poem – Leah Wise

Particle

October 18, 2017August 14, 2019Posted in poetry, UncategorizedTagged death, poemLeave a comment

Relics can be
Bones that held
Together, exoskeleton:

A camera initiated
In the summer
of hate

A serving tray bought
In Town – You
visited with
Your daughter

The thermos you drank
Tea in, with ritual
like it was the Body
of Christ, containing
wine, mixed with
Your blood

Relics can be
old CD towers, particle
Board book
Cases – Glassware
Wrapped in newspapers
Dating 1983

Let me press
bone against Living
Palm, fleshiness
will you speak
Again
Will you?
Tell me
Why You Had to
Leave.

Midnight Calls

June 28, 2016August 14, 2019Posted in UncategorizedTagged death, grief, life, original poetry, poemLeave a comment

My body is fragile
Crack me open
at the seam in my
Ribcage, like
a damp wafer – watch
the strawberry blood
cake in exposed air.

How many midnight calls,
and dinnertime
Interruptions
can a heart
take before the valves
wear thin
And the tell tale tingle
moves up my arm?

Doctor’s orders:
I can’t lift
this weight
Give me something lighter.
Second thought:
Don’t give me anything at all.

“Be Brave”

April 19, 2016August 14, 2019Posted in UncategorizedTagged bravery, courage, feminism, poem, poetry, womenLeave a comment

Don’t tell me
to Be Brave,
again,
as if courage
is instinct for
half of us and
Learned Behavior
for XX chromosomes
alone. As if
my going
out is not its own
defiant act

And my speaking:
Bold, Direct
is not akin
to wielding
the sword.

Don’t tell me
Courage is:
holding my tongue
and the serving tray
at a 3rd wave
Dinner Party
thrown for strangers with
pasted on grins

I am no one’s
Darling
I am already
Strong

Dying

February 9, 2016August 14, 2019Posted in thoughtsTagged death, dying, grief, humanity, life, living, original poem, original poetry, poem, poetryLeave a comment

When it’s my time
I want to know:
what it feels like

There are opportunities
for second chances, but
this isn’t one.

I want to know
what it was like,
before the morphine
drip, dripping

And the rockabye
easing
out

I woke up in the
world screaming
What is it like
to end?

Everyone Who Searches

October 20, 2015August 14, 2019Posted in UncategorizedTagged answers, christianity, life, memory, nostalgia, original poem, original poetry, poem, questions, rilke, searching, the search2 Comments

And everyone who searches
finds – maybe not
the missing button, maybe
an old note, yellowed photo
with a missing corner.

And you realize
what you find is
good enough,
or better

And the cardigan can
do without mending –
its gapping filled
for now with a memory
of summertime,
or last year’s loss
– you never lost at all.

It was hiding under the bed,
stirred awake,
an answer. The question
never mattered.

———

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.” – Rilke

frost bitten

September 9, 2015Posted in UncategorizedTagged christian poem, christianity, contentment, future, imperfection, life, original poetry, poem, poetry, settled1 Comment

You’ll be kind and
never lose your temper
and no one will misunderstand
your jokes. You’ll

wake up early and listen
to the mourning dove
sing dooo
dooo do-do-do
low-high calling
the new day good.

You’ll always have spare
change for the panhandler
at his median post. You’ll be

better.
You’re just a little bit good
for now.

But the You that matters
is the you that exists.

And she hits snooze and grumbles
through morning coffee, forgets
to take out the trash.

She whines and her
words don’t always
pour over wounds like soothing
balm. Sometimes,
she lets wounds fester.

But at least she exists, here,
now, placed for a season,
planted and occasionally watered.

You’re aloe with frost
bitten tips, but
you’re alive, and can still give
of your rich pulp.

Remember this,
God uses the You you are.

untitled

February 3, 2015February 3, 2015Posted in thoughtsTagged death, life, meaning, original poem, poem, poetry, summertimeLeave a comment

Let me die
in the summertime
by a window, with
the warmth, pushing
through the fragile skin
of my eyelids

Let me die
in a quiet
room; with the
tea kettle on
in the kitchen and
the laundry spinning,
pulsing like
blood through beating hearts.

Let me die
with a cat
at my feet and
a hand holding mine and
a smile tracing
my lips
And the sunshine –

Oh, please let me
die in the sunshine.

two post it notes

August 4, 2014Posted in thoughtsTagged death, hope, nostalgia, original poetry, poem, the futureLeave a comment

Someday, when the world begins
to darken, I’ll
walk in the silence
of early morning, peering
into empty shops with
cataract gray eyes

And I’ll remember being
young, moving fast, skin
smooth like a new bar of soap,
and wondering when I would
make it.

I’ll know then, there
is no making it.

Child, you’re already home.

At 4:00, I’ll eat my
dinner, just the basics –
salad, potato, tea.

And I’ll look out the window
near the garden and watch
the early robins feast
until my eyelids flicker,
slowly, closed.

The final act, not a drama but a lullaby.

to a mouse

March 25, 2014March 25, 2014Posted in thoughtsTagged animals, friendship, mouse, nature poem, original poetry, poem, simplicityLeave a comment

Thank you.
In your curiosity
and gentleness you
showed me
Life can be simple.

