prepare Him room

Draped under a purple burlap sky,
We wait, We fast;
We Pray, pregnant with Hope,
Anticipating a longed for Salvation,
For the word made flesh;

And, now, we behold His tiny form,
Bundled incarnate purity,
Swaddled pink humanity;
And his cry rings out
Echoing prophetic the voices of Eternity
And the weight of glory,
Falling on an audience of sheep and goats;

Joy to the World!
The Heavenlies welcome on earth
Whom they bowed to,
Whom they knew as King;
Magnificence unknown to human eye,
Left behind
For the chisel and plane,
For the olive wood,
For the ox and trough,
For smelly, moist, rotting hay.

Behold the lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world!
Debts erased by his inch long fingers
And a life forfeit;
Again I say, Rejoice, Oh world!
With solemn hearts lifted
In awe of a babe.

copyright Micah McDonald 2010

it happened one sunday.

well, i challenged myself to submit to a contest even though i didn't have much time to refine (only a few hours to edit four poems); and the first contest i submitted to, a novice poetry contest in canada, i received an honorable mention. i have a lot of work to go, and i need to learn the patience and skill of going back and editing and refining the poem. i still see some things i want to change, but here is the poem that is bringin' home the bacon:

An Exploration of Caritas

She tries the known and unknown tongue,
clashing and clanging;
it sounds like dissonance;
she, standing on the corner soapbox
screaming love,
echoing imperfection.

Knowledge past and future
beats at his soul;
released left and right
the words flow like a torrent,
drowning love,
like an authentic counterfeit.

She cut her hair,
he sold his watch;
they gave it all away
for empty pockets
and bottomless cups;

So she chose the burning building,
and he ran in to save the cat on the third floor;
they became food for worms—
"meaningless, meaningless," blazed
the scorching disco ball.

Fresh breezes renew what once was,
evanescence removes the blotted cloth
and love's voice is heard again;
ashes swirl
and the clay molded;
he is made new,
she is made new.

He offers her his watch, she combs his hair;
a honeysuckle vine guards and sweetens their bed
under the great ancient oak—

love never promised rosebushes daily blooming,
but promised long suffering;
charity did not offer velvet cushions
but offered the cool spring of kindness;
unconditional love did not vow golden crowns
but vowed humility and grace.

Thistles and thorn bushes he bore
to save the snowdrops planted
in the scorching heat;
she gave the keys and her pearls to his able hand;
they ran a marathon through a sea of broken bottles
with the horizon setting in their eyes;
they held a ticker tape parade
in honor of words that withstood the fire.

Through a glass, darkly;
an impoverished reflection,
skinny and malnourished,
the picture is not whole but
dimly shaded,
corners darkened gray;
our view is poorly framed—
someday soon
perfect love will no longer cast shadows
and we will see face to face.

Copyright ©2010 by Micah McDonald

sweet poetry...

hope and patience
by George MacDonald

An unborn bird lies crumpled and curled,
A-dreaming of the world.
Round it, for castle-wall,
a shell Is guarding it well.

Hope
is the bird with its dim sensations;
The shell that keeps it alive is
Patience


I am a fan of George MacDonald. His poetic words on faith and life helped me through some difficult times in life. His poetry reached places in me other words and voices could not. I love poetry though I have not always had the appreciation for it as I do now. Poets are selective with their words, seeking out that one beauty that says more than 1000 words together could.

I am taking down most of my poetry so I can refine it, and HOPEFULLY, in time send it in to various reviews. I do want to be published. Someday. I'll keep some up and put other new ones up too. But good art needs some extra brush strokes, and I want to be good.

Here's to hope and patience
and good art.

Seven

David Taylor recently did a blog entry on 7 things that are beautiful and I was inspired. I had to follow suit. 7 beautiful things:

1. Mazzy Star and her Into Dust introduced to me by my friend Amy who is living in Guatemala and helping the people right now while they recover from a hurricane AND a volcanic eruption (Amy is beautiful too). I fall in love with my husband even more every time I hear Mazzy Star.





2. Ikiru, the movie directed by Akira Kurosawa. Kurosawa is quickly becoming a favorite director of mine. This film takes you through a man's last year of life; it is a powerful and intelligent film that desires to inspire its viewers to live and truly live, to Carpe Diem. "... make the most of what you have. It is later than you think." (Horace) Ikiru is beautiful.

