Sistine

Sistine

Below the painted heavens

and the hand outstretched

of God,

are tiles,

unnoticed, not seen.

They, so small across, span

the length of the room, the

hall, the

holy place.

Circles within circles

flowers blooming from chips of stone

turned to jewels by sunlight.

The same light that does not 

fully illume that exalted,

vaulted, beloved ceiling.

Geometric pattern-dance

made from mosaic,

proclaiming "glory, glory,"

in softer tones 

overshadowed by Angel song.

Footsteps, stumbling over

thresholds,

as all cross.

Their heads are tilted up in awe

Skipping Stones

Skipping Stones 

She skipped stones

across the sun-stared river

and each stone was a prayer

for the stream and the sun

and the sand,

warm under bare feet.

She sent out stones like

letters in a bottle

to some unseen being

in whom she puts all her trust

and love.

She grew, and clouds came

sticks and jagged rocks clogged the stream.

Her tears made ripples on the surface

Murky water.

She returns, or perhaps

never left

but all the same she picks up a stone

feeling its weight

the cold against her palm

and tosses it 

half heartedly 

into the water

Splash. Another and another

until her stones are shouts, begging

answer, please, I can’t-

I’m no small child skipping stars

I need more than a dead stream

and sinking stones

I need, I need- You. Please.

This stones sinks

quiet as her whispered prayer

slips out to the sea, slips into the sky.

Her fingers, red and white

blotchy with cold

scrabble in the sand

find another stone, the last

and desperately she sinks to her knees

flicks her wrist. Skip

ripple

skip

And then the stone

Returned

warm, sitting in her palm

blazing with a word.

Trek

Trek

Nearer My God, to Thee, nearer to Thee!

E’en though it be a cross that raiseth me.

Not a cross but a mountain

Melissa Corey Peak.

This is what I climb

What brings me nearer.

Nearer to Thee

Still all my song shall be, 

nearer my God to Thee!

Up we walked, pulling all our worldly

possessions 

for the weekend, anyway

behind us in creaking wood

rutted wheels

Though like the wanderer;

the sun gone down.

Only not, the sun beats at us

not black and blue but pink

sticking white gold shirts to our backs

caked with trail dust.

Darkness be over me,

 my rest a stone.

I am stone, only

stone wouldn’t hurt so much

aching fingers as I pull

pull

pull

Yet in my dreams I’d be 

Nearer my God, to thee.

No waking dreams, no distractions.

Beside me, a girl lets go of the cart

moaning about hurting hands.

Throat dry, I try to tell a story

but the words run out of my head

like water from my empty bottle.

There let the way appear

steps unto Heaven.

Steeper than before, dust so thick

my feet have no purchase

we slide back two steps for every three.

All that Thou sendest me, 

in mercy given.

Peppermint candy from one hand-made pouch

sets my mouth on fire

I need the sweet, something to rinse

the dust from my mouth.

Angels to beckon me

nearer my God, to Thee.

We are separated, Pa leaves

And the brothers.

So sisters lean forward on the bar

on the backboard

with all their loosing strength

Women’s pull.

I am weaker than I have ever been

Weaker than flu or fever ever left me

Or if on joyful wing

Cleaving the sky;

I am so stooped that hemline

and bonnet strings both reach 

the dust.

I am breathing it, part of me

but still the sky seems to near.

If I could reach one hand  away

from my burden

I could feel its silk.

Sun, moon, and stars forgot

upwards I fly.

Around me, we ache

each leg and arm straining

so weak

but never in my life have I felt

Stronger.

I am made of thin bones and strands of muscle

small and low

but my feet keep skidding forward

through dust and stone.

Still all my song shall be

nearer my God, to Thee.

It is not a song, really

but a cough, choking words

with some faint tune

We are not a choir of angels

but dust covered girls

weak and strong

breathing out and in-

Nearer my God, To thee-

nearer, to Thee!

Homecoming

Magpie 139

Homecoming

There is a Light in the window
golden, it spills out into the cold, the dark.
It calls me," Come home, come home
where you are safe and loved,
where you are warm and all is kindness, all is peace."
I look to the light, yearning for it
and the little house where it gleams
but with each step through the murk
I falter, chased by shadow.
I want to come home, be warm, be safe, be loved.
Even as I stumble, the Light does not flicker.
It does not falter.
It waits for me, a beacon in my forest,
spilling from windows that I have looked out of all my life,
calling me home, until the day
When I will find myself a part of that golden glow
a part of the candle flame that beckons the weary
welcomes the worn and tattered
all those who have flickered, faltered, fallen
calling to them,"Come home, come Home."