#bloginstead: The Hermit’s Lament

I cannot wring water from stone

There is no kneading of air to make my bread

And words, like water, must have a source


There has never been a carrot tempting enough, perhaps

To make me pump for water, rather

Than spill what must overflow anyways


A writer…I cannot deny it

But, the joy is all in the spilled writing, see it?

The math of my exultation, thoughts+attention+neural acrobatics=a translation of what is, filtered through one soul, though small, bringing some light, some beauty


Well suited to be a hermit

Lend me a shovel, for I have a talent I’d like buried

Why?  It is easier.  What if I offered it and they said it had no light, no beauty?


Who can put out their own heart on the auction block?

Tell me, how do you get the hermit

To give her littlest light?  To give such small beauty?




A Lament

Downcast eyes and tears and my heart like cupped, pleading,

beggar hands.

Have mercy on me, O Lord.

How long, Father, since I raised the cup to my cracked lips?

Since I beheld the mystery of Your broken body in a piece of bread?

I miss You, dear God, meeting me there.

My body is well fed and my soul is thirsty and hunger-stricken.

It feels like exile.  What are the words You can give to sustain me in this place?

Oh, God, be not long in coming for me upon the waves.

I see You there, on the waves, coming

and, I see the next frame, my face buried in the folds of your garment,

pressed achingly close, your strong arms ’round me.

But I never see the in-between, the rescue, or how long it was

between near-drowning and safe.

Give, Father, oh please, some driftwood upon which I can rest my head

’til You rescue.