Takashi Shimura in Ikiru

3. My friend Stephen McCants gave us a breadmaker for a wedding present. Thank you, Stephen! It has been such an incredible blessing for this gluten free lady. Neal was brave and and tried making the first loaf, initiating the bread machine with gluten free bread. The warm smell of yeast and gluten free goodness filled our home; it's been hard to stop since. It's so good with a little butter and honey! Homemade bread IS beautiful.




4. A few months ago my husband sent me a link to some images to inspire creativity. I was fascinated by the fact I was drawn to the photographs with umbrellas in them. Here's my favorite: (click here to see a larger view of it.)

Waiting for rain by Simona Cristureanu

5. And speaking of rain, last summer we saw a horrible drought last summer with temperatures remaining over 100 for over 80 days. This summer, there is rain (nothing like three years ago, but wonderful none the less).






6. A couple of years ago I actually submitted a poem to a contest that I didn't make the final. When I read the finalists and this woman's work, I fell in love with her wit and craft. Love this poem. I think it's beautiful:

Cartography by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

I want to know your body as I know
these sandstone cliffs behind our house-take treks
for weeks along your spine, traverse your neck
with slow, exploratory eyes and go
for long excursions on your limbs with no
set plan for how I might get home, except
to know that you will lead me there. I'll step
so lightly, leave no evidence. And oh,
the maps I'll make, my love, will not be made
of paper but of tune. No rise of you
will be unknown to me, no inch unsung.
I know topographies change by the day—
that wind and water have their way. So true.
A good mapmaker's work is never done.


7. Okay, I know it's simple but fresh herbs are beautiful! N has an amazing green thumb bringing back to life my wedding fern that had almost completely perished. With fresh oregano and thyme and tarragon and basil and curly and flat leaf parsley at our fingertips, meals are so much more lively!

1967

melody floated on perfumed breezes
vibrant colors and patterns swayed from winds and hips
daisies haloed gentle people
cut grass and locusts
watermelon
cloud illusions and pipers at the gates of dawn
ella whispers not
it's easy
diamond cherries groove
are you a believer?
i'd like to know if summer is here.

toutes les choses nouvelles

nous avons fait bon accueil à l'été
avec grands eclat de rire
et j'ai été calmé avec joie.
mon coeur était plein.
brises chaudes ont caressé
les réserves
et les oiseaux chanteurs
ont chanté la crainte loin.

je n'ai pas regret
et je suis sûr.

tsunami

Deep calls to deep
in the roar of your waterfalls;
all your waves and breakers
have swept over me.

flood me.
consume me.
devour my pride.
dig your claw in my dragon skin
and release me of this
putrid hide.
shatter the glass
of pretense
of shallowness;
break it into a thousand pieces.
my bones they cry out for resplendence.
my flesh it cries out for goodness.
my heart it cries out for wholeness.
walls still remain. demolish them.
reek havoc on their foundations.
take the mortar and make it pliable.
take the stones and make them like dust
between your index finger and thumb.
vaporize my blindness.

but do not leave me unprotected, naked, trembling.
cover me. blanket me. lead me. hold me.
hide me in your iron grip.
when you do these things, i will be raw, exposed.
please, make a nest for me in grace. in peace. in mercy.

in unfailing love.

as the deer pants for streams of water

so my soul longs, thirsts for living. for reality. for truth. for an astonishing wave of mercy that i can do nothing but weep oceans of living water.

ode to a bounty of parmesan

Chesterton said it hadn't been done. It's time to pay tribute to cheese.

a solemn joy grew contentment-
it was a mid-spring's eve;
laughter echoed beyond the stolid oak,
oaks that rejoiced with us
and quivered in the wake,
in the solidarity of rapturous reverberation;
the nightingale sang his praise,
his tale interspersed with woe and anguish and
delight-filled bliss;
we too have known the darkness
and have banqueted in its shadow,
feasted on its shores;
but light, ripened berries and
the triune resonance of Il Cannone
sent it flying.

the Decameron's mountain,
parmesan mounds in plenty;
its salty, savory flavor preserves a memory
not soon forgotten,
embraced.

and i am full.

three movements

i walked for miles today looking
for poetry; and it found me,
it embraced me with its sure message
of hope and dancing elephants.

