Saturday, April 25, 2009

Dark Night, The Millstone, Valley of Dry Bones


Dark Night

You were despised, rejected.
So was I.
You know the deep and desolate
pain of unworthiness and shame.
Bitter and hollow.
You bore it for me.
Why would you do that,
glorious and beloved Son of God?
You had never felt rejection from the Father;
You were always Worthy and Beloved.
Adored and Blessed.

And yet You chose to taste my death,
my bitter herbs, my stale bread,
my polluted water.
You cried the tears and felt the lash
of tongues and punishment
for crimes untold.
You chose to identify with me.
Who am I?
A nothing no one wanted, try as they might.
And You, the holy Son of God,
rejected for being who You are–
You know what it’s like.


rose noir 3


Son of God.
Such a coveted place,
such a place I desire and dream of,
and do not experience!
As soon as the dog barks,
I am seen as broken and deficient,
as I have always been.
You came to this place of your own accord.
Why? I know in this grown up head of mine.
But what of me here? Here I am small,
in this dark and lonely bedroom of existence–
A place of punishment for being child.

The Crying Trees B&W

I am child.

But whose child?
Unwanted and a mystery undisclosed.
I desire to remain unseen.
To keep the sanctity of my being in a safe,
locked and inviolate;
but I am not unviolated.
I have been soiled, discarded, scarred,
And left to bleed unheard in the dark–
A bleating lamb.

Lamb of God–
You too were soiled, discarded, scarred
And left to bleed unheard in the dark–
A bleating lamb
on a cross of shame.

Gethsemane

My cross.
Naked and spit upon.
Unusable, ruined.
I go down to the grave with you.
Rejected.

Hide me in You, Jesus.
I am afraid of the dark,
even though I choose to remain here in this death.
Am I hidden in You?
I’m hidden with You in the belly of the earth.
Where is the comfort?
Is there any comfort in the bowels of death?

Every time I try to come back to life,
I feel the pain of arrows again!
Every word, every look
A lance through the heart, a blow to the belly.
And I go back down to the darkness of hiding.
And yet Your visitation here
Eternally stands as a memorial
to Your embrace of humanity,
to Your embrace of me.

Mountaintop


The Millstone

Woe to them through whom the offense comes!
Woe to them who destroy my little ones.
Woe, woe, woe.

The vulture circles over the carrion.
The stench of death rises from the broken,
The litter of the aborted ones.
Woe, woe, woe cries the eagle of God
Whose eyes see into the distance and the dark.

Who can hide from my Seeing eyes?
Who can hide from the Great Judgment?
Who can bear the weight of the millstone?
Their necks will break,
And they will drown in the tears of the ones they have slain.

When I Am Overwhelmed. . .

Who will be My Intercessor?
Who will be the City of Refuge
For the murderers to run to–
Those who have committed crimes of passion?

I will be the Intercessor, cries the Son of God!
I will be the City of Refuge.
Run to me, you who are crushed
Under the weight of Woe–
Whose necks are broken by the millstone,
Who drown in the tears of the slain.

Guiding Light

How long, cry the aborted ones, how long
Until our blood is avenged?
How long until we are salvaged from the wrecks of humanity
And delivered from the carrion birds?
How long until the stench is changed
To the perfume of life?
Hope is deferred, hope is deferred
And our hearts are sick.
How long? How much longer?

I have sent my Word to avenge you,
My little ones.
My two-edged Sword, with Death and Life,
Is in the tongue of my Son.
His vengence is pure.

Golden Aerie (square crop detail to get attention!)

How, oh Lord, can the Holy One who takes vengence
Be the one who is the City of Refuge?
When will we understand?

Anyone who enters the City of Refuge
Enters by the Sword of the Word.
Evil must die.
It must die now or later.
My sword is Death, and it is also Life
To them that run to Me.

The Sword came forth on the Tree of Disgrace.
Father forgive them, for they know not!
Woe to those who do not Live by the Sword,
for they will Die by it.
Woe to you aborted ones if you do not accept
My vengence–
For it is holy.
Woe, woe, woe to those
Who do not forgive much,
For they have been much loved.

We repent oh, Lord.
We invite the carrions birds to finish off our dead flesh.

In My Daddy's Arms


The Valley of Dry Bones

Here we lie in the hot sun.
No life in us.
No death.
Nothing.
We have been picked clean.

The Son beats down on us,
Purifying fire.
We can do nothing.
We are not even branches.
We bear no fruit.
No evil,
No good.
We await the Prophet’s word.

