Two more contributors have joined us, and two previous contributors added lines. This “poem by comment” is really becoming ssomething. Thanks to all. Comments will continue to be accepted through Wednesday (Dec. 23) morning.
Fire and Rain
By @gyoung9751, @doallas, @poemsandprayers, @BibleDude, Russell Holloway (@LuvStomp), Lorrie, @Anne4JC, @llbarkat, @MonicaSharman, @dougspur
The bush consumed by fire,
yet not; the sands singed
by heat, yet sanctified by
flames, becoming
too holy to be trod upon as the rain begins.
Rain begins:
Drops as rivulets marked by hope-steps.
each leading to the bush
consumed yet not
becoming yet not
the path He trod before us.
We have stepped into
the intersection of fire
and rain
of yet-to-be Passion
the path to Light
deep
as black of night,
steps to take unsure.
Gray slush-mix
of want and not,
of looking not finding,
of seeing but missing
the one true place
of protection
from the elements
Each drop of rain
each speck in the eye
unseeing,
the flames
what they consume,
the secrets buried in the bush
in the sand pulling us in.
As we are called
and make bare our feet
our faces we cover
from sight of glory.
Standing drenched by rain
waiting, wanting, shivering
praying for the warmth
of the crackling fire
that seems so far away.
To stand
To make ready
Move forward
Shoulder to shoulder.
Yet our lips dare
part to speak
from stammering
hearts unworthy.
What magic this
from you, my Lord,
that in my heart burns
passion for Your Word.
It fills me, drives me;
it makes me new
til it can’t be contained
from me spills out You
And in the pouring out
of what burned bright
it becomes living Water
cool fresh and Light.
Flames lick, stick
to skin, breathe black
smoke of secret long held,
yes, buried, as we said before,
invoking time’s goodbye,
dust in ashes will yet
find…
Precious store:
Word on stone
Stone-writing
The long pilgrimage
In bare feet.
How rain cleansed,
drops hit lips,
skin breathed
awake its secret.
Throw down the rod,
The secret burning revealed.
No, my Lord,
Your fire does not consume;
The bush but burns my heart.
I have found myself in this staff.
I c, c, can’t return.
I’m only a lowly shepherd.
This is my rod, this is my place.
Please send s, s, someone else, not me.
Throw down the rod. I have heard the cries of My people.
Their tears have fallen like rain.
I will be with you.
Now go.
Such secret
as resides in me:
From dust
am I become
of You
am I
in image seen
of Word
I see
in flames
Or if words
Be consumed
as flames,
Passion.
An angel
a bush of fire
burning my heart
stiring my desire
to see
to be
to have what i have not
within me ever
near me
head spinning
chest pounding
i throw down the staff.
I throw down my all
dust of me on dust
of ground
hallowed ground
because of His life
in my dying,
surrender and dying,
then we are both raised.
- A Book of Poetry by Edna St. Vincent Millay Finds Its Way Home - January 19, 2021
- Poets and Poems: Troy Cady and “Featherdusting the Moon” - January 12, 2021
- How J.R.R. Tolkien Met an Obligation – with Poetry - January 5, 2021
Maureen Doallas says
Raised from scrap-heap
of dust
from nothingness
on sacred ground
where pilgrim-marks
leave outlines
of dying unto Him
or rising among angels
into Life
Maureen Doallas says
Angel-brush
so light of touch
on shoulder bared
Call me out!
Bid me see!
I am impatient
with waiting.
Maureen Doallas says
The rain begins
each drop erasing
the trace-steps
of that lonely path
consuming the
fire the bush
holding the secret
safe again
nAncY says
fire and rain
swirling
pouring
all consuming
power
of creation