i walked for miles yesterday looking
for sunshine; and it found me,
it bathed me in its strong promise
of content and warm rice noodles.

i will walk miles tomorrow and i will look
for silk; i will close my eyes
and reach out in front of me with anticipation
of it clothing me in its red beauty
of tender mercy and
a solo clarinet sonata.

a winter's end

in progress

that winter sunday
light shattered the icy sorrow
with beauty and joy
and words that awakened sleeping stars
though monday brought
a month buried under slumbering
sheets of uncertainty.

time passed and
the eclipsed moon hidden
revealed a blue moon,
tomorrow's dream unveiling,
while a strong north breeze
stole in
caressing my neck with its chilly breath,
promising a new melody.
fields of yesterday's oat crops
gone, let go, released to a grassy green hill of dandelions.
the lilacs withered
and the morning glories faded with the western sun;
they became earth and fed
the meadows of bright poppies,
meadows that whisper for
dawn's unassailed morn.

experimenting with haiku part I

for you

rumors of joy, true
misty blue hills prophecy
blossoming dogwoods


for brie

gleaming grace adorns
hope halos as dreams draw nigh
and light becomes you

five hours of silence one saturday: dust to dust

dust to dust

i did an excavation the other day
with a broken limb,
a weak instrument for archaeological discoveries,
and i found two simple layers.
the first layer was dry and brittle,
of things withered and lifeless;
with a simple twist between my thumb
and forefinger
i crushed and disintigrated
a crumbly, sunbaked, dehydrated, diminished leaf.

the second layer was completely smothered by the first.
light did not reach here. light did not shine here.
the first thing that reached my senses
was the smell; the smell of decomposition
and rot.
black were the leaves
spotted with white,
marks of earth returning to earth;
dark was this layer,
corrupt. demoralized.

and the archaeologist asks,
what weary, fading things
suffocate and choke
the sun's nutrient laden
shafts
from reaching this undernourished,
feeble soul?

five hours of silence on saturday: wind and fire

wind and fire

the closer i get to you
the more pain i feel;
as i approach,
your radiance
burns,
it penetrates my skin
as it works its way in
warming my muscles and sinews,
bathing my vital organs
in pure light.

it is disturbing. it is uncomfortable.
it is holy.
and it is good.

even though i am millions of light
years away from the sun
and your glory steals my breath,
still i want more. you are my desire.

light of the world, pierce me
even more.

endor's kiss

saul, how the mighty have fallen

what shadows fell here
and darkness concealed
what hollow voids hid in their
secret caves
and dry wood withheld,
dampened ground,
wet leaves crushed by heavy boots
and age
what the musty stench
and frothy air
of night secured
in its consuming tendrils

you, you walked to her
you chose her untested knowledge
doubt propelled your foot
hoping for a relief
wanting safety
security
pleasure
to know her magic
how it would sate your frailty
for she had the answers your answer would not give

and you, you walked away from trust
you chose endor's kiss
and all her charms
the dark crevisses of her mouth
and the folds of her skirt
that hid your weakness
her hips your delight
though you knew
under the veil was the
denial of truth
an age old sin
that led you down the familiar
and familial paths

you had a chance to walk away
even samuel knew
but you, you chose
the hidden
the wasted
the counsel of her lust
the seductive gaze
of power
and the driving hurricane
of the pursuit of knowledge
the idol of understanding
the guiling smirk
of her tainted lips
how the mighty have fallen
in the vain likeness
of holy crusades.

behold ye, unsacred one

what was hidden,
what was gloved in velvet,
what was meant as
an irony of pleasure
will be completely undone.

your power is not power,
it can be bested;
your hold has no mastery
over a soul
already claimed
a woman named,
made
in the likeness
of a king.

and if you read the
writing on a body sanctified,
redeemed
it does not read
'she is mine';

it echoes the words
of the solemn troubadour,
a long ago wisdom
calling and affirming
love's design,
'i am my beloved's and he is mine.'

darkness, your call is light
and i say in the name of
the one who knows well
your end
and, in the same breath,
knows well
the scarlet robe that consecrates
a heart forgiven,
run;
for his authority and dominion
knows no boundary,
no emasculation,
and absolutely
no end.

le monde dans elle mains

pardonnez-moi, s'il vous plait.
je parle mauvais français et
je l'ecrit plus mal.

