Little Flowers

“Not too many poets has it been given…to live one of their own poems.”
(G.K. Chesterton, St Francis of Assisi)

If I would be Francis, troubadour to God,
before I can sing Creation’s canticles, I must tend
to the sleeping children in my room
and die again, again to the self
that craves to be higher than them.
Only then can poetry shine,
until then being only words.

Lent: Man of Sorrows 6

And keep –
    keep me, keep watch, keep hope.
The pains that crush me are like pricks beside
Your agony, and yet
          You hold
arms out as though to gather in
more pain, more shame, and thus
           more me.
Man of sorrows,
        what a name,
        what a scheme
  that stretches out the heavens
  yet does not scorn these nails.
                                               Take
my proud sobbing, my heart’s throbbing; take
all my attempts to rise with Self.
Enfold me in Your scars and sing
      Your grace
    through endless days.

Lent: New Song 2

When morning bright awakens eyes:
     awaken tongue; awaken mind.
When birdsong sounds the new of day:
     sing, soul and heart; sing new pathways.
When yesterday creeps back to minds:
     awaken, spirit; transform flesh.
When patterns threaten, dead songs groan:
     listen, heart, to Spirit’s song.
Turn the sounds of self to silence;
     lift up selfless praise.