Is there a quota for mercy? Do they give it to the younger angels, take their hands on clear mornings, and steer them to the edges of clouds where they can peer over the banks into the depths of blue beneath. All our little prayers bubbling up to be popped by small celestial palms crumb dusted from the mercy their mothers have parcelled out so they can toss it to the mortals below. And do some of us know the places to stand on those clear mornings where the young ones chatter and rustle their down like tissue. Which ones crumble mercy to dust so it falls evenly and ripples far, the others who wodge their palms into pebbles that punch through but settle far too soon. Who’s voice calls them home. Mary Mother of God have mercy, mercy on us all Vertigo & Ghosts by Fiona Benson
I gathered the stones myself, stacked them before you like a temple offering, my skin the sacrifice as I bared it inch by inch and asked for a blessing you denied me until the pile was fragments and my flesh peppered with your approval.
I was raised in stone built churches on country lanes. Visited four or five times a year, more often late than on time, flanked by my parents and sister. I prefer the old hymns to the new, the silence of reverence to the cries of praise from a congregation, and the arch of oak beams far above me, over the neat square faces of twentieth century municipal buildings thrown up in towns. My Grandmother would say that God is always with her, no matter the place. When I told her I wasn’t sure I believed in him, she explained how he came to her whenever she was in need. How each time she opened herself to him, he was there. Even though she failed to seek him out when the storm clouds passed. I envied that faith when my own was a rickety boat threatening to drown me at sea. Elizabeth The First is quoted as saying she did not want to make windows into men’s souls. I have to take sides with her about …
Excommunicated. Their words, her faith, his demons.
Be it fair or be it wet, sun’s up St. Switun. Forty days of what await?
Fire Worshipper “Fire worshipper,” they breath, seeing only burn and crackle nothing more than flames. “Fire worshipper,” they breath, no time to dig deeper, ask more of things unknown. “Fire worshipper,” they breath, so secure in just one faith, no time for the others. “Fire worshipper,” they breath, forgetting that those fires casts a longer shadow.
Now I had to hunt for this piece or writing, and I mean hunt. It’s easy to forget how much I’ve written on this blog over the past couple of years. Even stranger when I stumble across blog posts that read like the words of another person! But anyway: Belief Will there be a day, when legend and mythology become the final refuge of Christianity? I wrote this little piece last year for NaPoWriMo, a challenge I intend on taking up again next month when it rolls around. For those of you who don’t know what NaPoWriMo is, it’s National Poetry Writing Month where poets attempt to write at least one poem each day, every day for the entire month of April. It’s great fun and a really useful writing exercise. This piece however, works quite well for today’s Daily Prompt. In history you need to be able to back up your beliefs with evidence. You can’t just claim that something happened, you need documents that support what you’re saying and you need to …
I am trying to write a Haiku for every day of this month. I wrote Summer Birds on the first day, yesterday I wrote: Leaf mulch and bare bark. Faith went the way of Winter without Spring for hope. and today I have: You’re my thunder dusk following heat clogged daylight. I listen for you. I find writing haikus a little bizarre. Why? I don’t actually know if I like them… Haikus never feel as if they hold enough when I read them of write them. I can find some crackers and think “wow! I really like that!” But it remains the same for the vast majority of haikus, I simply feel that they don’t suit me. So I’m trying to write one every day for a month to see if my opinion changes. How about yourselves? Are there any poetic or prosaic forms that simply stick in your pen? I would be interested to hear if anyone else finds themselves in a similar situation.
We cluttered stone angels around your headstone, in the hope, that even if our faith had been misplaced, they would be real enough to keep you company, and displace the bitterness we soaked into your final peace, when we gave our last goodbyes and prayed to one we thought selfish.
You begged for forgiveness With scrapped up knees, And I stood on my steeple With nothing to steady me. The hollow of your words Drowned out these chapel bells And I struggled not to slip, Knowing you wouldn’t catch me if I fell. If the air is too thin, Then why does it seem That here I can think! While with you I can’t breathe? These lines between lies, They blur into truth! And the crows in the graveyard, They recognize your tune. The magic of the bard, A lair’s way with words. They wait for fresh meat, For me to fall at your feet. So you must sew up forgiveness, Stitch it to my lips, And have me recite it Edit out my slips or quips You apologies for lying, You never meant to cheat And though I’ll nod along, Mimic your rhythm and the beat- My acceptance is falsehood As much as any of your deceits.