This is a Costanza poem for the Saturday Mix, also overlapping with MLMM’s Tale Weaver: Confusion. I wrote this tonight in honor of the first Sunday of Advent, the season before Christmas Day. My emotions have been all over the place, but I love Advent, so that is what inspired this poem.
For this prompt about mortality.
Shall put on
Be clothed with
Shall be repaired
Into hope, living:
This Chaucerian stanza is for Linda G. Hill’s SoCS, and the words today are old/new. Although it’s not a free-verse poem, it was pretty quick and I didn’t edit, so I am sharing it.
The old has passed away, the new has come:
This I believe with all my beating heart,
And I want to give it a warm welcome.
Every single day is a fresh new start;
Change does not come at once, but part by part.
Do not lose heart: we are works in progress,
Magnificent, and will find happiness.
This is for SoCS, and the word today is container. I wrote a cherita pretty much as quickly as possible. 😅
I think about the containers we keep food in:
Glass or plastic bowls, tin or aluminum cans —
I think about the container for baby Jesus
A manger, a feeding trough, for Him
From the beginning the Bread of Life,
So that we can contain the divine.
Looking out the front window, I see sun:
The season’s listing toward September,
And the sky’s no longer filled with embers
Sometimes reality crashes
Into my saccharine reveries, frowns
Find my face, but blue is not doleful
Above, in that heavenly place.
It’s late, but I haven’t posted today. I have written a lot about today’s feast day in the Roman Catholic Church, the Exaltation of the Holy Cross. For more information, click here. This is just one of the poems inspired by that today.
Save us through Your cross, O Lord,
Toss aside our sins,
With the Spirit in our hearts
All expected facts reversed,
A curse made glorious:
Died but then risen again,
Splinters from this painful tree
Lead to healing, making free.
For DVerse Poetics today, we are to write inspired by wheat. At first, I was completely at a loss for any inspiration, but tonight I wrote this Chaucerian stanza.
Unless a grain of wheat shall fall upon
The fertile ground and die, a sacrifice,
It remains a single grain; but once gone
It returns, and is now worth well past twice:
Potential on which you can’t put a price.
Does wheat feel trepidation ere the fall?
Is falling in the field falling at all?