My Collection

I hold a covered jar of words
that echo silent sounds
which tangle in the concepts
woven tightly all around
muffled in the throat and mind
they clamber in the head
constricting nasal passages
when they are left unsaid
I cough them up and hold them
up against the brightest light
where they gleam with fragile brilliance
though some hold the dark of night
and when I think, they rattle
with the sound of bells and drums
though some jangle and some settle
with a resonating thrum
so many here and scattered there
contained, confined, released
my implausible collection ...
how I treasure every piece.

How Much Less than Nothing?

When nothing began it
and nothing was cause ...
and all of that emptiness, vast, gives us pause.

When nothing constructed
and nothing was shaped ...
and all of that formlessness, grand, makes us gape.

When nothing designed it
and nothing took breath ...
yet all of those accidents enliven us till death.

When all of our wisdom
from nothing was learned ...
and we take all our patterns from nothing discerned.

Then how much less than nothing
are our greatest minds?
Do you think it's by Nothing that we are defined?

---

(and ... called by any other name ...)

Knife's Edge

Spending the day
looking at a knife
seeing how the light reflects
from surface and edge.
The sheen
of sterile grey
and vivid, sharpened ledge,
a precipice defined.

How often do we change the name
that rests before our eyes?
To make it more palatable
or break it down to size?

Today, I called it Butterfly
and shaped for it some wings
but death by any other name
...
still stings.

---

No, I am not contemplating suicide! (Though I have in the past, and God saved me through my fear of physical pain.) These days He has given me too many opportunities to help others, and to remain in the flesh is more needful for His glory, though to depart and be with Christ seems far better.(Yeah, that's from Paul, in Philippians 1. That book is meaningful to me on many different levels.)

I'm in the middle of a new painting, and this is the thought that's going into it. Whether you ever see the finished work depends on if it turns into something worth finishing. Actually, perhaps this poem is a test... one never knows what's going on in the recesses of one's mind...

Relink - Challenged and Inspired!

If you are an artist, a writer, a poet, or simply fascinated by art, by writing, by poetry ... I think you'll find this article meaningful and possibly even a call to look higher.

The artist is a bridge between despair and hope. The artist, more than anyone else is responsible for the re-creation, re-definition and re-thinking the world around us. Every poem, every song, every painting has tremendous possibility. Each of these creations could be a letter of resignation to The World That Is or a window into The World That Is Not. Each poem/painting/song could be a vehicle to a new reality, one in which the artist plays a part no matter how small. The artist paints a world into existence. The canvas, the paint, the brush--these known quantities of existence and reality are tools for stepping into the unknown. The notes of the song are a bridge from what is to what is not yet. --For more of the article, visit the following link -- John Foreman "What's in a Word?"

By Grace

A heart torn by grace to show what's inside
haughty intentions and selfish pride
blended with grime of sins long denied
...
oh, how I wish I could hide.

A heart cleansed by grace is brilliant with light
so my sins are revealed like fragments of night
yet love glows with fire that burns to make right
...
oh, what a glorious delight.

Upside Down

I thought that
up
was where to grow
and down was falling.

I learned that raising
up
those glistening flowers
was enthralling.

I strained to reach
up
and gain the fruit
harvesters were hauling.

And without roots
down
among the nutrients
and water flowing.

I tumbled
down
no fruit or flower
showing.

The shock broke
down
the blindness
of my knowing.

Branch-rooted
down
I drink
and count on growing.

...

Image:  "Rooted by Water" by Karen Eck

Purple Cow? Top this!

Purple Phoenix by me

Today my phoenix dyed her quills

her feathers now are royal frills

but I must say that I delight

in this new talent in my sight

of changing colors with a brush.

Oh, well, my phoenix now can blush

and I must say that she looks good

even in purple,...

as she should.

Cereal Boredom

A fascinating post "On Not Being Boring" at Harriet, the Poetry Foundation's Blog scraped a thought or two from the burnt edges of my long-held position that boredom is a choice. And since, with a little editing, it felt like poetry, I'll make up for this weekend's lack of posts today.

---

Everything
                    from
                              physics

               to

peanut butter
sandwiches                     

                       is boring

     .    . .

when       

the heart      desires

some indefinable          other-thing

 to

          be

                     delicately

         ladled

       through   the
seeking       
     tendrils

of interest        

or        

            pounded into the soul

with a shock              

of searing spike-laden          perspective.

