The Name COVID-19 – the name on tips of tonguesthe world over. My soul’s weary from it.This household name demands breath from the lungsenough. Must I, too, lift voice and submit? Devil’s name glories above holy writ, relentlessly violent, demanding my awe, obedience, and every wit.But Holy Spirit leads, not withstanding the rationale of social disbanding,to the glory of Love and Christ in us,to the glory of Christ OvercomingViruses and Infectious Diseases We’re winning as we rest in the Lamb’s blood.We’re winning as we speak of His strong love. Poem Pre-write – a sonnet Literally a “little song,” the sonnet traditionally reflects upon a single sentiment, with a clarification or “turn” of thought in its concluding lines. There are many different types of sonnets. The Petrarchan sonnet, perfected by the Italian poet Petrarch, divides the 14 lines into two sections: an eight-line stanza (octave) rhyming ABBAABBA, and a six-line stanza (sestet) rhyming CDCDCD or CDECDE. The Spenserian sonnet is a 14-line poem developed by Edmund Spenser in his Amoretti, that varies the English form by interlocking the three …
Cold and old.
Some like it cold,
not old: at least not old
to the point where mold
grows on the top after it has been
sitting snug on the shelf where the
suspected ADHDed mother set it
Maybe I haven’t learned to juggle well yet?
I keep dropping balls.
Maybe it’s that I’m a fool, not a bad juggler.
I think it’s more likely that I’m a fool.
Honestly? I ain’t gonna lie… it was
tough getting out of bed
on Monday and Tuesday – alarm
clock set for 4 AM, I hit snooze
I come out here to get away, and sit
in the quiet noises of the neighborhood –
lawn mowers, power tools, birds, barking,
and greetings of power walkers on the road –
or the muffled sound of the kids fighting inside
I come out here to sit in the warmth
of the sun and unconditioned outdoor air
You: two years old and full of life;
you: never wanting to say goodnight.
And I: tired, but addicted to
that look of wonder on your face.
Together we went out the back
and looked up into the dark sky
where we saw the light that governs
the night. It was full and bright white.
I lie in bed in my Georgia home, located on Forest Drive
– my house really is kind of set in a forest,
in a neighborhood set in a Metro Atlanta forest –
and I hear him outside, close by, calling out, asking us
“Who cooks… who cooks for you… who cooks for you all?”
His call is deep, smooth, and purposeful.
And I think of the tall, bearded, long-haired man
who, with knowledge, conquered our fears of the night forest.
He watches, pensive, with fingers in mouth
His skin is dark
There’s something about the way the road bends and turns
like a stream cutting its way through the landscape
making its way home
making its presence known and demanding the crowd to move
make way for the lady with the curves
who is sure she looks so fine,
which is the effect of the high
of the hot coconut caramel Dunkin’ Donuts coffee
and the 25 minute break away from the hyped-up or heavy-eyed hormonal adolescents she has just spent the last three hours with.
You’re eighty-three years old
and I’ll be thirty-seven
and the truth of it is that
someday – if Christ doesn’t come first – you and I,
we’re going to die.