Easter–Day 2: Restless

"You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in you."  —St. Augustine


My period can’t figure out
whether it’s going to start
or not, one more thing
reminding me of my hovering
job search, my life
on pause.
The wind is blowing outside,
great whooshes of power
gusting, swirling dead leaves,
no live ones as yet.
The turbine on the roof,
bent from a hurricane,
whirls in a bumpy fashion,
as if we had upstairs neighbors,
humping with abandon.
I can’t decide what to do next,
though much of it is nothing
worthy of such indecision.

The Spirit never promised

peace, only sighs.

Cynthia E. Robinson © 2013

Were you there

When she felt alone,

unknown, adrift
in the dark spaces between us?                            

When he grabbed the gun,

swallowed the pills,
huffed a noxious puff,
poured out his blood
into the bathtub?

Were you there

on the bedroom floor,
kitchen linoleum,
bathroom tile,
after the fist, the belt, the knife?

Were you there

when the cashier dropped her hand,
pushed the alarm two seconds
too slow?
When the deal went bad,
or the heart roiled with revenge?
 
Bless those who will
meet up with the cross tonight,
whose darkness has not yet
known a dawn so bright
it could bring us back from death.


(c) Cynthia E. Robinson 2013

Good Friday world

Craigie Aitchison, Crucifixion, 1998

Ever feel like
the bogeyman is just
around the corner?
All the time?
God can’t stop it.
You know it,
I know it.
As for Psalm 91,
'no evil shall befall you'
residing in the palm of God's hand:
Forget about your foot
being dashed by
a silly stone.                                                             

We whiz through space
while meteors hurl their way
through fragile atmosphere, storied glass,            
flesh and dirt.
God lives
to disturb
as much as comfort,                         
provoke as much as heal.
The incarnation
wasn’t just about
sheep-and-goat morality.
Who do you think was
testing Jesus in the desert
but his rabbi-father-adversary?
Makes a whole lot more sense of
that ‘love your enemies’ thing.
The cross
in all its shame and neglect,
wouldn’t have happened
if God hadn’t walked away
like the rest of us.

Cynthia E. Robinson © 2013

One day out of forty

         (a poem for Lent) 
                                                             

There are times

I so want to
be bad—
smoke a cigar or pipe,
swear without regret,
another Scotch,
just one hit,
stay in bed till noon,
say exactly what I think
feel
know
doubt
wonder
question,
though it may be
my quickest way to hell.
Didn’t Jesus deign
to descend,
rescue the lost
forgotten ones,
willfully bad or those 
who just stumbled from despair?

Don’t write when
you’re buzzed.
You’ll think
it’s the only way
to unearth yourself,
speak your truth.
In the sober morning
you think
you should throw this away
but you won’t.
Waste just might be
the main course
of redemption.

© Cynthia E. Robinson 2013

Spam...a lot of spam

 

Earlier in November a friend of mine turned 50 and his birthday party was last night (hey, why take any chances?).  Like me, he is an ardent fan of Monty Python, so I put together some favorite bits into a poem of sorts and read it to the gathered assembly (many thanks to the Internet Movie Database - I couldn't have done it without you.)  Oh, and you must read this out loud with your loudest, most obnoxious Cockney accent, or it won't mean diddley.  I began with these words:

Many of you may not know that all you need to know about turning 50 can be found in the wisdom of the collected works of Monty Python.  And so, in that spiggot...

Poem for Pete (Actually It’s Not a Poem - Just a Bunch of Cobbled Bits,

Rather Like Spam but Not Quite as Tasty)

I’m rather impressed you’re here.

You’re not afraid to be jibed in nasty ways.
Not the least bit scared to be mashed to a pulp
Or have your eyes gouged out or your elbows broken
Or your kneecaps split, your body burned away,
and your limbs all hacked and mangled.

(I mean, this is abuse.  If you’re looking for an argument, that’s down the hall.  Stupid git!)

Turning 50 can be dangerous business

But you know it’s only a flesh wound.
Everyone else says “Run away, run away!”
No shame in bravely turning tail and fleeing
Or turning about valiantly and chickening out
Sneaking away and buggering off, pissing off home,
Bravely throwing in the sponge.
Others avert their eyes, like those miserable psalms,
Always so depressing, but not you!
You’re a King, no shit all over you!
Using two halves of a coconut that you found and banging them together,
Never mind the swallow that carried them by the husk, beating its wings 43 times every second,
You’re on a quest!

(Even though strange women lyin' in ponds distributin' swords is no basis for a system of government.   We all know that supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farcical aquatic ceremony.

Just because some watery tart threw a sword at you,
I mean, some moistened bint lobbed a scimitar at me, they'd put me away.)

But you, you’re on a quest!

No cutting down trees with herrings for you!
No shrubberies, swamp castles, silly English k-nig-hits, no indeed!
You want to be…a lumberjack!  Sleep all night and work all day. 
And I thought you were so rugged – poofter!

So look on the bright side of life!

Not like you’re being sold for scientific experiments.
And by the way, at your age, every sperm IS sacred.

Turning 50?

‘Tis but a scratch.