The Perpetual Song

The song, the song,

the perpetual song

in my soul

is stilled--

so gone!

I long, I long

for the swelling of song

in my soul

again--

awake!

Oh song, my song,

oh what can be wrong?

Are you dead? 

I mourn

so long.

And then, oh song,

when I thought you were gone,

I perceived

a flutter--

not strong,

But real! My song!

You're alive, oh, my song!

Oh, I wish I could

speed you

along!

 I'll cradle you, song!

Oh, perpetual song

in my soul--

on you

I wait. 

Poem and photograph by Karen Gladys Henry.  Copyright 2010, all rights reserved.

Healer, Hold My Heart

Healer, Hold My Heart

Healer, hold my heart,
For I have such an ache!
Wounded is my heart–
Burning at the stake.

Healer, hold my heart!
Yes, it will heal in time,
But now is when I need
The oil and the wine.
What has been my crime?
Did I deserve this ache?
Or is it love divine,
My sacrifice to make?

Healer, hold my heart,
For I have such an ache;
Wounded is my heart
For someone else’s sake.

Poem and artwork by Karen Gladys Henry © 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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:

http://www.dreamstime.com/grunge-wall-rimage8670259-resi122770

All Rights Reserved.

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

Converseven

Click the image to read the poem larger.

To A Lost Friend

Where are you, friend?
There's a hole in my heart that you once curled up in.
The unspared laughter,
the tears shared, the dreary distances
when life got too hard.
Still, I miss even those, knowing you would
eventually come back strong.

Where are you, friend?
It's not just longing for tiramisu and talk,
or "chick flicks" and teasing about crying at movies,
or the little gifts, deep wounds aired,
daydreams examined (are they now pursued without me?),
warts and wrinkles overlooked--
but the scuttering worry
that you have abandoned us.

And where am I now?
Temptation dares me to turn away
from years of piled up love, in order to pad
my heart from the possibility of permanent rejection.
I don't want to turn over that stone;
I abhor those scuttering bugs, but then. . .
I risk a little more wax on my heart,
as it turns slightly colder in the wind--
slightly deader,
if I choose to snuff it out.

I know where you're going,
and you know my disaffection, too.
You know I don't want to go there with you--
where dead leaves hiss along a dark road in
an icy wind, like memories of a ghost long eluded.
No, I don't want to go there with you!
I don't want to relive the pain
of a gothic novella almost forgotten.
I love life! I refuse to let go of it now--
warm and green and vibrant,
spicy and herbaceous-- love
that never dies.

*******

Ah! That answers it, then. . .
Light scares away darkness,
showing it up to be just an apparition
of a murky mind digging around in the trash can.
Life takes a torch to death, not the other way around.
As long as my candle burns, you might see
the way out of that backlot alley.
How could I be so heartless,
thinking I could preserve my green leaves
between wax pages and keep them green?
No, I will let love win to my own hurt,
if that's what it comes to.
Treachery is the bread of fools,
and I will not taste a crumb!

Where are you, my friend?
Where are you?
I will bite the tongue of pride,
take my candle, drippy as it has become,
and search for your face.

copyright 2004 by Karen Gladys Henry