I Couldn’t Go to Jerusalem or Good Friday

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I Couldn’t Go to Jerusalem or Good Friday

For Christians, Good Friday is a day to remember a life lived, and given away for others, even in suffering. This is for those who want to remember, but are not able to join others in Churches.

I couldn’t go to Jerusalem –

My mother-in-law just

Died

And we are mourning as

Burial is prepared.

 

I couldn’t go to Good Friday –

I’m a nurse

But

I saw the arms of the cross

In the open arms

Of a man

Reaching from the chair

As I moved him

To his bed.

 

I couldn’t go to Good Friday –

I’m at Lifeline

Taking calls

But

I heard the cry

“My God, why have you abandoned me!”

In the tone of a caller

Still reeling from abuse

By one once trusted.

 

I couldn’t go to Good Friday –

I’m old and

My days of driving

Are in the yesterdays of my life.

Family staying here

Won’t take me to Church

It means nothing to them

I wait in the

Tomb of my gloom

Longing to be

Raised to a new life.

 

They couldn’t go to Good Friday –

But we bring them there

If we go

And hold them there in prayer.

 

 

Simon C.J. Falk 19 April 2019

 

A Last Time

Leaving and moving means goodbyes. This is an oft repeated scene.

 

A Last Time

A last moment

A last reverie

Sharing the trivial

Warmly.

Saying little

Yet, saying much

Sharing outwardly

Such and such.

Almost gruff

Instructions to part

Do we ever learn the art?

Of goodbyes

In this place.

Last look

Upon that face

Last firm and desperate

Embrace.

Now the memories

Leave a trace

Inscribed on the heart

In a special place.

 

Simon C.J. Falk 24 December 2017

Moving Among Mixed Metaphors

StephensCreekGate

Moving Among Mixed Metaphors

 

He sauntered in like

An unmade bed,

All bent and

Bedraggled about the shoulders and

Neck leaned over.

His days

All yellowed and dog-eared

Like a long loved –

Or unloved –

Book,

Spent,

And rent

In its spine

From the strain

Of bearing the pain.

His musing,

Among the mixed metaphors,

A metaphor itself,

Of days dotted

With random unconnected

Debris.

The remaining pages,

expectant

with the longing

to be

free.

 

Simon C.J. Falk 25 October 2017.

 


#WATWB October coming soon. Stay tuned.

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Bonsai Verse

Bonsai_tree2.jpgImage: Wikipedia

 

Bonsai Verse

 

Bonsai verse

Sprouting forth

From buds and shoots of words

Of course!

 

Following an image out on a limb, chasing it as if upon a whim

Looking for wire to support

This metaphor of great import.

 

At once its clipped

Tight and

Spare

Occupying little air

Space, upon the whitened page

Or sounds within our audio range.

 

Bonsai verse

Rigid and contrived

How will the tree live?

Will it thrive?

If cut and prune and bend and chop

Upon its expression we do lop.

 

Bonsai verse

Your shoots renew

Let us leave a space for few

To assert the inner plant

Not just our structure, but permit nature grant.

 

Simon C.J. Falk 21 September 2017

 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

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Keep your post to below 500 words, as much as possible.

All we ask is you link to a human news story on your blog on the last Friday of each month, one that shows love, humanity, and brotherhood. Something like this news, about a man who only fosters terminally ill children.

Join us on the last Friday of each month in sharing news that warms the cockles of our heart. No story is too big or small, as long as it goes beyond religion and politics, into the core of humanity.

Place the WE ARE THE WORLD Badge on your sidebar, and help us spread the word on social media. Tweets, Facebook shares, G+ shares using the #WATWB hashtag through the month most welcome. More Blogfest signups mean more friends, love and light for all of us.

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Empty Well

Empty Well

Empty,

drained.

There are

no words,

to acclaim,

proclaim,

or frame,

any sentence,

or the

reality here.

The beauteous

now barren.

The flourishing

now flat.

We are

bludgeoned

by the banal business

of the functional,

instrumental,

and administrative.

The inspiration has

been.

Gone.

No words appear

upon

the whitened expanse

of the page,

or life.

Empty

the well is

not.

The river has

run

dry.

 

Simon C.J. Falk 1 June 2017IMG_0093

Looking for some inspiration!

Please SIGN UP for WE ARE THE WORLD BLOGFEST in the linky list below:

Powered by Linky Tools

Click here to enter your link and view this Linky Tools list…

~~~GUIDELINES~~~

  1.  Keep your post to below 500 words, as much as possible.
  2. All we ask is you link to a human news story on your blog on the last Friday of each month, one that shows love, humanity, and brotherhood. Something like this news, about a man who only fosters terminally ill children.
  3. Join us on the last Friday of each month in sharing news that warms the cockles of our heart. No story is too big or small, as long as it goes beyond religion and politics, into the core of humanity.
  4. Place the WE ARE THE WORLD Badge on your sidebar, and help us spread the word on social media. Tweets, Facebook shares, G+ shares using the #WATWB hashtag through the month most welcome. More Blogfest signups mean more friends, love and light for all of us.
  5. We’ll read and comment on each others’ posts, get to know each other better, and hopefully, make or renew some friendships with everyone who signs on as participants in the coming months.
  6. To signup, add your link in WE ARE THE WORLD Linky List below.

*********

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In My Hand – #WATWB

It seemed fitting to include a copy actually written in my hand.

In My Hand

 

In My Hand

 

In my hand,

I have a choice.

By my hand,

I can express a voice.

With my hand,

I might strike out in hate.

I can hold back my hand,

And sit to wait.

With fisted hand,

I can pound a blow.

With an open palm,

Myself I show.

With tumbling fingers,

I might tap a rant or rave.

With a lighter touch,

Some grief I may save.

As friend or foe,

I decide to take a stand.

To offer peace,

And stretch out my hand.

 

Simon C.J. Falk 25 March 2017

 

SimonInMyHand

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Maximum White Space

Maximum White Space

This very brief poem is a kind of ‘spare verse’.  It uses an economy of words to play between the spaces of the page and the poem. The silence of the ‘white space’, as it were, is to give a frame or container for the poem.  Compare with Which Space?

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