, red as a fresh-cut

     thumb, wave divine perfume from

     ruffled taffeta on gray-green stems.

Sweet peas' pungent surprise,

     a salmon/marshmallow palette, celestial

     bouquet a fragrance of that 

     far away gate in the Heavenlies.

Juncos chip-clacking in rhythm, 

     sure-footed clutching on feeders afloat,

     trapezing in the breeze.

Leaves, light-transfigured day

     lanterns lingering against

     a cornflower sky.

Voices ferried on the wind,

     gleeful hollers loud as a

     clap of thunder, neighborhood 

     jazz accompaniment

     to this quieting afternoon.

///
Let the record show, no pockets
     or wallets were emptied in
     exchange for these riches, no
     bank account tapped, no debt
     incurred to pay for this view.
The ledger will detail only this:
     "Full stop, eyes open,
     breathing slowed."
No currency recorded, just a
     bookkeeper's note in a lazy
     hand,
"Two slowing feet, arrested gaze
     earful of sound."
///
The books are balanced and so
is my soul.

Silence Ascends, Sunday

There's a lot one can say
     about the power of being 
     quiet (yes, I see the irony).
When listening forefronts the mind
     other senses muscle their 
     way into place (the ears above
     all) take in the not-words
     simply song, hum and tone
     in counterpoint.
No addition necessary; I am
     mute, yet the Word bursts
     alive, verse and chorus rise
     without me. The truth
     needs no help to stand.
Even when I'm not singing
     even if I'm not yes-ing it.
Sometimes you don't get an amen.

Up

"In the beginning"

begs the existence of a

dot, the endpoint of

a line referencing time and

movement, like an ant on

the Golden Gate Bridge.

If there is time (now)

and movement (how?)

why do we shun this

guess the size of a 

galaxy, turn from the

possibility of a God

placing us just so?

I may travel by antenna,

feel my way blind on small 

steel and close pavement,

stopping for crumbs.

But just because I cannot

see it does not mean

there is no sky. 

Spring's Verb Says

photo by Karen Boudreaux, NOLA, used by permission

Fireworks have nothing on me,
no man-made show can match
this explosive display.
Shocking green here,
shouting magenta there,
showy white front and center.

No gunpowder could blow
breezes like this 
to bristle trees,
to “whoosh” the wind
across the skies,
no factory fierce enough
to produce this bright beauty.

Spring’s verb says 
the growing will never stop,
but will flow from a fire 
deep in the dark,
earth-wise,
shoved to the surface,
erupting when you’re not looking.

Spring’s verb comes from nowhere
but Godwhere.

Spring’s verb says ‘get ready.’
~~~~~~~~~~

This poem was prompted by the first line in a poetry book, ‘Mischief Cafe’, 

and the sound of this Easter song in my head.

previously published on my blog Three Way Light

Samara

"Samara," she said and the words
took flight in my hearing,
invisible windborne flora
soaring across my thoughts.
She spoke of wings, a divine
creation spinning towards
earth to plant itself like a
stubborn weed-fierce and stuck.
Imagination took root,
sending me flying home
towards Webster's--
'some-are-uh' - and there
a black and white drawing of
a seed with wings
"an indehiscent, usually 
one-seeded fruit, of the ash 
or maple."

Like that spinning tree-gift
may I fly holy words,
carrying the seed of my
Saviour to land, stuck
and stubborn, finally
splitting into silent roots
then skyward, bearing
fruit with wings.
~~~~~~~
sometimes a poem inspires a poem.
Thank you, Laurie Klein

Week One-A Prayer

I wish I could collect
     the light, landing its shadows
     on this page as it creeps
     ever brighter through the gray.

Pour it out to wash my heart,
     salve the wound of this
     present heaviness, the sighs
     that never end.

Hold it lightly aloft, praying
     no sharp wind or
     quiet, steady breeze
     snuff it out, for we
     need it so

Father, carry us,
     ferry us through storms,
     silent and proud as we
     shine hope in the right
     direction--people-ward
     up ward.

Send us, spread us
     like the daily sure rising
     of your sun, that moves ever
     on into the distant dark.

I've Been Asking

Jesus, 

because He said I could

(ask)

about a Five Year Plan--

lke a plannable annuity

with a guaranteed return on

my investment.

as if...

as if a sure answer for my tomorrows would bring

me peace today.

He whispers instead what's doable--

the Five Hour Plan-a chunk 

of time allotted to say, oh, baking

a pie--

manageable, like a tried and true recipe

gather ingredients

check oven

double check recipe

mix, roll, bake

voila! a pie, sure as

shootin'.

Yes, I asked Jesus about

what's ahead...on down 

the road...

over the hill

and of course (you guessed it)

He handed me a peach.

The Practice of Prayer While Making Soup

{on not watching the Golden Globes}

Facing the stove, I busy my hands

with this thrice-cooked fowl, weaving water
herbs and onions to conjure up a warming 

repast for our souls.
Skin holds meat, meat holds
bone (or is it the other way around?) and
as the chunks slip and slide into the bubbling
pot before me, I wonder, wordless,
at the speed with which we revere
and revile our fellow human beings.

In the other room a happy tumult erupts.
A television voice announces it's a beautiful
day in LaLaLand. The steady sun shines
on folks arriving via car and carpet as
crowds cheer.
Some of them will be handed the world.
Perhaps they deserve it.
The cynical may scoff at these bright gifts
offered to those who chase and make
'silly dreams.'
Why all the to do over such a shallow
show, this vanity diminished by the weight
of the headlines, today's news, my own life?

Perhaps it is precisely dreams we need.
Oh, indeed, we need our dreams.

c. Jody Lee Collins 2016

~~~~~~~~~

photo credit--from L. Richardson website "Interior Wisdom"