do not ask me who God is

I am a poet and in some other age, a mystic
do not ask me who God is
if you are looking for answers of stone and mortar
I will give you a God of ghosts and metaphors
always appearing just over the next horizon
or inside the deepest pockets of your own soul

I am a woman and in some other age, a witch
do not ask me who God is
if you are looking for the dividing line between fact and fiction
but if you are willing to weave abbey ruins with stars
I will tell you that God is the music of legends
a darkness that burns your eyes with love

International Women’s Day Synchroblog

I’m reposting this poem today in honour of International Women’s Day and as part of the synchroblog on biblical women that Julie Clawson has organized.

Bathsheba
your silence screams at me tonight
as though begging to be given a voice
your betrayal stands in stark contrast
to the brief facts listed under your name
as though your thoughts were unimportant
unnecessary to a history of kings
you weren’t the first
and how many thousands came after you
not even mentioned
the injustice done to them forgotten
worse, condoned
worse yet, justified
the fault their own for being beautiful
did your mother curse God
when she saw your face
did she know it would kill your husband and your son
your body suddenly a battleground
did you blame yourself
because the king could do no wrong
or did you live with anger
burning just below the surface
if I gave you voice
what would you say?

Here are a few of the posts in this synchroblog:
Julie Clawson on The God Who Sees
Kathy Escobar on standing up for the nameless and voiceless women
Eugene Cho on Lydia
Pam Hogeweide on the secret weapon of teenage girls

If you’re interested you can find a longer list of links here.

fertility

the reminder
brown first
faint warning of blood
so many hues of red and eggplant
impossible that only half humanity knows
that mystery exists inside
tangible
alarming

I am capable of miracles

discovery

there is only dust left now
fine and faintly silver
I am afraid to breathe
afraid to disturb the ancient sleep
of long buried beliefs
silent now for centuries
crumbling slowly beyond
all recognition
[though sometimes if I imagine
hard enough
a faint outline appears
I can almost grasp its meaning]
the divine tangible now
on this disenchanted altar
an eerie choir of angels and echoes
sings just beyond the range of sound
catch myself humming a tune
I’ve never heard before

when I turn around
she’s standing there
waiting
half angry
at my reverence for shadows
I have no way of knowing
how long she has been there
waiting
for me to notice

but then
it doesn’t matter
not really
not at all

inner gypsy

I borrowed the phrase “inner gypsy” from my friend Kerianne’s jewelry business: Inner Gypsy Design at www.innergypsydesign.com

I move even in my dreams
following some inner gypsy
a restless muse
always just around the next corner
I can hear her sometimes
laughing a siren song
of black starry nights
on lonely hills
dusty winds blowing
patterns in forgotten dunes
and sometimes I find
a lost bangle
as though she’s left me
silver clues
hinting at the drama
of wine and tambourines
or the silence
of decorated statues
and sometimes I catch a glimpse of her
bathing in some forest stream
the sacramental baptism
of a naiad soul
and then I wake to find
her gone again
roaming ahead
forging a path
I can’t help but follow.

housekeeping

cleaned dust off the mirror
hoping for a reflection
beyond the blindness
threw away old gods
bearded fools fashioned
by bearded fools
(maybe then there’ll be room
for someone with hips)
rewrote the story
cast truth as error’s lover
both claiming only to be
incomplete.

Bathsheba

your silence screams at me tonight
as though begging to be given a voice
your betrayal stands in stark contrast
to the brief facts listed under your name
as though your thoughts were unimportant
unnecessary to a history of kings
you weren’t the first
and how many thousands came after you
not even mentioned
the injustice done to them forgotten
worse, condoned
worse yet, justified
the fault their own for being beautiful
did your mother curse God
when she saw your face
did she know it would kill your husband and your son
your body suddenly a battleground
did you blame yourself
because the king could do no wrong
or did you live with anger
burning just below the surface
if I gave you voice
what would you say?