Hello, dear readers. I pray everyone is safe in the aftermath of the recent hurricanes, earthquakes, and fires.
Oy vey, this world. What is the DEAL with it?
As I fight my own battle with depression, I’m learning that fighting it is exhausting, like trying to climb out of a deep well where the walls are slick and there are no footholds. I’m learning to be still, let Jesus shimmy down the well to where I am, hold and comfort me, and then lift me to safety. I know He will because He always does. As surely as death or taxes.
I have recently become addicted to watching poetry slams on YouTube. I love the wordcrafting and tempo, the emotion and power that go into the slamming. I would love to write poetry for a gathering of slam fans, but I don’t really have the guts to do it in front of actual people, so I’ll just do so from my little corner of the world here at The Beggar’s Bakery, where I don’t have to stutter or worry about what to do with my face or hands in front of people.
Here is my slam of the day. It’s my first in this style of writing. Chalk it up to a mid-life crisis. It almost has to be read aloud, and gives little credence to punctuation and grammar and all that jazz.
It may be pure awful. Something I look back on publishing and cringe. Trying new things is hard. But hey – that’s always a risk when starting anything new. Right?
By: Jana Greene
There is no love apart from God
That being who embodies us
And shines like glass inside of us
Reflecting who He is.
Not given straight-up, tidy, neat
This thing we make about ourselves
This thing that wracks and wrecks ourselves
Spills over, out, and through.
We look at life through half-blind eyes
Despairing at the poverty
Body, mind soul poverty
that chokes and breaks our hearts.
How can you say that God is Love?
I’ve heard asked in angry tones
Broken, acrid, angry tones
Where is He in the hurt?
Has Love gone void in this dark place
Where pain crushes the human race
This fickle, tender human race
And leaves it there to die?
But I say ‘no’; do not give in
To throwing in the towel, my friend,
The towel so soaked with blood and tears
Wring it and be free.
Chin up, all creation!
Rise up, all you nations!
And then crouch down with fellow men
And make yourselves Jesus to them,
For he is inhabiting you.
It’s not by spell of your own power
But by His Spirit enmeshed in you
The Friend he left to dwell in you
Manifesting Love for you.
Like liquid gold, let it flow
Out from the vessel and into the mold
The empty, barren, starving mold
In your brother’s heart.
We see here through half-blind eyes
Through the glass darkly in side of us
But even in spite of the dark in us,
Love takes home the prize.