Poetry Month, Spring

HOPE RENEWED


JUST WHEN

Just when I think I cannot bear another drab day,
Spring pours her golden rays across the land,
Coaxing buds and blooms from barren branches,
Calling slumbering bulbs from winter beds,
Crowning the earth with blossoms bright, while  
Birds weave grassy nurseries and
Broadcast lullabies on silken breezes.

Just when I think God no longer speaks,
A hymn, a verse or someone’s words,
Carried on a Holy Wind,
Flashes insight so clear, it renews
Tarnished vision to first brilliance.
Just when I think it all an absurd illusion,
Just then, He speaks to me.

For, behold, the winter is past; the rain is over and gone. 
The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds has come. . . . 
Song of Solomon 2:11-12 (AMP)

Copyright ©Reflections from Dorothy’s Ridge 2016. All rights reserved

Good Friday, Poetry Month

Good Friday

Picture from Photobucket
 
Can You Tell Me?

 
How do hands construct a crown of thorns without
tearing their own flesh?
Would not gloves, so thick to resist cruel piercing,
make for clumsy work?
How does the mind devise such torment without
piercing its own soul?
Would not such thoughts induce imaginings
so dark as to haunt waking and sleeping?


Yet they were men like you and me, pawns,

carrying out Satan’s plan. They did not comprehend

their bit roles in the age-old drama between

light and dark, good and evil,

nor did our adversary fathom

the twist in the

divine plot that would be

his undoing.

© Dorothy Johnson

Holy Week, April 16, 2014

photo courtesy of Don Blair

 

Aging, Family, Poetry Month

Life Happens

           

 

April is Poetry month. An entire month set aside to encourage us to not only read poetry but to also try writing our own verse. My original plan was to join my friends in writing some sort of poem each day. On April 1, I had just taken pen in hand and opened my notebook when the call came.
            “I’m worried about her,” our aunt’s helper said. “She doesn’t feel good.”

            For the second day in a row, I dressed and drove the ten minutes to her apartment where I found our lovely relative dressed for the day, sitting in her recliner, but looking weary.
 
            “I heard you weren’t feeling good today.” I said. “I thought we might check with the doctor.”

            “I’m just a little tired. I think I’ll go down and see if I can eat a little lunch,” she replied, ignoring my reference to doctor.

            I called my nurse sister-in-law, and we decided to honor her wishes. After all she was going to the doctor on Thursday, so I hung around and we talked of this and that.

            At noon, I walked her to the dining room before taking off to do some errands. When I returned later, I found her sitting alone in the empty dining area where she had nodded off to sleep right there in her chair.

            “Are you ready to go back to your apartment,” I asked.

            Roused by my voice, she replied with a sheepish smile, “Guess I’d sleep better in my own place.”

           We plodded back to the apartment where she plopped down in that worn recliner with a sigh.

            “Getting old sure is tiresome. I can’t believe I’m the last one.”

            The rest of the afternoon I searched for the garnet ring that “my husband” (our Uncle Chet) “had specially made for me.” It disappears from time to time as does her wedding ring, which I found in the process.  I hope the garnet turns up soon. It always has before.

            I started this poem that evening, but as you can see I’m a bit behind.

                           Life Happens
We make our plans, but sometimes life happens.
Interruptions destroy our finely orchestrated schedules.
A day I thought belonged to me unravels with a simple call.
I go and find her looking “all in” as my mother used to say, 
Yet she insists, “I’m just a little tired.”
At 98 years and four months, she soldiers on,
earthly dwelling, structurally unsound,
Supported by an aluminum walker and sheer grit.
Most of her day, she sits in her chair, watching TV or
Regaling visitors with memories. “Did I ever tell you …”
I think of how someday I may be tethered to a walker and chair,
And I listen as if I’ve never heard that story before.

Is there someone who would love to hear the sound of your voice? Why not call or better yet, pay a visit. 

 
Even to your old age, I am He, And even to gray hairs I will carry you!
I have made, and I will bear; Even I will carry, and will deliver you. Isaiah 46:4