Words as Paint

Such love does
the sky now pour,
that whenever I stand in a field,
I have to wring out the light
when I get
home.
Wring Out My Clothes – St. Francis

Poetry. I’m not a writer of poety, but I definitely appreciate and soak up the beauty of words intricately woven together. I can’t say that poetry ever grabbed me when I was in school. I think it’s because I had to read it and had to find the various meanings hidden inside.

The nifty thing of not being in school is that I can do things simply because I can. And now I find myself reading poetry, not to discover the meaning, but simply for it’s beauty and articulation. For me, poetry is like a great painting, except the artist uses words instead of paint.

If I want to feed my soul, I brew myself a cup of coffee, sit in my living room and read some poetry. Some of my favourite poets that I’m attracted to are from days gone by. Walt Whitman, Robert Frost, Robert Browning, Sara Teasdale, St. Francis, and there’s a few more.

I treat myself by subscribing to a website and a blog. Every morning, poets.org treats me to a poem-of-the-day. Some are better than others, but then that’s just a matter of preference. Another favourite of mine is a fellow by the name of Malcolm Guite , a fellow minister from the UK, and a brilliant poet.

Last week he shared some poetry from various authors. The poem entitled, How I Talk to God, by Kelly Belmonte, stopped me in my tracks. It is simple, authentic, and beautiful. Enjoy!

How I talk to God

Coffee in one hand
leaning in to share, listen:
How I talk to God.

“Momma, you’re special.”
Three-year-old touches my cheek.
How God talks to me.

While driving I make
lists: done, do, hope, love, hate, try.
How I talk to God.

Above the highway
hawk: high, alone, free, focused.
How God talks to me.

Rash, impetuous
chatter, followed by silence:
How I talk to God.

First, second, third, fourth
chance to hear, then another:
How God talks to me.

Fetal position
under flannel sheets, weeping
How I talk to God.

Moonlight on pillow
tending to my open wounds
How God talks to me.

Pulling from my heap
of words, the ones that mean yes:
How I talk to God.

Infinite connects
with finite, without words:
How God talks to me.

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