But then,

                    this is voluntary
boredom.

. .

.  .   .          

..  .  .      .            

When left to our own devices,            

that is the time to  find dry twigs  of concept      

to rasp together    until  they  burst into     flame,   

 collect   moisture  from  gusts of  hot      air         

condensed on an  array of cool thoughts,         
brew a relaxing tea from dried ideas,          

then  sit  back  and  pity  those  who  are  not  so  resourceful.

......

Erm... I made an attempt at word-art. YOU tell me if there's a definable picture in there, okay? I'll let you know if you're right. Hmm... and now I'm thinking I might play with it digitally and make actual art so it's more obvious. I'll update this post with the image if I do ... but that probably won't be today.

Slave Child

Your name is unremembered
though we face you with respect
and wonder if we, too, would speak
and to such great effect.
We wonder at your faith
and the confidence revealed
as you stood before your mistress
and said Naaman could be healed.
You had a greater Master
who was holy in your sight
and you simply shared a story
that you thought would give her light.
Oh, child, how great an honor
to be part of that great tale
for you teach us all to say
the words far easier to veil.
We think that we are not believed
or what if we are mocked?
And our selfish hesitations
are the source of grand tales blocked.
For the budding of redemption
and the majesty of grace
begin with simple confidence
unveiled in its place.
And the living form within us
is more lovely than great art.
Your example, child? Courage to
flaunt the Healer in our hearts.

---

Yesterday's Sunday school lesson, combined with L.L. Barkat's challenge for RAP. "Choose a character from a book [...] Write a poem to [...] the character."
I'll have retreat-based poetry soon, too. But for now, everything is sinking deep and I'm pondering, so the results will come gradually.

Visual Play with Poetry

Here's a fun image, created by Wordle when I input my blog feed. A word-cloud of my blog content. Nifty!

In other news, I'm at a retreat with the women from my church this weekend, so hopefully I'll be back with a refreshed outlook and a few new poems to post late Saturday.

May I Introduce

... my dear friend, Justinian, an excellent poet and philosopher who has taken me up on my challenge to create a poetry blog.

Justinian is far more versed in classical knowledge than I, and you will find intricately woven references to history, philosophy, and mythology within the beautiful flow of his work. I highly recommend you visit his first posted poem and keep an eye on the future of "Delight and Glory and Oddity and Light."

Leave a comment on his blog, if you would, and enjoy interacting with him. You'll find yourself blessed, I'm sure.

Shattered and Built

I dropped it on the rock
this time on purpose
to see what would break
and ground
beneath my feet
the tacky grime
of its remains
and searched for gems
unbroken

this time
only the true portion
no super glue
or substitutes
honest brokenness
will cling
upon that rock
where the tide
sweeps away
the unsecured

perhaps this way
future construction
will last

...

Image: "Flake" - mine

Bubbles

 

Bubbles - 52 Week Photography Challenge

I live in mystery
where worlds and words
slip through one another
leaving the flavor
of their existence
so neither remains
what it once was
and both become

less
and
more

touch them
and they pop

a memory
imprinted
in sound

Clock

"Eternally Established" by Karen Eck

gears both large and small
in constant motion
sink their teeth
in time
and crease
indented notions
along lengthy, temporal wall

final turn
of greatest wheel
looms

one

final

cog

and we wonder
what will come

Winter's Spring

Winter's Spring,
a crystalline cover
budding on sleeping branches
black against the cool blue air
of ice and snow
and long-angled sunlight.
Morning frost
once flung by bitter wind,
delicate spikes
scooped from the breeze
by reaching fingers
in the dark of night,
a shimmering cloak
to capture dawn
in white.
This fleeting treasure
to the eyes
so quickly fades
beneath the touch of sun;
still glistens here
beneath my wondering gaze;
remains chill warmth
remembered by my heart.

---

Dead camera batteries ... so regretful.

Yesterday's drive to church was so lovely I cried at the beauty of it. What an awesome Artist we have to admire!

Invisible Wall

Out of step
a moment too soon, too late.
Pace back and forth
behind mile-thick glass
and reach to their warmth,
press through the pane
though separate they remain.
Sporadic rhythm
heart beat heart
their words a lost echo
in the chasm
past or future,
not now, no time.

