Curse Those Sour Grapes

Poor souls, they reach for gilded grapes,

Their noses twitch at promised scents.

Mocked and scorned by foolish apes,

Their flagging courage quick escapes.

Alas, their outer shell prevents,

Their hands from touching grand events.

Curse those sour grapes.

We scoff their less-than-splendid shapes,

Such slow, and fat, and useless lumps.

Whilst our attractiveness we traipse,

Our heartless banter tears and rapes

Their little heart that barely pumps.

And all we do is mock those “frumps.”

Curse those sour grapes.

And when to our naïve surprise,

One useless frump unfolds her wings,

We stare.  Her colors mesmerize.

She shames us, throws off her disguise,

Rejects belated offerings.

“One day you’ll learn to see,” she sings.

Curse

         those sour

                         grapes.

Gifts, Abandoned

Dusty, lonely, forgotten, I wait,

Here in the corner 

For you.

Wanting to feel you touch me, I wait,

Here in the corner

For you.

Lost in my memories to pass time away,

Here in the corner

I wait.

Silently wishing you might glance my way,

Here in the corner . . .

There was a time when you loved me, I think,

Far from the corner

I fill.

Where are your thoughts and your loving?  I think,

Far from the corner

I fill.

I am the art and work of your hands,

Here in the corner

I am.

I am the brushes, the pencils.  Please look

Here in the corner . . .

Piled and stuffed, disorganized mess,

Here in the corner

I wait.

Where have you gone, my creator?  I guess,

Far from the corner

I have.

Dusty, lonely, forgotten, I wait,

Here in the corner

For you.

I am your talent, abandoned to time,

Here in the corner . . .

Commune

Remind me, Lord; I’m listening. 

Not often does my buzzing brain,
So rushed and full of life mundane,
From all the spinning thoughts abstain . . .
I’m listening.

While I am still and You are not,
Remind me, Lord, of who you brought,
Through many trials, for I forgot . . .
I’m listening. 

Remind me, Christ, of broken chains,
Healing rivers from Your veins,
Crimson washing crimson stains . . .
I’m listening. 

Spirit, while I am subdued,
Take my soul; it needs renewed,
Change my selfish attitude . . .
I’m listening. 

Washed in precious memory,
Sweet Communion, You and me,
Tell me of eternity . . .
I’m listening. 

Remind me, Lord; I’m listening.

Day 14

Day 14

March 14th, 2009

30-Day Challenge

Picture submitted by Cerena Humphreys

Basic idea blurted out by a very tired Mike after I told him my idea, and then I laughed at it, and then expanded it, because I’m tired (I am, by the way, feeling a little . . . wordy . . . today)

We Traverse Afar

The smell of camel, of horse, of sweat, and of spices mingle in the heavy air.  They move forward, leaving an invisible trail of odors behind them, as well as a visible trail of many prints.  They are a small company, only a few wise men and their faithful servants.  They carry with them enough money for a long trip, as well as supplies of food and water for several months.  Unsure of how long they must travel, or even where, they carry with them weapons and maps, as well.  After all, their most precious cargo must arrive untouched to their final destination.  They check, every so often, to make reassure their weary minds that the gifts still lay in peace—gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

 

They travel for nearly two months, through cities, towns, and villages.  Sometimes, people watch them go by, suspicion in their eyes.  They don’t trust foreigners, and especially the kind with skin so dark and costume so exotic.  Some of the foreigners even have beards, combed with scented oils.  Mostly, people watch them go by in awe.  Men of the Orient rarely come this far.  Whispers travel among the people, and many come out to watch the caravan wander through the streets at night.  Why do they travel at night?  More whispers sweep across the city.  Men of the Orient sleep during the day, and travel at night.  Smiling secretly, the wise men keep their thoughts to themselves.  Oddly enough, traveling through the cities is the nice part of their journey.  Here, at least, they may send their servants during the day to buy and barter for supplies.

When they travel the wilderness their tempers are tested.  Many days of shorter rations make shorter tempers.  Some nights, they yell at each other for fear that some misinterpretation has occurred, and they have been follow the wrong star.  The nights are bitter cold, and sleeping in the heat of the day makes them sweaty and disgruntled.  They must fight off, every so often, wild animals like wolves and lions.  They must also fight off thieves, for their wealth has not gone unnoticed.  Fight they do, and their cargo survives, if their health does not.  One servant falls ill, and they must carry his useless weight, as well as stop at the nearest town for medicines.  They eagerly look forward to arriving in Jerusalem, where they will once again find the comforts of society.