One need not strive
for much
More than
some choice hay
and a welcoming
bedfellow

Or a friend to get
the hard-to-reach
spots behind
the ears

And, don’t be shy
about a midnight snack
or, an argument
easily made up
with a quiet sit together
on the stoop.

by the monument, two

February 23, 2014Posted in inspirationTagged february, introspection, nature, original poetry, poem, Richmond, squirrel, thinking2 Comments

I watched a squirrel
groom her fluffy tail
then scratch
hyperspeed, her hind leg
thwack-thwack-thwack
against her side

We were alone
by the monument, two
mammals feeling the sun
on our faces
in February

Holding our breaths
that the winter had
fled for good
– for now

prayer

September 24, 2013September 25, 2013Posted in thoughtsTagged christian poetry, contemplation, meaning, meditation, original poem, poem, poetry, pray without ceasing, spiritualityLeave a comment

A smile between strangers.
Watching the robin hunt
for insects,
folding three loads of laundry, dropping
boiling water
into the teapot.

Writing in your journal, listening
to your spouse, sharing:
a meal, a ride,
Your load.

A cool breeze that cuts
through humid air.
The clack of boots
on asphalt. Going,
and leaving.
Habit and impulse.

Pray without ceasing –
Let this journey be
Your Prayer.

contented senses

September 11, 2013September 25, 2013Posted in thoughtsTagged contentment, original poem, poem, poetry, senses1 Comment

Contentment looks like
a sleeping mouse and
an old oak tree
Contentment
feels like
a knit wool blanket
in grass green sprawled
out on your
unmade bed.
Contentment tastes like
mashed potatoes
and buttered
whole grain toast
Contentment sounds
like crickets
and summer rain
Contentment smells
like a warm
cup of earl gray
at 4 or 4:15.

on safety nets and waiting

May 23, 2013Posted in thoughtsTagged anxiety, bible, christianity, courage, crisis, incantation, poem, press on, repetition, strain, strength, struggle, verse, wait for the lord, waiting, will power2 Comments

The waiting times
I’ve heard
are lessons
to learn – so far
I’ve learned:

uncertainty is hard.
It wears at the
netting that holds us
Above that infinite
chasm of ultimate
un-knowing.

I scribbled down the poem above in my journal a couple of weeks ago in an attempt to reflect on the ruthless anxiety that has spread out and seeped in over the past, seemingly endless few weeks. We were waiting to learn about job opportunities, grades, financial provisions, and family health concerns. We were waiting to see how much we’d have to change to accommodate all the changes we couldn’t control. And just as the pieces started falling into some sort of order, my car broke down – and we’re waiting for rides and parts and final bills.

Waiting is inconceivably difficult. You have no central control. You make decisions and ease transition by doing an awkward, breathless, side-stepping dance around the resolution itself.

I went through a period of waiting before where I practiced repeating:

Wait for the Lord. Be strong and take heart, and wait for the Lord.*

I don’t remember what I was waiting for. I only remember the verse. It’s a brilliant phrase for us, the waiting ones, because it gives us back a sliver of control: You have to actively respond to a command. You get to take a deep, heroic breath, hold your fist out in an intimidating pose toward the empty air in front of you and press on. You are legitimized in your struggle by the implication that waiting does take strength and willpower. Your internal voice that incessantly nags, “What are you whining about?” gets a hand held over its mouth and, for the second you’re reflecting, you feel strong again. You feel ok.

So you repeat it like an incantation. You redirect your waiting. You wait for the Lord to show up, God-willing, and work toward believing that the rest of it will show up, too.

*Psalm 27:14

image source: Waiting by Dr. Hugo Heyrman

Lao by Kenn Reagle

March 25, 2013Posted in UncategorizedTagged civilian, kenn reagle, lao, no one calls me hero, original poetry, poem, soldier, veteran, vietnam, vietnam poetry, vietnam war, war poetry, youth1 Comment

She calls me babysan
I am only nineteen years old
I don’t even shave
The skin on my face is soft
Lao giggles when she sees me
She introduces me to her friends
They call me babysan

I see her working in the fields
She offers me her lunch
One small ear of corn
I sit beside her
I eat her corn
What a strange war
At the moment we are winning

Lao points to her friend
Her name, “Minoi!”
“Minoi!” I say
She giggles
They speak
In a language
Incomprehensible to me
Minoi means darling
They call me babysan

I watch the fall of Nha Trang
On television in Lancaster, Ohio
I grieve for Lao and her friends
I won my war
They Called Me Babysan

KENN Reagle IS A FRIEND AND FREQUENT CUSTOMER AT THE COFFEE SHOP WHERE I WORK. HE’S ALSO A POET AND A GREAT CONVERSATIONALIST. HE RECENTLY GAVE ME TWO OF HIS POETRY BOOKS; LAO APPEARS IN NO ONE CALLS ME HERO, A COLLECTION OF POEMS ON HIS VIETNAM WAR EXPERIENCE.