I realize
it is a miracle
anyone came through at all.
You few
inside this strange blockade
who walked to my side
through the invisible wall.
And you crossed so easily.

So why are they
so far out of reach
as I strain to step over
and be a friend
beyond this boundary
defined
by all I never was?

---

I think I'll have to revisit this concept again, since this doesn't quite carry the thought.

Sound and Silence

It is in silence
most profound
where all we think
and all we know
fade to nothing.
Busy thoughts,
noise within,
coughs up words
dispelling quiet
and burning the air
upon reentry.
Silence, silence
oh, it is a mystery
concept.
There is no silence
within or without
for even death
has its scream.
Be still and know,
acknowledge,
this melody
flows from other-where.
It is the song
of stillness,
an unnatural tune
heard only
in the silence
of the heart.
Leave stifled construction
of self-made soul
and wander the deprivation
of the wilderness.
Find death
of transient ideas,
unfounded visions,
and skewed dreams
to be caught up
in the tangle
of mystery
and fed
to life
as a portion
of its sound.

Poetry and Air

The tangible and all we see
flow through an inner, unseen world
and wash back out through history,
souls portrayed in fragile words.
Breathe in the tang of fitting phrase
inundated with spice of thought
flavoring that inner place
where motives, dreams, and will are wrought.
Breathe out beauty, honey sweet,
and speak truth of grief and shame.
Wrap select phrases to sharp point,
prodding souls to live again.
A lack of air would soon be felt
by gasping lungs and darkened eyes,
yet with words all life was built,
we live on terms from this derived.
Cloaked or displayed, life's poetry
refreshes hearts too often stale.
Like the air the drift of phrase
can carry seeds or cause a gale.

--

For the Poetry and Wine Giveaway at Faith, Fiction, Friends.

Hannah's Self-Portrait

I came across Hannah's art while browsing through the entries of a contest we both entered. I loved her work and have enjoyed each new addition to her gallery since. This week, she outdid herself, however. Let me show you my newest favorite from her gallery and tell you a little about why I love it. Then, you can go browse her gallery and enjoy more of her work.


Selfportrait by ~bruuno on deviantART

I love the impression of the image:
- the tubes lead to somewhere, an implied source, and their link to the brain makes me think of creative connection
- the open mouth, ready to speak but incomplete, I think of all the ideas so hard to communicate, for which there really isn't enough of a voice to share
- the eyes, staring forward into the (beautifully colored) shadows that fill the space, looking for something within the layered darkness, perhaps, or simply waiting for the ability to pour texture and contrast into the darkness

Help from Afar

Healing Wounds by Karen Eck

There, there, your pain so far away
will touch my heart with just a sigh.
Rest, rest and sorrow for this day
and scream beyond the tears you cry.

Far, far you seem for dust and grime
touch not my fingers as I stare.
Wait, wait, calls conscience from within
do not imply that I don't care.

How, how strain hands far from your place
and arms that reach from distant clime?
What, what can I do to restrain
this agony that is not mine?

Move, move and never cease to strive.
Fail not to rise and offer gain.
Trust, trust that God will still provide
a resolution for the pain.

Cry, cry my heart and break my soul
for all the limits of my will.
Pass, pass the boundaries of space
and pray that empty place to fill.

Life Within

Life Within by Karen Eck

As caption for the image above ... "A dead heart gone; life installed that burns away the rotten flesh, replacing it with glowing health." And now, on to the thoughts that have been burning for the past few days since I finished this painting.

---

We take life for granted, the order and intent of existence, the structure so solid that we do not see it behind the artistry.

---

"Program Delete"

Imagine
Leaf, floats gently upon fitful breeze
stale, dry, released from dead branch
to drift over earth, ridges, grass
and hesitate, falling upon a face.
Eyes remain unseeing, unmoving
frozen, no rot or decay
for all that lived within
microbes, viruses, germs
have lost intent
and this face is unchanged
but for the leaf
and the grains of sand
dusting the immobile curves
once flexed by millions of impulses.
But deeper still the tissues lie
in perfect state apart from life
which now is gone.
Only a breath of intention
could start it all to live again.
Look, there, and there,
the laws still rule the wind
motion of sand
flow of water, gravity, atoms
molecules cling and separate.
Take away, then, these laws
holding the shape of existence
in their unknowable detail
and watch as the universe dissolves
no heat, light, motion, solidity,
all were patterns ruled by design
set in time and status.
Look upon the unstructured face
of the deepest, most formless darkness
and question
from whence came life?

