Recently I saw this poem framed in the home of a dear older couple from our church. I remember hearing it long ago, so coming across it now was like coming across a dear old memory and being freshly inspired. I hope you are inspired also.

No Time To Pray

I got up early one morning

 And rushed right into the day;

I had so much to accomplish

That I didn’t take time to pray.

Problems just tumbled about me,

And heavier came each task,

“Why doesn’t God help me?” I wondered.

He answered, “You didn’t ask.”

I wanted to see joy and beauty,

But the day toiled on gray and bleak;

I wondered why God didn’t show me;

He said, “But you didn’t seek.”

I tried to come into God’s presence;

I used all my keys at the lock;

God gently and lovingly chided,

“My child you didn’t knock.”

I woke up early this morning,

And paused before entering the day;

I had so much to accomplish

That I had to take time to pray.

– Anonymous

***

Feature photo by Colleen Geiser.

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Confession: I don’t know much about poetry. When I write a poem, I put together words I like. That is all. Imagine this poem spoken over a changing table in that moment of weird realization when you wonder how on earth this human being, with her knowing eyes, arrived in the world fully formed. She is something like a god (not God but one of those beings in myths) or a faerie folk — mysterious, enchanting, otherworldly. Speak these words to her, shaking your head in wonder, in the cooing tones and echoing words of baby talk.

Lines Spoken Over a Changing Table

You little person.
     You little person!
You with your luminescent eyes
     like pearls in a pool of glass,
where did you come from, anyway?
     Where did you come from, anyway? 


Your nose like a plug-a-lug plucked from a tree,
your mouth like the bow on a wee girly’s dress,
your gray-green eyes like worlds, but bigger.

Where did you come from anyway? 

     
God himself must have set you down. 
     There is no other explanation. 

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I know a mother who lost four children
when they were still tiny, 
their limbs and their features unformed. 
She wants badly to hold a child that is hers
if for only an hour. But she will never know 
their faces, their genders, until heaven. 

She weeps. 

I know a mother who laid her four-month-old baby 
down for a nap. When she came back
the child was gone.
My Annalise is four months old. 
I had stopped worrying about SIDS.

The mother weeps. 

I know a mother—she came to my baby shower 
with her own smiley baby. I rubbed my belly 
and hoped for a baby as happy as hers. 
Now she waits in Haiti with her two young children,
captive under kidnappers’ guns
not knowing the fate of her babies. 
We don’t even know hers. 

Does she weep? 

I know the mother of this mother. 
She prays with hot piled words and bated breath
to see her baby and her two grandbabies again. 
She wants to see their lives lived out, 
their personalities formed. 

She prays as she weeps. 

We lost our first baby before it was born
and I hated my body for weeks 
for failing to nurture my child. 

Only this Monday
when I took Annalise to the doctor
and he named the patches of dry skin I had noticed,
“Eczema,” I felt like a failure for failing to fix it. 
A problem so small. 

I try to stretch my mind 
big as a balloon
and wrap it around the pain of these mothers.
I cannot. Please. 
Pray for these mothers. 

The post I Know a Mother appeared first on Lucinda J Kinsinger.

When I wrote this poem some years ago, I thought it was a bit boring. Such plain subjects: a kitchen, baking, a woman. Now, reading it again, I love it. Plain or no, simple things are beautiful. Reading it, I remember my mom. She is the subject of this poem. And I remember the grateful, trusting emotion I felt living in my parents’ home and realize how rare and precious that was.

***

The kitchen is silent, graceful

     with uneasy cat’s grace

of sunlight on yellow carnations

     gilded like miniature suns.

Stray sounds waft around—

     burr-whirr of mixer—tick-tock of clock—

firm tread of feet calloused in flip flops.

     Their flop-flok rattles the stove.

A woman with soft stribbled hair

     works contented; steps over an egg

that has spilled from its shell; her

     blue dress spattered with water.

Her arms are sun-browned and spotted

     like full-ripened apples, her

forehead creased gently with wilt lines.

     Her face opens wide in a smile.

Thighs cool against smooth oak chair—

     sun rays stream through the window—

my skin reaches for the warmth.

     Salty sweetness explodes on my tongue and

drifts to my nose. Smooth hard chocolate chips, 

     peanut butter, oatmeal, vanilla—

the oven poofs a gassy burst—the

     kitchen curls, waiting, along the wall.

The post The Kitchen appeared first on Lucinda J Kinsinger.

When I sit in my chair
Comfortable like a familiar hug
And drink coffee in the morning.
I watch the cars drive past my window
I think about how in the summer
The corn will be tall
Hiding me from everything
Cool, rustling leaves
With the full scent of growth
I long to be hidden.
Small.
Cherished.

***

Lavina Martin is my sister from another mister. She’s funny and smart; she likes to read and write; and if you’re lucky enough to have her for a friend, she’s the most loyal friend you ever will know. She shared this poem on her Facebook status and gave me permission to share it with you.

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