Browsed by
Category: poetry

What if snow were purple?

What if snow were purple?

What if snow were purple or pink
          or robin’s egg blue
painting every spruce and fir with a pastel palette
          pleasing perhaps but pert too pert?

Or what if snow were burnt umber or raw sienna
          or van dyke brown
a seamless segue from November’s leaf-strewn landscape
          to the sucking sepia sloughs of March?

But snow is white wondrously winsomely white
          winter dressed like a bride
earth adorned in beauty and light
          a promise made and kept.

The Hill We Climb

The Hill We Climb

Oh, my … What beauty, what grace, what truth, what timely words for this moment, for us …

Here is the text of the poem …

When day comes we ask ourselves,
where can we find light in this never-ending shade?
The loss we carry,
a sea we must wade
We’ve braved the belly of the beast
We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace
And the norms and notions
of what just is
Isn’t always just-ice
And yet the dawn is ours
before we knew it
Somehow we do it
Somehow we’ve weathered and witnessed
a nation that isn’t broken
but simply unfinished
We the successors of a country and a time
Where a skinny Black girl
descended from slaves and raised by a single mother
can dream of becoming president
only to find herself reciting for one
And yes we are far from polished
far from pristine
but that doesn’t mean we are
striving to form a union that is perfect
We are striving to forge a union with purpose
To compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters and
conditions of man
And so we lift our gazes not to what stands between us
but what stands before us
We close the divide because we know, to put our future first,
we must first put our differences aside
We lay down our arms
so we can reach out our arms
to one another
We seek harm to none and harmony for all
Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true:
That even as we grieved, we grew
That even as we hurt, we hoped
That even as we tired, we tried
That we’ll forever be tied together, victorious
Not because we will never again know defeat
but because we will never again sow division
Scripture tells us to envision
that everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree
And no one shall make them afraid
If we’re to live up to our own time
Then victory won’t lie in the blade
But in all the bridges we’ve made
That is the promise to glade
The hill we climb
If only we dare
It’s because being American is more than a pride we inherit,
it’s the past we step into
and how we repair it
We’ve seen a force that would shatter our nation
rather than share it
Would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy
And this effort very nearly succeeded
But while democracy can be periodically delayed
it can never be permanently defeated
In this truth
in this faith we trust
For while we have our eyes on the future
history has its eyes on us
This is the era of just redemption
We feared at its inception
We did not feel prepared to be the heirs
of such a terrifying hour
but within it we found the power
to author a new chapter
To offer hope and laughter to ourselves
So while once we asked,
how could we possibly prevail over catastrophe?
Now we assert
How could catastrophe possibly prevail over us?
We will not march back to what was
but move to what shall be
A country that is bruised but whole,
benevolent but bold,
fierce and free
We will not be turned around
or interrupted by intimidation
because we know our inaction and inertia
will be the inheritance of the next generation
Our blunders become their burdens
But one thing is certain:
If we merge mercy with might,
and might with right,
then love becomes our legacy
and change our children’s birthright
So let us leave behind a country
better than the one we were left with
Every breath from my bronze-pounded chest,
we will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one
We will rise from the gold-limbed hills of the west,
we will rise from the windswept northeast
where our forefathers first realized revolution
We will rise from the lake-rimmed cities of the midwestern states,
we will rise from the sunbaked south
We will rebuild, reconcile and recover
and every known nook of our nation and
every corner called our country,
our people diverse and beautiful will emerge,
battered and beautiful
When day comes we step out of the shade,
aflame and unafraid
The new dawn blooms as we free it
For there is always light,
if only we’re brave enough to see it
If only we’re brave enough to be it

On Seeing the Half American Half Confederate Flag Waved above the Capitol Steps

On Seeing the Half American Half Confederate Flag Waved above the Capitol Steps

          it broke my heart seeing the hybrid flag
chimera
          half stars and stripes half southern cross
unholy marriage
          of the promise of human liberty and the obscenity of human bondage
          as if the union Lincoln fought to preserve is no union at all but only a monstrous
amalgam of oxymoronic ideals
          or is my heart is breaking because that is
who we are?

David Walters: “Why doesn’t God like us?”

David Walters: “Why doesn’t God like us?”

The last of the poems I will publish in memory of David Walters’ life and in tribute to the power of his poetic voice, a most timely word for us in a time when we wait “for a promised dawn …”

Why doesn’t God like us?

Have you ever noticed how God deserts you
When you most need Him?
He hangs around for awhile until he’s through,
Then his bright light grows awfully dim.

God reminds me, sadly, of the sun,
Here now, made known, then gone!
Shines his spotlight, it seems, for fun,
Then makes us wait for a promised dawn.

But a patient scientist pointed out to me my error:
The sun, he said, is almost in the same place today
That it was happily playing in yesterday.
It was only the earth and we who moved! So there!

But I, from living, and the logic of each day’s sharp realities,
Remembered when living wells of faith dried up,
And sincere efforts to live and love or to be kind weren’t enough,
Haunting me with their weak and uncompleted activities.

Still, like a desperate soldier, we choose the forlorn hope,
To rush high stone walls that were laid to injure and damn!
It seemed only right then that we become the sacrificial goat.
Only, I decided instead to stand with the one who had already
          died for us as our Passover lamb.