Torpor - Word of the Day Poem

Pulse
Twitch
Throb
Sunlight plucks at curtain's edge
Ripple
Flutter
Flow
Shadows echo pattern, leaf
Breath
Slow
Soft
Pillow shaped beneath my form
Sink
Meld
Motionless
Moments among the plucking tendrils of life

Words

52 Weeks - 1 - Words by ~phoenix-karenee on deviantART

I'm trying to incorporate art into my "daily" posts, since I'm primarily an artist while poetry is play. This image is the first of a collection. The challenge is to choose a theme to tie the photos together, then to take a photo a week. My theme is "Words."

Thoughts and information drawn
from life and interaction,
poured from non-existence
through electric mental actions,
tracing paths between the tissues
of a place that's never seen,
prodding concepts from the grooves
that time engraved with dreams
...
How is it possible to play
among Truth's tendrils in this way?
For how it comes or how it goes
we do not think as outward flows
tongue or hand to ear and eye.
I wonder
...
Words
...
from where they fly?

Artist of ... this space in time

I encountered Brian Smith's art just a few months ago. Here is the first of his paintings I saw, and the one which instantaneously turned me into an avid fan.


Line of Sight by ~moldyb on deviantART

This painting captures my heart and fascinates my mind. There is a lot to think about in the imagery as combined with the title.

I feel a sense of raw openness, the flow of the inner into the outer world, and the rush of the outside gushing through the being, somehow both dangerous and delicate. I like the impression of muscle and form wrapped around gaping holes. There is no resolution of the quandary of the physical/spiritual nature of man shown here, it's just acknowledgment. And I love it.

Now, the reason I remembered to feature Brain's art today is because he just posted a new work, so go visit his gallery and explore! I'm sure if you like this piece you will find more to enjoy.

Up On the Box

Attack!
Lock on.
Insult or expression,
this cold shoulder
turned past high nose
into convoluted demands
hung up on the scent
of bleach
not blood.
Many pass,
insensitive to the barbs
of hooks baited
with stones
and sticks.
Stand up on the box
and wonder
...
Is He still inside?

Contrast

moth-nibbled, dust-frayed
sun-faded, charcoal-grayed
coffee-sopped
boot-kicked
mud-spattered
germ spit
polish, scrub, store, save
capture, keep
dream
...
grave

laughter, silence, love, tears
honor, giving
hope-touched fears
blessing, singing
open fall
corrected
humbled
joy
...
eternal


---

Hmmm... I had so many poems rushing around today. It's surprising that this is the one that decided to climb out my fingertips. Oh, well.

Image - "Parchment Sky" - because it seemed to suit the poem by color and impression.

Reconstructed

fine fragments play
rush and flow beneath the tide
pile high in glinting light
unstable castles
littered with shells
rotting detritus caught inside
capture, cleanse
flame, wind
melt, mold, finish
illuminate flaw
crush and compress
fragments sift, shaken
blend and raise
into burning heat
flow with guided spin
shimmer with light
beneath steady hand
set aside
patience
red rush falls
to pool
captured in
delicate construct
complete

Day-dream Edge

Angel Wing by ~phoenix-karenee on deviantART

I only want to see the butterflies

...

Not sharp-edged wings, cutting the air like a knife.

Give me the clouds firm enough to stand on
or a cloak of feathers and sunlight
so I can fly free

No...
I don't want to see
Let me shut my eyes
So I won't know
I hurt the sky.

Did you think?

Did you think I was strong
because I try to be?
or wise because I've been taught wisdom?
Did you think I was brave
because I wish I were
and able to trudge forward alone?
Did you think I could love
through anything
because I choose to do so?
Did you think I was something
instead of nothing
for your own dreams or my own?
Did you think?
Or do you just
Desire.

Vision Adapts

This perspective
that opinion
dragging on
...
one side
or
the other
...
always
focused on
one objective

This direction
up or down
depending
this time
...
flying
or
sinking
...
hand
reaching
a surface
inspection

Vision adapts
with a Guide