Poetry

Fertile Ground

It’s dirty and disgusting.

Its very name is base.

We walk above all sure and smug

Never thinking to give thanks.

Our life arises out of it,

Our sustenance its gift

The dirt that grows our daily bread

Is transformed into a feast.

 

Breathing God

O Goodness that surrounds me

Brushing across my senses and caressing

Through my very being,

I breathe you in and you become,

For a moment,

The life force coursing through my veins.

In letting go, which I must,

You go happily to bring life to another.

How can it be that such an insubstantial entity

Can, by its absence, doom one to an everlasting death?

 

You are the breath that sustains me.

You are my undying hope.

I try to hold you in my hands,

But , O, Lord, your elusive substance slips,

Like pure and running water, through my fingers.

I can only take you in, involuntarily, it seems

And let you go, only to inhale you once again,

The cycle repeating with a sweet refrain

Breathing, breathing, breathing

Connecting all who ever breathe in you.

 

Ah, the wonder!

You are the very air,

The wind that blows across my cheek

The milieu in which I live and move and have being

I cannot grasp the magnitude of such import

Only my heart can caress with sweet abandon

The substance that you are

I kneel in gratitude

My grateful heart thrusting against its walls

My heart, your heart, the world, becoming one.

 

Darlene Dubay

07/01/14

 

 

The Perfect Gift

Are those bells I hear? Is that Santa on the roof?

Wake up. I’m sure it’s him, let’s take a peek and look.

Creeping down the stairs I see some gifts under the tree.

I turn aside from my pursuit of him, for just a moment, you see.

I have to know if he’s come through with a particular request.

Ripping paper from the box, my heart beats furious and fast.

“Please, oh, please!” I pray, “Let’s get it right just once.”

The giver, all forgotten in my yearning to discover if

This special gift, this precious gift, fulfillment of my dream,

Is here within my shaking hands or awaiting consummation.

Paper scattered, box askew, I peer with consternation.

My shoulders sag, my mouth turns down. “This is not it,” I say.

Not wanting to look selfish, I try to sound contrite.

“It’s not exactly what I fancied, but it’s pretty all the same.”

But still I yearn for answered prayers in exactly my own way,

I turn once more to look and hunt for what I know will satisfy.

“Oh, there must be another box, just one more, Santa, please.”

My whispered prayer lingers in the quiet night, as the sound of sleigh bells fades.

All forgotten now in my determination to receive, is the blessed benefactor,

The kind and kingly prince of peace, the giver of all good.

He’s on to other, more receptive souls, who give thanks for what he gives,

They bless the morn that dawns into a day of brilliance and love,

A day when everything is gift, a day when I too will know,

The Giver is true gift, and what he brings—unbidden—

Is perfection for our souls.

Darlene Dubay 12/6/2014

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