Respecting the awesome power of words!

Archive for December, 2017

I Remember Your Name

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Those who’ve loved and left
by way of death’s door
are not really lost.

I call to them,
call on them,
recall them
in so many ways.

The names of love
are like decorations
for the tree;

ones I’ve had
for years; ones
whose stories have
made me who I am.

If I leave them
in the attic
or the basement,
their memories will not
stay in the box.

They drift in and out
of moments and conversations,
deep and rich as ever;
never nameless,
no matter what,
even when I struggle
to not say them.

I remember your name,
and in its speaking,
who I’ve been
shapes both who I am
and who I will become.

I remember your name,
and as it’s vocalized,
life is breathed once more,
in me, through me,
beyond me.

© 2017 Todd Jenkins
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Intercession

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For a weakened  heart
  we intercede, O Lord.
    May it be like electricity
    in an old house,
    steadily pumping current,
    whether all the wires
  are firmly connected
or not.

For fragile lungs
  we intercede, O breath
    of wind and spirit.
    May they function like
    an HVAC system
    of an historic structure,
  pumping air, in spite
of cracked and leaky ductwork.

For struggling kidneys,
  we intercede, O God.
    May they be like plumbing
    in a long-lived-in home,
   steadfastly moving water and waste,
  despite occasionally-leaking
joints and fixtures.

Keep this house
  in order, O holy one,
    with all the wisdom, compassion,
    and understanding that
    the medical community can bluster,
    while we pray with all
  the hope we can muster.
Amen.

© 2017 Todd Jenkins

Sacred Posture

IMG_7574Photo by Anne Shurley

 

Our traditional positioning
for prayer has hands palm-to-palm,
fingers aimed skyward,
as if we arc our words —
and maybe our hearts —
heavenward, to pierce the skies
with intercession on behalf
of others and self,
aiming plaintive and joyous arrows
into the Divine throne room.

Today, however, I am drawn
to a different manual posture:
palms up, cupped, side by side,
as if I am holding loved ones
up closer to my heart,
but still clearly on cosmic display,
a reminder of our specific brokenness
and a request for holy healing;

also as if crystal water
were being poured into my hands —
if not my soul —
refreshing us in all
our parched places.

Fill us with your grace,
O holy one.

© 2017 Todd Jenkins

 


Vintage

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When I see them appear
in the corner of an eye,
it makes me wonder
what year they’re from;

what story is long buried
beneath the surface,
in the attic or the basement
or the back of a huge wardrobe,

where someone thought
they’d never be found;
but something happens;

a series of seemingly
unrelated events:

a song sung in just
the way you remembered;

or the wafting essence
of bread being baked
or the scent a favorite cuisine
you haven’t had in years;

or the way the light comes
through the trees;
or some other dormant trigger.

There we find ourselves,
tears flowing like
an artesian well,

conjuring up emotional baggage
from eons ago,

begging us to uncork
vintage love, pain, and grief,
and sip our way
through a story
of healing,
if not resurrection.

© 2017 Todd Jenkins

3 Rivers

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Life consists of a journey
between and beyond three rivers;
the first is named Patience;
another, Preparation;
the third, Perseverance.

The first river has
neither bridges
nor is it fordable.
It asks you to wait
while someone constructs
a way to cross.
Maybe, you become the builder.

The second river also seems
impossible to cross.
It wants you to be sure
you know how to swim
before you jump in.

The third river is no more
crossable than the first two.
It wants to know if you're
hungry enough to jump,
and trusting enough to float.

The rivers already know you.
How are you
getting to know them?

© 2017 Todd Jenkins

 


Reflection

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      Advent is an annual festival
    remembering us into
  the story of love’s
complete arrival in the flesh.

        Once written into the narrative,
      we have to choose
    between accepting
  what has chosen us,
or not.

      There exists within the human soul
    a freedom to choose
  the slavery of ignoring,
rejecting, and abandoning love.

      It is a painful, diminishing choice
    that, once made,
  can only be overcome
by the very thing not chosen.

        Those possessed by love
      have the antidote
    to undo the curse,
  but they can only do so
by rejecting reciprocity

    and, instead,
  reflecting the image
of the gift’s giver.

© 2017 Todd Jenkins

 


Wound Collector

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His attention and memory
are legendary; both honed
to a steely edge
by the whetstone
of self-love’s dearth
and the absence
of self-worth.

  Whenever he perceives
  even the slightest slight,
  the moment is carefully
  catalogued and stored
  for future reference.

    The more publicly
    he is humiliated,
    the more driven he becomes
    to make a spectacle
    of his retribution.

      Lying awake
      into the wee hours
      of the morning,
      he plots his revenge,

    fully convinced
    that this time —
    in contrast to countless
    others in the past —
    retribution will soothe
    the fire in his soul
    instead of fueling it.

  Day after day,
  year after year,
  relationship after relationship,
  he gathers his scars,

and fills the cemetery
of his heart
with the bones of those
he’s sure he’s slain.

  Night after night,
  year after year,
  soul after soul,
  the star-flinger reconnects
  bone to bone,
  sinew to sinew,
  flesh to flesh,

    resurrecting crucified ones
    into a hope
    that still eludes
    the wound collector.

© 2017 Todd Jenkins