Hesed.
unfailing
faithful
steadfast
compassionate
love.
Hesed
Not emotion
not a feeling
But rather
action
on behalf
of someone
in need.
Hesed.
God’s
faithful
covenant
with His people.
Hesed.
(C) Carol Wilcox, 2022
Tonight, a feeble attempt to describe the biggest wonderment of all. A golden shovel...
“Easter”
Come celebrate His amazing
love, the undeserved grace
poured over blackest of hearts, how
freely that grace has been given, how sweet
the relief, when we who deserve nothing, comprehend the
depths of our darkness and respond to the sound
of His quiet voice, the only voice that
has ever saved.
He says, “Father forgive them,” and a
choir of angels rejoices when a wretch
like me falls to her knees and cries like
a baby. I cannot begin to comprehend His love for me.
I am trying
to teach myself
to slow
And ponder
ordinary miracles.
The wonder of
finding five fat turkeys
perched atop a chain link fence
Across the street
from the dentist office
on a regular Wednesday afternoon.
A tiny miracles.
Inserted into a very ordinary day.
Extraordinary.
© Carol Wilcox, 2022
Back story- Yesterday, I had a dentist appointment after school. It was in Thornton, a rapidly expanding suburb north of Denver. After the appointment, I pulled out of the parking lot, and the woman in front of me stopped right in the middle of the road, so quickly that I almost rear-ended her. I couldn't figure out what she was doing and just kind of sat there waiting for about a minute (even though I was tired and hungry and really wanted to honk). Finally she pulled forward and all of a sudden I could see what she was doing. There were five huge turkeys (at least I think they were turkeys) perched on top of the chainlink fence right next to the road. I sat there and looked at them for as long as I could, and then drove around the block, so I could pull over look at them again. And I had a million questions-- were they wild turkeys? Why were they just sitting on the side of the road like that? It didn't look like they were in a pen, but maybe they were, and I just couldn't see it. What was that silver thing in the yard? Was it some kind of a feeder? Did the turkeys stop there often? I really wanted to go up and knock at the front door, but I refrained myself.
As far as form, I tried a doditsu, which I learned about at the Miss Rumphius Effect. They are supposed to be humorous (maybe this is a little) about work or love (not really, but…) And I tried using the title as part of the poem, like two of my favorite poets, Mary Lee Hahn and Amy Ludwig Vanderwater, often do. I don't think I quite pulled it off but...
Easter bunnies?
Appropriate in April.
But these November nomads
perching precariously?
A spring surprise!
(C) Carol Wilcox, 2022
I'm feeling like most of the stuff I am posting is not quite done and not very good, but sometimes you just have to do the best you can do. So here it is.
"Solitaire"
She loved solitaire.
Black on red on black
on red on black on red
day after day after day.
Even belonged
to a daily solitaire challenge.
"Do you usually do them?" I ask.
"Oh yes," she says.
"I always beat them.
I just play until I win."
"I can’t beat that one,"
she says to me one Sunday.
"I’ve played it 65 times
And I can’t beat it."
I watched that day as she did it
four or five more times.
She finally won.
And now that she is gone
I play solitaire,
pretty much every day.
No idea about strategies
or how you can actually
play to win. To me,
solitaire feels like
pure dumb luck.
But I keep playing, hoping
that if I play enough times
maybe I will win
a few memories
or perhaps
at least a little
of her tenacity.
© Carol Wilcox, 2022
\
"Muscle Memory"
Sister leaves message.
Returning her call
I somehow dial
my mom’s number
which we disconnected
the weekend
after we wrote
her obituary.
Evidently
heart memory,
like muscle memory,
lasts forever
or maybe even
a little longer...
(c) Carol Wilcox, 2022
“Greetings”
I unlock front door
Grinning, tail-wagging, greeters
Nothing lovelier
(c) Carol Wilcox, 2022
“Good Night Ritual”
Lab squeezes leggy body
Into smallish ball
Rests head across my thigh
And lets out contented sigh
All is well in his world.
(c) Carol Wilcox, 2022