A dear friend helped me see what we too often miss:
God, he reminded me, is always present – right now!!
          – everywhere and in each moment with all of life.
Even when ignorance blinds us so that we will not heed,
          or we are afraid even to risk!
This is the time of constancy as He walks beside us in our dark
          and loneliness, and simply, loves us.

david walters
February 2015

David Walters: “Charlottesville”

David Walters: “Charlottesville”

A poem written by David after the white supremacist demonstrations in Charlottesville. His language is raw and vivid and impassioned, but hopeful, too, always hopeful. And there is even room for pity for the demonstrators themselves: “Were they ever shown loving kindness?”

Charlottesville

Animated ideas rise as gray ghosts in the summer night,
Feral cats prowling littered alleys looking for a fight,
Drawn hungrily to rotting smells of offal’s slippery bed,
Cold bodies dragged up that many had thought dead.

Barefaced lies unearthed approved by Nazi hate,
An archaic power wakens to separate the righteous race
From Jews, blacks, gays, and brown faces,
Eliminate race pollution, keep order, divide to make safe.

Our enraged brothers and sisters wildly brawl pell mell,
Burning lava bursting into bigotry, racism and hot hell!
What terrible wounds torment such desperate souls!
Were they ever shown loving kindness instead of woes?

Will death hunt us all down till there’s no more light?
Or will we bestir ourselves to face white supremacy’s alt right?
Moments come when the living stand up against the cruel,
An ancient remnant remembers that it’s time to speak true.

Declare with untethered strength who God created us to be,
Love’s children strong and creative, tall trees growing free,
It’s not too late! though hounds of Hades loudly bay,
In each age and place we have to begin, today.

david walters
August 2017

David Walters: “watching sparrows”

David Walters: “watching sparrows”

A wonderful poem about humility, about neither overstating or understating our own place among all God’s creatures …

watching sparrows

I don’t think that I like house sparrows.
Brassy, aggressive and flying in feathered gangs,
Scaring smaller chickadees, nuthatches and juncos
who are eating and singing their carols.
Sparrows can use their thick beaks like sharp fangs.

They crush and eat our cracked corn or sunflower seeds,
Pushing and shoving away even their own kindred.
They don’t wear prayer shawls, read a bible or use rosary beads,
Each one is too busy fighting for victory and to get ahead.

Then one day I watched a sparrow stop, and ponder,
Or so it seemed, as he reminded me of me.
Did he pause to see how hard he strove and did he wonder
Why he scrabbled all out to fill his belly in each deed?

Because I have often judged sparrows they may not like me.
But I see now they are only being who God created them to be.
And since in truth, “God’s eye is on the sparrow!”
He seems happy with them just as they are,
so maybe there is hope for you and me.

david walters
February 2015

David Walters: man of faith, husband, father, grandfather, poet, friend

David Walters: man of faith, husband, father, grandfather, poet, friend

My heart is broken. I am devastated to learn today of the sudden death of my friend, David Walters. He and his wife, Debbie, were members of our church in Waterloo, Iowa, faithful and engaged members, careful and honest practitioners of their faith, both of them highly intelligent and introspective, unparalleled in their commitment not merely to mouth the values of the gospel, but to live them.

David WaltersDavid was a poet, sharing his poems with me during my tenure at the church and still as we have both lived in retirement half a country apart. His poems are sometimes hard to read, because they expose the world as it is in all its cruelty and hypocrisy and injustice, but never, never despairing, always holding up the bright light of hope, hope rooted in a compassionate and faithful God, for all to see.

I grieve for a world without David’s voice, his voice that will not let us look away from the hurt and need around us, his voice that prods our consciences and pricks our apathy, his voice that invites us to rest, to believe and to rest and to live, within the loving embrace of the Lord.

As a tribute to David, and as avenue to permit his voice to be heard still, I intend to publish here in my online journal in these days before Christmas some of the poems David has shared with me. I begin with a poem especially dear to me because it was written during a sojourn shared by David and Debbie and me and other dear friends from the First Congregational United Church of Christ to Scotland and the Isle of Iona. Here is his poem …

finding Iona

Soon, the moment will pass and Iona will be a memory.
But the pictures we colored in our minds each day,
Of Scotland’s undomesticated beauty and perfect symmetry,
Will long remain etched beyond what words can say.
Yet I believe that the heart of Iona is not in what we see.
It lies at the center of where we feel
The love of One who lived and died without asking a fee.
And now dances laughing with anyone who would be free.
The vision of Iona reminds us of what we forgot,
Of two people who walk side by side willing to accept the cost.
They are you and me, broken and lost,
Until by faith we joined hands and became one with Him
whom we sought.

david walters
May 2015,
Isle of Iona, Scotland

The Gift

The Gift

(A new poem based on and inspired my introduction to yesterday’s sermon.)

it’s all gift
     old tree stump beside the path covered over with green moss sprouts new spruce seedlings of deeper green from its top
     oaks and maples and birches along the road dappled in ochre and magenta and burnt orange offer a last lingering visual treat before long months of unrelenting gray
     fire in the hearth sparks and crackles taking the edge off the chill and intimating deep mysteries of the universe in its dancing flames

it’s all gift
     eagle glides on still wings surveying its edgeless domain
     seal soars for a magical moment above the waves before plunging back into the sea
     young girl soars on a backyard swing freed from ground and gravity

it’s all gift
     young Misty speaks her Name to crawdads and crows and creeks and they speak their Names to her and the world is suddenly enlarged and I don’t want the novel to end
     young Sierra’s fingers dance fantastically over the strings of her mandolin and I don’t want the music to end
     old man climbs down the tawny scree slope nine miles and three summits in and I don’t want the hike to end

it’s all gift
     this earth, this life, my every breath