Poems of Advent: Week 3

on the Feast of Stephen

I’m a bit late posting this last set of Advent poems, but that’s only because we (as I assume you) have been busy with Christmas Eve and Christmas Day and feasting and family and all the good things that come with high celebration. I decided to interrupt neither your festivities nor mine for something as anticlimactic as Advent poetry. But for the sake of following through with my plan, I will post them now and make good on my commitment. These are not the best of what I wrote during Advent, so perhaps I am also delayed because I don’t want to post them in all their lackluster glory. But, again, I’m making good on my promise, whether the offering is as good as I’d like it to be or not. So here, on the 2nd day of Christmas, the Feast of St. Stephen, and Boxing Day, I send these off and call my November/December daily poem practice complete. Thanks for joining me on this little Advent experiment. Blessings on the remainder of your Christmastide! Merry Christmas!!

---

Hover over the watery surface
of your work, Artist,
whisper, blow, and watch
the colors swirl 
as earthen pigments mix
and something new is made,
activated by water,
illuminated by light,
fixed by breath 
upon the page.

You belong to this world.
You were created
to create.

---

If the world is a womb
then all that grows here
grows in dark depths
of God's goodness,
a nursery for nurturing 
all that is maturing
in the image and presence
of God. Light and soil alike,
the nursery and everything 
in it, belong to the Lord.

---

Sister Wisdom,
whisper wisdom 
to my fearful heart.

Take my hand, Sofia,
when I do not know 
the way ahead.

Wisdom be my comfort,
companion, and guide
in the darkness,

for You spoke 
and the Word
was Light.

---

It grows within me
and I am helpless
to suppress the life
it insists on offering.

It stretches me, 
skin taut and itchy
over its ever expansive
presence in the world.

The word grows within
until it can no longer
be contained, stretching
me beyond all comfort

and I find myself, again,
the unlikely bearer
of more goodness
in the world:

Poet
Artist
Host
of Love Incarnate

that makes more
of a gift of itself
than I can contain.
Oh, the grace!

---

I can't compress myself down 
to a tightly clenched fist
that holds everything in
when I am growing, expanding,
enlarged by what is  within me. 
I can't shrink
to the smallness I used to;
I don't fit in the old boxes,
tattered paper wrapping
the edges that might otherwise be 
too sharp. I am torn
between who I was
and who I am becoming,
trying to offer the gift
of who I am now, 
even if it's not 
what you 
asked 
for.

---

The snow wraps the streets 
in silence and hush 
comes over the darkness.
I barely hear the car 
pull out on its way 
to the emergency room.
Bing can sing "All is calm, 
all is bright" all he wants, 
but that doesn't make it true.

There are corners of Christmas 
that  won't be swept clean
of the tension, the chaos,
can't be made pristine,
even corners of my house
hide what's not on display,
what I'll deal with when guests
have all gone away. 

I know the brown leaves
are decaying on my lawn;
I know they're still there
though they seem to be gone.
This is the power of snow:
to help us forget what we know,
to quiet the worry, 
to slow down the rush,

to usher in silence
and offer the hush
of a mother to her child
in too much pain to sleep,
who sits in the darkness 
too tired to weep
for all that's not right
while the waiting room 
whispers that all is bright.

---

The waiting is over
the morning has come
the sun has risen
the bells have rung

The Child was born
while we slept in the night
now we open our eyes
and see all as bright

In the darkness in us
is born a light
to shine out as peace
to make all things right

with our lips and our hands
we build up or tear down
we speak life and light
or shadow and frown

The waiting is over
the morning has come
Peace has been offered
if we pass on what's done.