A hot wind arises,
A thunderous fury
As the Rider of the White Horse
Advances.
The Kingdom of God
Is at hand

Time Slips By And Leaves Its Indelible Mark


Let there BE LIFE!
DRY BONES ARISE!
You will live My Life,
You will speak My Words,
There is nothing left of you
But the foundation I have built.
You will do My bidding.
You will walk in My Glory.
You are My Army.
You are bone of My bone,
Flesh of My flesh.
You are My great Body,
Formed from the skeleton of suffering–
All that is left from the death of self.




poems and artwork by Karen Gladys Henry
©2001/2009 All Rights Reserved.

You Are The Treasure


You Are The Treasure

You are a jewel more precious than any
Magnificent splendor. Your facets are many.
You sparkle with wisdom, virtue and glory–
Life irreproachable, flooded with light.
Lord, make us holy so we may approach You
And worship within your unbreachable might.
You are the treasure, Love beyond measure,
Worth inexpressible, Father of Light.

You have been kind and beckoned us come–
(Though we’ve been blind, deaf, crippled and dumb–
Powerless just like the idols we served)
Through the Door in the heavenlies, grant undeserved.
There is no darkness in You at all.
Your presence consumes each occlusion and flaw.
We are your jewels prepared for the Lord:
Cut, polished and set by the two-edged Sword.
You are the treasure, Love beyond measure,
Worth inexpressible, Father of Light.

You are a gemstone: rainbows of fire
Fill us with fearsome awe and desire.
Pure in perfection, your sevenfold light
Transforms us with visions of heavenly sight.
We are enthralled by your radiant ruth,
Forever absorbed in the love of the Truth.
You are a jewel more precious than any
Magnificent splendor. Your facets are many.
You are the treasure, Love beyond measure,
Worth inexpressible, Father of Light.



by Karen Gladys Henry © 2004

Artwork "The Emerald Throne" is a photo composite
by Karen Gladys Henry © 2008. All Rights Reserved.

Friday, April 24, 2009

Bird of Joy


Bird of Joy

Oh, joy, why do you fly so far from me?
Like a tiny bird in a giant tree,
That my bloodshot eyes strain gravelblind to see,
But only catch a glimpse.
Your gypsy twitterings seem so distant
As you flit from branch to breezy branch;
And you never land for very long
On any twig that’s close enough to reach.

Oh, joy, will you not be my friend?
Oh, fly down here and join my heart!
I cannot fly way up to you; I am earthbound–
Downed by this loathsome gravity.
Lend me some lightness, little bird,
So I might sing a rapturous song of praise–
A song to flutter me aloft with wings
Much stronger than their flighty feathers seem.

Chirp me a ballad, at least, little bird–
Of opal air and topaz clouds now drifting,
So I can treasure something of the sun,
And view a scene of higher, nobler hues.
Do not leave me, lithesome creature,
Until a blessing you’ve bestowed–
Whether smile or tear, I do not care,
But that my breast be light and clear as yours.

Oh, bird of joy, your gentle singing,
And your careless winging tree to tree,
Have brought a bit of springy nurture to my heart,
And lessened the self-pity in my breath.
What do you know of tears or worry,
Fretful visions, hard and harried?
They are in a realm you cannot touch or see–
Yet with all your soft and simple being,
You have helped me loose their brambly bonds from me.

Oh, joy, why do you fly so far from me?
So I might seek the One who keeps you hidden
Underneath His wings.


Karen Gladys Henry ©2003

"Dawn" is a photopainting by Karen Gladys Henry ©2008
All Rights Reserved.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Wintering


Wintering

This cannot be all!
After a life of moving and changing,
Traveling and venturing,
Hurting and growing,
How can I stay now?
In one place, never going,
Only waiting for something new.
This must be winter–
With dead-looking sticks for trees,
And days of being snowed in,
Buried in books–
Not dead, anticipating.

Everyone says:
"The winter of your life"
As if it were the end.
It’s only a rest stop,
A cocoon of waiting–
Coziness in front of a fire,
Warming toes
After long treks in the snow,
Boots melting in the mudroom.
No, this cannot be all:
Crocuses poke up in spring!
Robins bob about for worms
After Florida vacationing.
Forsythia sticks pop again with yellow fireworks.