When they do arrive in Jerusalem, they begin asking the people, for they know they are nearing their goal.  “Where is the one who has been born King of the Jews?  We saw his star in the east and have come to worship him,” they ask, and they say.  No one knows, and everyone fears to answer.  Word reaches the ears of King Herod who, unbeknownst to the wise men, is a most jealous monarch.  He calls them in secret, and interrogates them feverishly.  “When did this star appear?” he questions.  They tell him, and he changes his demeanor, as if thinking.  “Go and make a careful search for the child,” he tells them, “As soon as you have found him, report to me, so that I too may go and worship him.”  But these are wise men, and they are not fooled.  They assure the petty ruler that they will return, and leave to renew their search.

The star appears more brightly than ever, and they follow it to a house.  The angle tells them that they have arrived to the exact place where the King lays.  Although they have not oiled their beards, or changed into their best clothes, they enter the house.  Within they find a father and his wife, and in her arms, a baby.  The many months of hardship have paid off at last, for here is the King of Kings . . .

Tamara snapped out her reverie, perched atop her stubborn camel.  She kicked her legs against its flanks, only managing to elicit an annoyed flick of its ears.  She glanced at her friend, who seemed to be having the same kinds of problems.  The lines of an old Christmas song came to her.  “Bearing gifts, we traverse afar.”  She sighed and muttered, “They went through so much, and here I can’t get to yonder pyramid.”  She huffed, and her camel spit.

Day 13

March 13th, 2009

30-Day Writing Challenge

Picture submitted by:  Mark Adamson

Bees

Siren, I, with flawless stealth,

Watch me gather all my wealth.

From bud to bud I move and dance,

Kissing each, a swift romance.

Yet each affair will help me mold

My liquid reservoir of gold.

Comes the Master, ope’s the door,

And takes away my golden store.

Now that he read the poem he had written, it didn’t seem fair.  Not fair at all.  Poor bees; they probably didn’t have a clue as to why every so often, their honey was harvested and they had to build up a new reservoir of honey.  David looked out the window at the beehives.  They were swarming.  He shrugged.  Most likely, they didn’t even care.  Bees would live from moment to moment, driven by instinct to harvest pollen and make honey.  He flopped down on his bed and stared up at the ceiling, pondering life and its bitterness.

Being a poet tended to make him a little melodramatic about things.  He loved thinking of tragedies-- they held incredible emotional force.  There was just something inescapable about a character who has lost a loved one, and especially one that was very close for many years.  The irreversible nature of death made the poignancy sustainable through an entire story.  Characters who fell into depression and sought the irreversible escape of death, themselves, were a favorite to him.

And yet, he knew that he would never wish that upon anyone, not even himself.  His best friend, Kara, had lost her father, and he had marveled to see her attitude of self-adjustment.  Although she had loved her father very much, she pushed on, because she needed to.  She had told him, once, that she had considered suicide, perched at the top of a high building.  Vertigo had made her pull back, and she had realized that her death would only add to the death of her father.  If she died, too, how much more pain would she cause?  Would she cause more deaths?  She had decided that her only true escape lay in life.  He had asked her if it didn’t hurt anymore.  She had gazed at him somberly.  “It always hurts,” she said simply, “But you learn to live with it.”

David rolled over on his side.  Life didn’t seem fair to him, most of the time.  Perhaps that was why he loved tragedy so very much.  It seemed easier to him to embrace it, like Kara had.  He thought about the honeybees that his father kept.  They lived from day to day, not caring about the fairness of life, never dredged down by philosophy or memory.  He so very badly wanted to be a bee.  When something was taken from him, he wanted to move on as if nothing had happened.  He wanted instinct to kick in and make him work, rest, and exist in a state free of complications.  Yet here he was, a young man of fifteen, full of too many thoughts and feelings and experiences.  He stared ahead dully.  “Stupid boy,” he told himself, “You’re too melodramatic.”

A soft knock at the door failed to make him move.  The knob turned and the door creaked open.  “David?” asked a familiar voice.  “Are you in there?”  Kara stepped inside and walked over to him.  Gently, she kneeled beside his bed, near to where he had his head.  She laid one of her hands on his hair and brushed it aside so that she could look at his eyes.  “David?”  He closed his eyes so that he didn’t have to see her.  She had that look of empathy in her eyes, and he didn’t want it.  But he couldn’t shut out her voice.  “David, it’s almost time for the funeral.  I . . .”  She paused for a long time.  “I know it’s hard.”  And then she waited.  He realized that she would wait as long as it took.

He breathed in very deeply, sucking in as much air as he could, and then he released it slowly.  When he had finished, he opened his eyes and looked at her.  She hadn’t moved.  He nodded.  “I’m ready.”

They went out to meet his older brother and, together, they all went to watch David’s mother and father be buried beside each other.