Day 18: Harmattan

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In life, we’re met with gentle breezes, signs
That life is full of movement. Summer heat
Is broken by a cool front, and the pines
Carpet the earth with needles, catching sweet-
Est melodies as wind sings through their limbs.
But not all winds blow gently. Some appear
With power unapproachable, like hymns
Writ out of holy fear: we turn the ear
And close the mouth. We know our smallness well
Before the hurricane and Harmattan,
And like the sailors frightened by the swell,
We run for help to power’s paragon,
The man who has become our hope and peace,
The God in flesh who makes the storm-winds cease.

Photo by Caleb Woods on Unsplash

Form Friday: Terza Rima

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We follow in the paths of those of old,
Take note their battles lost and battles won,
Reflecting on the stories that they told.

For there is nothing new under the sun.
What was before still is and yet will be.
Though much has changed, tis no new race we run.

And so we learn their forms, for thus we see
Our common world through glasses made of gold
And in the wisdom gained there, grow more free.

Photo by Dave Hoefler on Unsplash

Day 15: Thyme and Seasons

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My life could be measured out in pizza slices.
When I was younger, I wanted to be
A “pizza chef,” simple, but somehow grand.

Fast forward a few years: frozen pizzas
Were family dinner staples, filling
Our home with Italian aromas,

Or something like it. In college, we ate
Cafeteria pizza, covered in
Yesterday’s sides (or so I assumed). Still

Good. In seminary, I ate too much
Cheap pizza at youth group, feeding students
And myself as I learned to serve them more

Than Papa John’s. I discovered deep dish
While looking for direction, made my way
Through darkness with the help of local pies

And some Red Barons. Some nights, that and an
Episode of Chef’s Table fed my soul.
Tonight, I’ll share a slice with my wife, and
Savor every bit of this good life.

Photo by Jordon Kaplan on Unsplash

The first line is a reference to a line in “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T. S. Eliot.

Day 14: Tempo

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Life has at times been like
   a playlist driven by uncertainty
      and fear,
  sometimes
      frantically skipping songs
         until the “right” one plays,
   sometimes
      tryingtokeepupwithwhateverpla
      ysnextnomatterthecost(ohgosh
      it’s“ThroughTheFireAndFlames”
      andIcan’tstop)untilI
         hit
            a
               wall,
                  experience the stillness of
                     a soundtrack (ah, Shore’s
                     “The Shire”),
                        and make time
                           to heal.

Now, life is like a song sung
   by my favorite songwriter,
      the comfortable tempo
         perfect for walking.

Photo by Martin Sanchez on Unsplash

Day 13: Today’s Weather

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Cloudy with rain,
  but just the right amount of rain,
    not enough to keep you inside
    but enough to keep you moving.
Sixty-three degrees feels good after
  a summer of oppressive humidity
    and record highs.
      (In this contrast,
        we prefer lows.)
I wore the thicker button-up today,
  covered it with the branded pullover
    and a rain jacket,
      and it’s enough to sit outside in
        for the last few minutes
          of my lunch break.
A cool breeze blows, bringing
  a chill to my skin
    but a warmth to my heart.

Photo by Luke Stackpoole on Unsplash

Day 12: Nostalgia

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Lately,
  Facebook has been suggesting
    short clips of childhood:
    thirty-second videos of
      old happy meal toys and
      video games.

I remember
  opening the plastic bags and
  relishing the surprise
    of Wolverine in a plane with claws
    or of Gandalf with his light-up staff
      after a cheap hamburger
        or taco.

I remember
  hours spent
    chasing podracers,
    flipping on skateboards,
    wielding Flame of the West
    or Buzz Lightyear’s blaster,
    batarangs or Pokéballs,
      in my favorite
      digital adventures.

I remember joy,
  still present, appearing
    over time through
      a host of expressions,
        all gifts of grace
          from a God
            who is not too old
              for play.

Photo by Meghan Hessler on Unsplash

Form Friday: Ekphrastic

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Albert Bierstadt, Looking Down Yosemite Valley, California (1865)

How can one capture living light with paint
And make it move, or grasp a glimpse of time
And translate it to canvas, from the faint
Stone’s shadows to strong sunbeams, make it rhyme
Reality? I see, and I am stopped,
Struck by the detail, stilled by majesty.
An artist dared create; now I am dropped
Into the glory of Yosemite.

Painters and poets, like the prophets, point
To truths oft hiding right before our faces.
They look upon creation and anoint
With holy purpose e’en the commonplaces.
They see then sow the seeds of what they saw,
Thus fostering in us the fruit of awe.

Albert Bierstadt, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Every Friday in November’s poetry challenge was dedicated to a different poetic form, giving us an opportunity to stretch ourselves a bit. This second Form Friday poem is an Ekphrastic, where the poem is a response to a painting or some other work of art. I chose Bierstadt’s painting after seeing it on one of Russ Ramsey’s Art Wednesday posts (see here).