When I’m cocoa-warm all through,
Mind and heart nourished with truth,
I will poke up
With my head in the sun, Easter-ready to
Rise again,
Stretch and run,
Strong and fresh
For a new phase of life–
Moving and changing,
Traveling and venturing,
Hurting and growing–
Youth restored (with wisdom)
Like an eagle’s.


by Karen Gladys Henry ©2003

"Powerful Life" is a photo by Karen Gladys Henry © 2009, with added texture:
All Rights Reserved.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Inside The Box


Inside the Box

From the outside
It looked like dowdy
Not at all unusual
Gray cardboard
But you said it was
Special, just for me
Not impressed, I
Puzzled about
Your strangeness
Yet, intrigued
I finally got in
Trusting you just
Not wanting restrictions
Or lack of oxygen
Enough to risk it

What a surprise
That was even more
Mind-bending
Than expected or
Imagined
Even from you
Inside bigger
Than outside
Vistas of grandeur
Breathtaking beauty
You must have tried
Really hard to make
It just what I wanted
No cramping at all
Yes, what a surprise

I keep finding, though
Another smaller box
Just as plain and normal
Looking as boxy as I
Would expect a box to
Be, but knowing you,
I’ll go in to even huger
Territory. How do You
Do this, anyway?
Dumb question, I guess
Considering who
I’m asking. This one
Looks too small
To even cram my big
Toe into. But here goes–

by Karen Gladys Henry © 2006

"Inside The Box" illustration by Karen Gladys Henry © 2009
my photos of the Blue Ridge Mountains and crotchet lace, plus:

Sunday, April 19, 2009

Rapt and Unwrapped


Rapt and Unwrapped–

Heart-created, variegated meaning
Cushioned in delicate tissues of feeling;
Protected in sturdy, relatable con-
Text; wrapped in kaleidoscopic patterns; topped
With the sparkling bow of anticipation–
The poet offers her gift.




Karen Gladys Henry, ©2004

"For You With Love" is a composite artwork with digital painting by Karen Gladys Henry, ©2009. All Rights Reserved. It includes some licensed images as well as my own photos. For credits, click the blog entry title. Please do not use without permission.

Saturday, April 18, 2009

Waiting For Wind


Waiting for Wind

The moon was full
Up last night
As I
But no wind blew


The sun was full
Hot and persistent
As I
But no wind blew


The river was full
Of silver satin
Drenched in sequins
Sparkling like a diva
Waiting for applause







Karen Gladys Henry
© 2006

"Etude" is a photomontage by Karen Gladys Henry ©2009

Monday, April 6, 2009

The Steinway


The Steinway


It felt so auspicious,
sitting there at Gladys' baby grand,
in her fern green living room
filled with the gleanings of an exotic
world’s treasures.
Long ago, in another epoch, I heard
her brown velvet voice entone
her own little ballad, and received
the gift she gave me: "You can
do this too," she said.
I was little more than a baby, but
a grand dream planted itself
in my fertile, extravagant heart,
and grew and grew and grew. . .


How I ached to hear my own not-so-nimble fingers
make the elephant-tusk keys
express the music that played in the inner chamber
of my heart; to recreate the enchantment
she created so effortlessly–
"Claire de Lune" echoing the yearning
I felt as she played.
How I dared to hope that someday I could. . .
She called me "willowy", and I was–
tall, thin and always bending moodily
downwards, seeking. . . endlessly
seeking the living waters.

Now she thrives where the living waters
flow endlessly, and the music is fern green,
lush and everlasting.
And somehow, miraculously,
in my very own room,
my grandmother’s Steinway stands,
grand and glorious, a once euphonious tree,
with its lustrous wood gleaming,
and its ivory keys glowing with patina,
smiling benevolently
like the teeth of an ancient wise woman–
waiting for the resurrection of its voice:
the resonance of heartwood
as rich and rare as the queenly lady
to whom it first belonged.

It feels so auspicious,
sitting here at what is now
my baby grand.
The dream that Gladys planted
in the heartchambers of her baby
granddaughter blossomed and fruited,
and now I, too, am a composer–
not accomplished like she was,
but growing, still growing. . .
hope uncurling like a fern frond
on the banks of the living river,
where the willow tree drinks freely,
living in two realms at once.

Our destinies were entwined–
the Steinway’s and mine, like Celtic-knotted roots.
The preponderance of the vision’s unfolded, now:
the remainder must follow, as note follows note
until the symphony is through.
Heaven has regaled us– regale us still!

Oh, for a king’s ransom to restore the great piano’s soul!
My soul, lavishly restored
by the King’s ransom, expands into faith,
fern green and everlasting–
The Steinway and I will play
"Claire de Lune" in Gladys’ honor,
and then. . . ever-new music,
life-giving, lush and everlasting,
will flow from those keys,

and flow and flow and flow...

Karen Gladys Henry July 13, 2004

The poem The Steinway" and the composite artwork, "Creative Sanctuary", are by Karen Gladys Henry © 2009. All Rights Reserved.

Click the title of this blog entry for credits of images used in above.