je ne comprends pas!
je suis tres desoriente
parce que
je ne sais pas si j'étais rêver
ou
si je vivais en réalité;
mon veu n'ont pas été validés
avec
les mots lumineux
ou
baisers de compassion,
ni embrasse.

et mon espoir regarde notre monde
avec les verres rose-colores,
comme utopia;
ma volonte l'a exigé,
les autres l'a encouragé,
et cheminées chaleureux écrites
sans écriture,
parle sans parler,
bien que l'instinct et l'intuition
ondulé les drapeaux jaunes.

mais aujourd'hui.
aujourd'hui est un autre jour.
et maintenant je comprends que
le monde est cassé
et
tout que j'ai rêvé était
de chaque maniere
tacite.

et deja,
je suis oublié.
et le slience.
il parle tout.
il n'y a bouge.
et rotation des arrêts.

le monde est-il une étape?
le monde est-il rond ou plat?
est-ce que les etoiles
entourent autour de nous?
je ne comprends rien.

"Entre l'idée
Et la réalité
Tombe l'ombre."

advent

winter's gray illuminates
all that is fallen;
snow's silence stills
the heart's striving;
the north wind's breath chills
all that is broken;
the lingering rain permeates
the soul's grieving.

laughter
gives way to mourning
praise
replaced by lament

white cries
save!
darkness groans
sanctify!
and this cobalt sphere wails
deliver!

lenten bread
hardened by age
and arrogance
swallowed
whole,
a life's rue;
taken
soberly,
consecrated,
unveils
luminary
hope.

stayed

with patient defiance I wait
with quiet resistence I hold ground
with trust in the Creator of Heaven and Earth
I am unmoved

fate and hope are sealed in the hands of the Light of the World
His strong arm never leaves me
comforts me
supports me
holds me
and will not release me

uncertainty lies ahead
but i am certain of this;
that i will see evidence of the goodness of the Lord
while walking this terra firma

and so strength and tenacity
stay my feet
though my heart and spirit are tempted to crumble

and I wait for the Lord

the test

your tricks may have worked
in days of old;
this time
they could not stand.
what stayed purity
and held virtue?

ah, that mystery is hidden,
not to be unlocked
or awakened
until its time has come.

the old is past
and new things are nigh.
and what holds
the truest merit
is not in the corporeal
or sensation.

it is in the one who
holds the key and
guards the mystery.
and this altruistic
watchman
ardently waits
to release it
to one
and one alone.

in progress....

from temporal to transcendent

(in progress...)

I do not understand what his plans may be
but I do know what his plans are not;
the bruised he does not break,
the downcast man he will not abandon.

And what of the snares and traps
planned against those who live upright?
He allows them though we cry out as Job,
"Remember oh, God, that my life is but a breath!"

And faith is tried
and trust is tested
and hope seems loosed
to the doubt of a material and terrestrial sanctuary.

And the interior inquisitor takes his grip
as the questions flood in
like a raging river undammed,
"My God, Why!"

The blackness of dark
hides all form of tangible truth,
and light is swallowed
by an unwholesome void.

And what of the bruises and gashes,
the heart aches and hunger?
Pain appears to drain the soul of
life giving nectar and stores.

In those all-consuming moments
the agony whispers eminent demise
and the hurt screams,
"You are undone!"

The bandaid is ripped away
too fast and too soon.
Stunned by the shock though reeling in torment
the words of the poet king resound,
"What is the use in my going down?"

You will be crushed

You will suffer

You will know torment

You will experience misery and woe.

But you shall not be defeated
You will not be bested
You will not be conquered
You shall not be overcome.

There is a strength to be found,
and in that strength is righteous authority
that will cut down the fiercest foe,
power to destroy the wildest enemy.

There is a sword to wield,
and in that sword is unmanageable light,
light that voraciously seeks
to overcome shadowed distortions .

There is a refuge to hide in,
and in that refuge is a treasury of virtuous provision,
fountains and streams that heal
the wounded and wearied soul.

And yet we see with human eyes;
there is much left unknown.
Will the value and worth of these temporal oppressions
carry weight and meaning to the world transcendent?

Fire leaves the impurities behind
and polishes the precious metal.
Does faith remain and
trust stand firm?

Loose thy hope in realms
where decay and rot exist not,
where mercy lines the streets
and love reigns supreme.

© copyright micah holcombe 2007