Poem: The Tree of Life

I will be reading this poem at my church’s Good Friday service. It corresponds to another poem, “The Tree of Death” which I shared yesterday.

The Tree of Life

Can we ever imagine the weight of flesh
When it hangs from a tree
The pull of gravity
Upon the branches
The pull of the wind
On the ebbing leaves

When something hangs upon a tree
(perpetually on display)
We stop to gaze when we pass by
Little children throw stones
Young lovers carve their mutual adoration
Old friends bury each other

We lay ourselves at the roots of the tree
And beg that we would rise
Lazarus-like from the ashes of the rubble
We cling to the mere thought of resurrection

This resurrection beats through our hearts like blood

From the loss of man and its mortal sin
This tree with the fruit of victory over sin and death
Hangs with low branches
Beckoning for us to take and eat
Of life.

From the grit of the earth and shallow graves
This tree with the fruit of suffering and oppression
Rises ever before us.
If we cling to it then
We will see with eyes that see
We will hear with ears that hear
We will taste and not go hungry
We will drink and not go thirsty

A table will be set beneath the tree
For a garden party. There will be white table clothes
And much shuffling to seats. It will be hard to stop
The conversation in order for the host to rise.
There will be many toasts, many toasts.
We will eat and dance the night away.
Someone will taste his first sip of wine
In a very long time.

Poem: The Tree of Death

I will be reading this poem at my church’s Good Friday service. It corresponds to another poem, “The Tree of Life” which I will share tomorrow.

The Tree of Death

There is nothing more welcoming in this world
Then to sit in the shade of a tree
And eat of its flesh
To spit the seeds upon the ground
And watch the saplings grow
From your hunger.

I come to the tree and eat
When I feel the world pressing on my shoulders
When I am alone
When I am upset
When I am undone
It is a response as easy as pouring another tumbler
Is to a drunk

I eat of the tree
And the tree eats of me
It drops seeds inside my bones
And tangles its roots among my heart
And lungs

Sometimes I venture off
And the roots follow me
Like a string of breadcrumbs in a shadowy maze
I can always find my way back
It is my birthright

Sometimes a faint voice comes among the shadows
Of the forest
Pleading for me to break the bond
And come away
From the tree
But who would listen to such voices?
I do not listen
I do not do what I want to do
So I turn away
and cling to the expanding darkness of the tree
and it clings to me
with hideous strength of its magnetic pull.

Poem: The Secular Sunday Service

Begins with coffee and includes
Fixed hour meditations upon
Infomercials and football

Games. Vespers are delayed
For napping and barbecues.
At dusk the communion cup

Presented to all as grace
A washing of acedic notions
In beer and leftover pork chops.

Poem: Blind Rector

Bent over to pick the last rose petal
As the workers bend to pick up the last brick
Of the fallen rectory and cart it away. Him

Seeing none of the destruction surrounding,
What happened in the storm, the flood waters
Enmeshing the building, baptizing the edifice

With driftwood and downed wires. He sat
In the bell tower and waited it out, wishing
For once he was deaf and not blind.

He wonders what it would be like to see
Brick by brick this worshipful place
Haphazardly thrown into garbage trucks

He wonders what it would be like to see
Anything other than the coal fire of the Spirit
In the hearts of confessors, to see ashes

Shroud the souls of men, to see the garbage
Fires burning and reeking of sin, to see the
Flaming tongues written on children’s hearts.

Poem: Hiding Beneath White Pines

Thought this poem was appropriate on the eve of the  darkest day of the year. I wrote it about four years ago and stumbled across it recently.

Hiding Beneath White Pines

Away from community,
pondering sunsets.

Only then do planets
Turn about, always returning
As time dies away
Ring by ring
In darkness
Hiding.

Always expanding, the universe
takes life higher—farther,
Exposing those hiding
In gardens once green,
Now tarnished every night:
Same darkness hidden,
Then exposed.

Writing Update: Advent & L.L. Barkat

A couple of months ago I was contacted by Christine Sine, who helps run Mustard Seed Associates, about being a contributor to the Advent devotional they were producing, Waiting for the Light. I readily accepted, and my short essay on Advent is Day 1 in the devotional; quite an honor I think. More honorable than that is the company of other authors on the project: Julie Clawson, Kathy Escobar, Kimberlee Conway Ireton, Ed Cyzweski, JR Woodward, Tim Morey, Jamie Arpin-Ricci, and Tom & Christine Sine. So many of these people are authors I respect, and to be in their company is a really big deal for me.

About the devotional:

Christians of all traditions are discovering the value of taking time in the days that lead up to Christmas to break away from the consumer frenzy of our culture and prepare their hearts and minds for the coming of Christ. This resource responds to this desire. It is more than a devotional, it is a complete guide to the Advent and Christmas season, providing liturgies, weekly activities and daily reflections to equip and nourish us all through the season.

Pre-order before November 15th at the special price of $13 (includes S&H)!

Also published today is my interview with L.L. Barkat on The Other Journal‘s Mediation blog. We discuss her publishing venture, T.S. Poetry Press, and how the world of publishing is changing. An excerpt:

Digital publishing, in the hands of experienced authors who have connections, in the hands of experienced editors who know how to bring a book to print, is changing the game. It can still be Createspace, but when the book arrives to the buyer, she will absolutely know the difference. The quality of the writing, the art, the endorsements will all say this is not vanity; it is something to be regarded.

And because this can be done at a fraction of the cost (without funding warehouses, inventory and royalties systems, fulfillment and distribution), well, the “small” press has much bigger opportunities than ever before.

You can read the rest of the interview here.

And a side note: speaking of L.L. Barkat, her press has an awesome service called Every Day Poems. For $1 a year you get a poem every week day sent to your inbox, curated around rotating themes throughout the year. Today my poem, “October Forth, in Manhattan,” is published in Every Day Poems. To see it and other poems throughout the year for the amazingly low price of $1 just click here to subscribe.