the green man hides
face carved in church corners
protecting or appeased
large god of growing things
father and groom
his eternal dying cycles
ripen to john barleycorn harvests
if I were wild and old
as this wisdom
I would worship such a spirit
tenderly
but parts of me must remember
the pagan green god
of my mothers
because
his name was mentioned
and I went looking for him
forgetting for a moment
I am now civilized
1.
so,
you would gamble
with God as your ante
of desperation
you would put God
in a book, in a box
filed in a place
in your life
you take out and put away
at your convenience
only speak to Him
in a rehearsed voice
after He has heard all your anger
your blame
no, God does not live only
in churches like this one
and I will not sit in a row
with you
and pretend family
with a flawed head
visiting church
like it is a big box store
with a shopping list of needs
and wants
bought with currency
He has no need of
remember, this is God
He knows you
your motivation
your faith (you call it that)
a going through the motions
like all this ritual
will lead you to Him
when He is
right in front of you
His arms open
if you would
just
step inside
but your eyes
are closed
and it is not you
but He
that opens
2.
faith
is not formed
when you give God
a time limit
to fix you, catch you
when you fall backwards
in a heavenly trust game
no, we don’t
give God ultimatums
or insist that He speak
to us or through us
tantrum like toddlers
when He does not
or say He is real
as if our knowing
gives Him anything
or that simple recognition
of His existence
means something like faith–
He is real to devils too
no, when God speaks
it is His whisper
resonating
in the solar plexus
that guides
like the magnetic sense
birds use for migration
but leading us to peace
if He spoke to us
with a loud voice, with
thunder shaking our bones, in tones
more purifying
than any sacrificial fire
we would run as the Israelites did
and beg for His silence
that voice calling creation
too big for our ears
even when He just sighs
beyond words,
I have echoed
the pulse of this planet,
felt shifts
in heat and magnetism
drift from pole to pole
in worship, sometimes
there is a vow of silence
or a moment of it
wordlessness begins
a knowing, an essential chime
opening, flowering,
vibrating
between us and everything
and us the bell sounding
in sighs
words make distinctions
that do not exist
outside language
beyond words, before them,
and past them
we are part of one thing
there is no distinction
without naming
and with naming, division
and with division, loss
to explain this better
I would have to hold your face
in my hands, and ask you to listen to me
not talking
this flour
comes from living seed
ground to texture
of fine sand
I know how many hands full
will make two loaves,
measured by height
on my board
not cups; how much water
& honey to revive yeast
something known
by eye, and temperature
noted
in a dash of water on the skin
never a thermometer
I cook by feel,
mixing
through senses
not tools
there is sensuality
in the pass
of these hands
through flour,water,
and salt
the dough is ready
when my kneading hands are free
of any sticking
after it grows doubled
I punch down the living mass
and it yields, sighing
into two rough ovals
left alone to breathe
and grow, again
under that same cloth
dressed with sunflower
and pumpkin seeds
brushed on with water
the loaves will bake
until I tap
and hear their doneness
no recipe here
just organic process
and that is what rests
in your fingers, still warm
slightly coarse
my bread
me
***for Dverse poetics prompt.
This was the prompt, and I chose bread making, as this is something I do a few times a week.
“So for today’s Poetics, which also rings out our celebration week, I invite you to observe someone or something and describe what you see. And of course, you don’t have to stick to the plain facts but like Schiller can go way beyond them…and it doesn’t have to be a complicated process, it can be about just everything what you see on a daily base.. no matter if it is the policeman on the crossroads, guiding the traffic, the man in suit and tie behind the cash counter in the bank, how to cook an indian Butter Turka Dal (that’s what we had for lunch today..) or the waitress in your favorite restaurant, serving drink… almost endless possibilities…”
a 17-year silence
can shout
if anyone listens
speak to how
broken in the middle
you can hollow out a heart
like a cored apple
or scooped melon
to not listen to pain
& falsify living
until you
almost
persuade yourself
that this life
without a center
is still authentic
but it’s not.
It is living on the edges
only
better to align
those broken pieces
to knit together like bone
rebuilding itself
it takes far less time
to heal
than it does to regrow
parts of a self,
re-weave missing fabric
of a spirit.
Feeling a little nostalgic–this is the poem that broke my writer’s block…
Susan Daniels Poetry 