This feels wordy and cumbersome to me; I suppose I need to find some better words so I can use fewer of them. I can’t stay up fiddling with it any more, so here’s a poem for the eighth day of Lent.
Bedside vigil
to the suffering, death is an angel
whose feather-soft hands smooth
lines from the face and untie
knotted muscles
to the watcher, waiting, death
is a cloud shadow that leaves
the landscape radiant
when it passes
Sometimes a poem takes me somewhere I didn’t plan to go. This is one of those poems.
Hearing loss
most days it is difficult to listen, to remember
that the world was spoken into being
sounds of our busy-ness drown out
those words that still echo
in the vibration of atoms: Let there be—
It is good.
I wrestled with this prompt quite a bit; several pages of my notebook are filled with half-formed ideas that may someday yield poems. This one just popped into my head as I was putting away groceries at the end of the day.
Out of phase
the kingdom is all
around, so close it touches
each cell, each moment
deeper than air
or water or light, thicker
than blood or bone
or grief – it saturates
everything, if only
we perceive it
This is my poem for the fifth day of Lent.
Transgress (verb)
usually transitive, the act of stepping across
the line (most commonly) to go beyond
a limit of some kind, a boundary
violation
but sometimes intransitive, a sort of yielding
where the earth’s surface gradually sinks
beneath the level of adjacent ocean
and drowns
I have one quibble with this list of Lenten prompts: it includes Sundays, which is confusing, if not downright misleading. Sundays that fall during the season of Lent are in Lent but not of Lent – they are not included in the 40 day count leading up to Easter. In recognition of that, I did not write a poem today. But I will post the poem I wrote yesterday, which was the fourth day of Lent.
The parable of the sower
these words fall on my heart
seed on snow in deepest
winter and the birds fall in turn
upon them, ravenous and puffed for warmth
mice tunnel beneath the icy crust
venture the garden to find
what seed that might escape
the flurry of feathers
come spring, thistle and sunflower
and millet and safflower spring unbidden
marking the spot where in winter
good news fell
As part of my Lenten observance this year, I’ve decided to write a poem each day in response to a list of prompts. This is the prompt (and poem) for the third day of Lent, which was yesterday; it took longer getting here than I expected.
Sign
Watching M*A*S*H, I see that iconic
post bristling in the middle of the camp
with signs that say, “You are not here,”
embodiment of the dislocated denizens’
fervent prayer to be anywhere
else.
The signpost from the M*A*S*H set, as seen in the Smithsonian museum. Photo taken and released into the public domain by Stephen Williamson.
As part of my Lenten observance this year, I’ve decided to write a poem each day in response to a list of prompts compiled by several Lutheran mission territories (also called synods). Today is the second day of Lent.
Proclaim
a fast from guilt, a season
of abstinence from beating
oneself up, from lying
awake nights to relive every lapse
in judgment, every hasty
word, every inaction
to repent means to go a different
direction, not to retrace one’s
missteps
Several mission territories of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America have created a photo-a-day event to mark the Lenten season, which begins today, Ash Wednesday. I’ve decided that my Lenten discipline this year will be to use the prompts to write a poem each day.
Lent Begins
today I will give up
shame over my inadequate
housekeeping and see instead
my home dusted in grace, its corners
draped with filaments of mercy
The Lutheran church I belong to is part of the mission territory called the Indiana-Kentucky Synod. This year they’ve created a photo-a-day event to mark the Advent season, with a different theme word for each day. Being a poet and not a photographer, I’ve taken a small liberty with the idea. 
Darkness
falls in soft folds, settles
into corners, wraps in muffled
layers that I tuck around
myself for the warm comfort
of unknowing
I’m a couple days late in posting this — Sunday 30 November was actually the first day of Advent — but I decided it was better to post late than not to post at all.
Advent 3
sometimes you gotta wait
for it: the punch
line, the other
shoe to drop, and even
when you know
it’s coming, it still catches
you by surprise
The Daily Compost 