Guest Blogger: Lydia Smith

I apologize for the delay this week in presenting my guest blogger.  She is one of my favorite people in this wide world.  Talking with her has always been like drinking from deep streams of water.  She is one of those people who dances in the rain and writes beautiful poetry.  She has a fantastic blog that you can request an invite to.
   So without further ado...Lydia Smith







wandering

thoughts

meander along the labyrinthine routine

of this night day clock

it's a bit confusing
but i see you there

waiting
smiling

seeing

what do you see?

that i don't

my head feels fuzzy

until i find myself embraced by this night's

blanket

i want to be cozy

but i must step out onto the gnarly rocks

that push me towards the waves

of tomorrow's change

Dear Intercessor by Angie Valli

Dear Intercessor,

Hope for me.

When I have nothing left and cannot go on.

Hope for me.

That I might remember what it feels like to be hopeful.

When I am depleted and dry,

When I am drowning and drunk,

BE my strength and remember my good.

Wish I could be better,

Know that I can.

Hold me 

Because I am heavy-

In my heart

In my head

And I am dying-

In this scotch

In this pipe

In my sin

Pray for me

And let me sleep on the wings of your faith

So I can be close to God in this moment.

Don’t let me go

It is lonely in the dark

And I have no hope for myself.

Let me borrow from you.

Strengthen me with your will

So I can be strong and safe.

Speak for me

When I have no words

That I might believe-

In myself

In Love

In second chances

Note from Angie:

I would not be where I am today if there had not been people who have spent countless hours speaking to God on my behalf. It is because of God’s love and their love and obedience to Him that I am even alive. Intercessory prayer is no joke. Sometimes people can’t speak for themselves or don’t know how. When we pray for others, we not only speak for them, we hope for them. We show them what hope looks like and this is important because some people have never seen it. I pray that my faith is strong and plentiful because there may be some who need to lean on it as I have leaned on the faith of others.

Shasta Lake by J.R. Dietrich

I am honored to welcome J.R. Dietrich as our guest blogger today.  He is an artist in a multitude of mediums and an incredibly gifted teacher.  He is perhaps most importantly (to me at least) my dad and I love his poem that he chose to share with us today.

"We are told that all creation tells the glory of God...but are we listening?"

Shasta Lake

I

The flutter and flap of the canvas awning echoes the lapping water.

Pines and sweet potato banks light up in the cool sunrise

Rise to the peels and sketch wild blackberries for breakfast

II

Cold night sleeping compasslike

head to the full moon, feet pointing to the big dipper, pondering true north.

You kept me warm last night with the softest down and silk from your youth

III

The wind tugged and poked at my blue shroud

all night till the blue mountains went purple.

The sunrise calmed my fears while my sail luffed gently in the wind

IV

Less breeze, more cold,

the down has slipped and the silk won’t warm

Wake up and fluff the feathers under moonshadows

Interlude

What a surprise to see bats and butterflies

one in the night twilight skies and

the other among the pines.

Mr. redhead sharpbeak

touch of the berry in the garland pine

a little taste of the cardinal thinking cap

your call betrays you

as counterfeit

a summer clown

with snow striped wings you

bob on your air sled

to the next holiday meal.

A helix of six vultures

wingtips transparent in the sun

swoop and lift like the DNA chain of a zephyr

Searching lack of movement

smell of death

black like

their own bodies closing

the chain of life.

V

A man should know the night sky like he should know the phases

of the moon and the constellations as they wander westward following the sun

A man should be able to look into blackness and see the light shining through.

VI

The geese awake me.

A vaporous serpent swallows

Mars and steps over the gibbous moon (she and Venus can not be eaten.) 

A mourning dove murmurs for her mate,

lost now almost a year.

A line of crows (or starlings) rides a current in a single undulating line

then like a waterfall descend into the waking horizon.

A pair of kites silently squabble

then rise to the smiling moon.

VII

The dove again mourns the

waking day and the decay of mystery.

Up the ravine, shadows fall

unveil footsteps of harts.

I follow them to the flat where

goosedown gathers and waterwalkers skate

upon the mirrored lake.

The tumble of water almost drowns out the bees

as they forage among the orange and yellow.

VIII

A lone hummingbird rescued from the fall

now tastes the sweet nectar of sunrise and

two dragonflies become one...

Firewood Production

Does everyone love the seasons as much as a New Englander does? 

When I was in elementary school I wrote a poem called, “The War of Winter” and submitted it to a contest where it received honorable mention.  I loved that poem.  I wish I still had it... I guess it is a little funny that I regard the height of my literary career to be 2nd grade.  But don’t worry I haven’t given up writing poems about the seasons.  I mean, I am a New Englander after all.

This is a poem some of my favorite memories from childhood.  I wrote it as an undergraduate but that I still return and tinker with it every fall.  

Firewood Production

Opening Night begins 

When it is too dark to haul anymore.

Once a cord of wood is stacked,

The man removes his splintered gloves,

And slaps the wood chips 

To welcome

The dispossessed spiders  

Who rearrange themselves within the logs. 

The moon polishes the axe,

Like spectacles.

At last, he waxes

His philosophical introduction.

The stump sings ballads,

Accompanied by 

The moan of  mushrooms 

Mingled with decomposing leaves

Applause from squirrels,

Seated in the skunk cabbage,

Rises to the box seats.

From a fire lit window, I call

“Encore!”

As the curtain of snow falls.

What?! No poetry?

I was adding labels to all of my posts from 3 years ago and I had several epiphanies as I sorted through the work.  I realized, to my surprise, that I did not post any poetry.  Not mine.  Not anyone's.  I love poetry.  I do.  Some find it esoteric or a bygone beauty but I love it and can think of no better way to vent my emotions.  Granted it is easy to write bad poetry full of good emotion.  And I do, write a lot of abysmal poetry with great emotion.  But amidst all that some worthwhile raw material has surfaced.  For example, there is a poem that I wrote 10 years ago about the love of my life. I still return to it and tinker because I love the subject, the genre and the challenge of writing within the rules.   So, without further ado I present for the first time ever, in public, a sonnet by me:

Before I met my love, a boy wore pain

In fields to pluck the pipes of life from soil.

His freckled face alight with sweat and strain

He learned the trade from hands once soaked in oil

The work had turned them black as time’s result

A permanent reminder showing true

The calloused grin despite his life’s tumult

His beard the crimson sign of strength he grew.

I never knew the hands or beard in life

I see only the hue your cheeks retain

From sun and hay within the land of strife

I thirst for words inside and wish through pain

To meet to man who taught the boy to give

His hands, his bearded smile, his will to live.