So in case you are wondering why I have a NaPo post in May, I couldn’t do NaPo in April so I’m joining Aberdeen and some others in doing an informal one this month.  The first night I jumped out of bed at 11:45 p.m. to write a poem; Day Two is about a tree in our front yard; on the third day I made my first foray into free verse; and last night I typed the final words at exactly midnight.  My procrastinatory brain (is that a word?) is having a lot of fun with this little adventure.


(All photo credit to my dad)

Day One

I can’t see before me,
Only the past
I find myself dreaming
Of things that don’t last
Before me the clouds
And inscrutable night
And a goal, and a prize,
And incarnated Light

Day Two

The tree bleeds golden from a hundred wounds,
Dripping with the memories it holds –
Of children gazing into amber drops,
Imagination turning it to gold;
A young boy running by, hatchet in hand,
Swinging it to know that he’s alive;
A young man trying to perfect his aim
With three sharp silver throwing knives.
And still it stands and still the evening sun
Sets fire to the green crown upon its height,
And all along the sturdy weathered trunk
The amber sparkles in the dying light.

Day Three

Just to clarify, “they” are the Old Testament priests.  I had thought I made it clear, but looking back over it I realize it was kind of confusing.  I was trying to portray the difference between the temporary sacrifices of the Old Testament priests and the one, all-time sacrifice of our High Priest.

There was always blood.
It dripped, spattered, poured,
Staining the ground,
The stench filling the air.

Their robes were always stained with it,
The crimson blotches the one thing
That made them white –
But only for a day.

It never ended.
The flash of a knife,
The cry of a lamb,
And always, always blood.

His robes were white like theirs,
And there was no blood
That could make them any whiter.
For some it was too bright.

And so His blood flowed,
Dripped, spattered, poured,
Staining the cruel wood,
The stench filling the air.

“It is finished.”
The crimson tide poured over our stained robes
And made them white

Day Six

He stood at the helm,
Silent and stern
Just one lonely ship
Past the chance of return.
Ever watching his goal,
Like a sentinel lion
And still ever far,
So far from the horizon.

One tear traced a path
On his brown weathered face,
As the memories took him
Far away from that place.
But still he gazed forward
And thought he was flying
As the wind in his sails
Drove him toward the horizon.

Now he thought he could catch
In his hand molten stars,
All around him the deep
Was alight with their sparks.
And he watched the sky fall,
As he knew he was dying,
And he finally gazed
Out beyond the horizon.


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