psalm 17

psalm 17

my mouth orates heart

intentions spoken as 

truth, while the flesh kicks

screams, contends for itself

I consent to the breaking

but my humanness struggles

to pick up pieces

recreate in its own way

help me to surrender my Lord

my Master, the only One

let me be shattered, reconstructed

by Your hand alone

not writing

there is a stirring in my spirit

aching, itching

a deep knowing

I am missing the one thing

I am meant to do

designed for, gifted

and chosen

I have been called

to proclaim

to create

to write

1 Corinthians 13 turns 

in my mind, twisted

if I have not words

I am nothing

 

to tell the tale

it seems my heart is trying to find abalance

(interesting that I write that as one word, without a space, a-balance)

between being grounded

and flying, even with

broken wings

a balance

between rooted

and free

so that I could claim

I am abalance now

but perhaps that is not

His aim

and He keeps me

off kilter to remember

my need of Him

He Is, then, my Balance

my Grounding, my Freedom

again and again I write

of brokenness, of longing

of surrender to

His hand, His design

I am His creation

unfinished, ever imperfect

He Is not done yet

and He made me

to create, but I don't

create my self, rather submit

to His creating

so that I might tell the tale

weaving through Dave Harrity's Making Manifest with Sandy and

walking in imperfection with Emily

 

From these broken pieces

More years than I can count have passed since I first read Leaflets by Adrienne Rich.  I have never forgotten her line I am thinking how we can use what we have to invent what we need.

to use what I had

but all was broken pieces

what good can be found

in shards?

sharp, jagged

waiting for a touch to bleed

a pile of shattered building blocks

my hands could not connect

appeared as ashes

to eyes that had lost imagination

blink once, twice

search to see

colour, beauty

in the mess

promises of reconstruction

allow the truth

that every breath is

creation

poetry

prayer

Walking with Emily and the broken yet redeemed
 

Creative call...

At lunch last week, a friend asked if I get involved in other art forms.

My reply was quick, well practiced. 

"My abilities are verbal, not visual.  I paint with the camera lens, but my talent is with words."

Yet I am feeling pulled, teased, drawn to new expressions. 

I want to paint quilt blocks to hang on the outside walls of the barn, the house, other out buildings.

I want to splash, and shape and sing.

His creative nature rises strong in me.  I will surrender my hands, my eyes, my ears.

May anything that results be to His glory.


 

No boasting here

I stroke a brush
against canvas
layers of colour
dripping heart
for all to see

I drop words
into lines
on papers and screens
stripping soul
for all to read

I sense pressure
from my own fingers
drumming my back
“well done”
as if I could lay claim
to creative ability

I cannot boast, now
as I look
upon the sunrise
His glory
And I, even I,
The work of His hands

The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands  Psalm 19:1 NIV

Another fortune from Psalm 19 - submitted to T. S. Poetry

Quilted words

My hands and thoughts have no patience for crafts
no knitting, crocheting, scrapbooking done here
no sewing, embroidery, needlepoint, ceramics
I do not quilt
though I am fascinated by the piecing of scraps
building colour upon colour
Is it the same as when I take simple ingredients to cook
creating something greater than the individual parts

And yet...
perhaps I do quilt, in my way
stiching together words
building colour upon colour
creating stories greater than each individual word
something to climb inside
find comfort, warmth, joy.

We should use the tools He provides
each a gift not received lightly

How do you quilt?

Stop by Peter Pollock's to read more words on quilts

Waiting for the becoming

Marcus Goodyear at Books & Culture, A Christian Review has given us the following poetry prompt:

Write a poem about cultivation. When I talk about cultivation, I mean agriculture but also creativity and culture itself. I am talking about the little place in your world where you have been given a small plot to grow new things and add to the beauty of God's world.

This then, is where I took it:

A hand holds
seeds, tiny
easy to lose
to the wind
or spill
pouring almost too much
abundance
on soil fertile, hungry

What will grow?

It is the waiting
that hurts
those ruled by impatience
those prone to fret
expecting never the best

So too, what will
these words
bring forth?

Will they be too few
to nourish
or so plentiful
that one groans
under the burden
of consumption

A seed is just a seed
after all
it is in the waiting
for the becoming
that the imagination
blossoms

To read what else Marcus has to say and see the poems that have been cultivated read the entire article here

Cataloging Green

green is life
exploding
green borders the road
that takes me home
green shoulders the paths
God sets before me
green marks the way down
to winding waters
green as fresh
as cucumbers first crisp bites
green a soft resting place
for a weary head
green are the fields that nourish
providing food, play, peace
green the background
where colours burst wild

green lush
green lives
green loves
refreshing, renewing
the promise of green yet to come
I pass through days
surrounded
green

We're cataloging colour at TweetSpeak Poetry and the High Calling Focus.  Stop by to read how colour has invaded the words of poets words and the camera lenses of artists today!

Home everywhere

Morning dew
mixed with leftovers
from yesterday’s rain
rested upon the grass
early light sparkled
on each blade
sun reflected
colours of gold, silver
shimmering blue

Caught within each drop
a mirror
of all of the world
visible
with binoculars
yet beyond
what the camera lens
could capture
rainbows
enclosed in perfection

His world magnified
in smallness
making His home
everywhere

another entry into Peter Pollock's Carnival about Home

come to One Stop Poetry to read other Wednesday One Shots

Incomplete

We are artists here.  Writers, painters, photographers.
There is a drive to create deposited within us by the One Who created all.
We hold our works in progress tenderly, seeds in our hands, in our hearts.
At times we move too quickly, impatient to see the end result.
More often, we are slow, afraid to move, build, breathe, lest we make a mistake.
Fear builds fences, gates, walls of stone, prisons.

We too are works in progress,  in the Father's hand, clay on His potter's wheel
for He, even He, takes time and care to perfect that which He creates
He is jealous for His glory and will not share it, so that He alone is the Perfector

What we shape is incomplete, by His design
we are not meant to finish the work
but in submission, in surrender, bend to His plan

So I rejoice with the others here in the imperfection of our works
as offerings of worship
and the fire that drives us on.

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong 
2 Corinthians 12:9-10 NIV

Stop by Emily's to join us, the imperfect


Jamming with Bonnie today about perfectionism