Saturday, May 31, 2008


Rack me, God, and from my lips draw strings;
fine, fourteen-ply, and stranded with my breath.
Weave a cat's-cradle with my reluctant fingers
capturing fragments of truth like fish in nets.
These are not gifts to be asked for, these are tests:
scarlet sunlit clouds that burn and sting,
loving touches that tender what remains unsaid,
cold cries of the wild geese northbound winging.
Bind me at last on my Procrustean bed.
Cut short a foot, stretch unwilling limbs
to perfect measure; Lord, I sweat
under the yoke, struggle for discipline.
Give over, now. God is blessed
and so praise Him.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside


Linda - Nickers and Ink said...

Love the sense of fulfillment at the end.

Praise Him indeed!


BELL CURVE, at Nickers and Ink

Rae Trigg said...

This poem really resonates with me.

Jamie said...

Beautiful. Sometimes the hardest task of all is letting go and turning the job over to an expert.

the teach said...

Beautiful job! Inspiring! :D

Sandee (Comedy +) said...

What Jamie said. Have a great Manic Monday. :)


Great poem filled with jarring and visceral imagery; poignant insight into your spirituality. Thanks for the daring openness.