Aubade
(Red Sky In Morning)

Maybe I am awake before dawn
so I can imagine the sound of water
that will soon rush over his hands,
then trickle effortlessly through his fingers.

I consider the mingling of H2O with his DNA
spilling into the white porcelain sink,
the microscopic blueprint of him
that will soon travel down the copper drain
trailing off to a secret place
somewhere below the ground we share.

Such scenes are circles of springtime
washing over my thoughts,
leaving me pale green with envy
in the faint light of this cool, March morning.

I will wait for a red sky at night – sailor’s delight.

© Anne Bryant-Hamon
March 25, 2010

In His Shoes

This was written last year, and even posted here last year, but since a friend of mine on a board where I fellowship reminded me of it, I decided to post it again and changed the title today. It was previously titled, "Sympathy for God".
______________________________________________

In His Shoes

Imagine that He is
but has no father or mother,
no one to whom He must answer,
yet no one to whom He may inquire.

Imagine that He is spirit
with power to create bodies,
both terrestrial and celestial,
yet cannot be reduced to a body
because He gives life to every body.

Imagine that He is Agape-Love
bound by the essence of ultimate purity,
yet He is opposed
by all sentient beings
who cannot comprehend Him
or understand His true intentions,
nor can His creatures help their lack of understanding
without His help, His love, His grace,
His granting of wisdom
to those who seek wisdom.

Imagine being God
and desiring fellowship with sentient beings
made in His likeness.

We were taught that God needs nothing and no one,
but perhaps He needed us
in order that His joy be made full.

God WAS, and IS
yet did not and does not want to BE alone!

Imagine creating such beings
without creating robots
who can only comprehend their own god-like-ness
by being made subject to sorrow and death.

Imagine that those He subjected to death,
(in order that He could convey the glory of life and righteousness and goodness),
were mostly confused by His dilemma,
or unresponsive, uninterested, unappreciative of the glory of His being
or even worse - thought him cruel or non-existent.

Imagine God wanting to be loved and understood
to the same degree that you and I want
to be loved and understood.

Imagine.

(c) Anne Bryant-Hamon

Let Me Be Like a River

Some words that came to me this morning... I don't know if they are mine or if someone already said them before. But I was thinking about whether to sulk over my recent mistakes or to just move on. It seemed like I was given to make a choice. I think we are mostly faced with a choice over whether or not we will enter into the joy in life or hang back and be sad, and so these are some word thoughts that occurred to me a few moments ago:

Let Me Be Like a River

The River - it always sings and it always runs
as it claims the wind for a melody
and reflects the light around like ten thousand tiny suns.

Wintertime in Spring

There is a time when winter comes in spring,
though trees are brimmed with budding up and down,
and winds are soft and sweet – the birds still sing,
but something’s missing – yet it is unknown
to me just why this melancholy spell
has seized upon my heart, I cannot tell
myself or God or any other one
how new life blossoms, and yet I feel undone.

© Anne Bryant-Hamon
March 17, 2010

A Mysterious and Unexpected Book

I want to make a note of this here on my blog, something that happened to me last week out of the blue. Last week (March8-12) was one of the most anxiety ridden weeks I've experienced in a long time. I won't go into the reasons why, but I felt that some huge change was happening in my life and it was making me tremble with fear. Fear of what, I'm not exactly sure. But I came home from work on Wednesday, March 10th to find a package lying on my front porch wrapped in sky blue paper with small multi-colored dots of diamonds. And I thought, oh, that is probably from my friend Brenda - she had said she planned to mail me a movie. But it was not from Brenda. It was not from anyone I am aware of knowing. And it was addressed to "Anne Bryant-Hamon" my poetry signature-name. It had come from a woman named Mary who lives in Las Vegas, NV. I've never been to Nevada and I don't know anyone who lives there! I opened the package and inside was an old copy of an old children's book called The Sorely Trying Day. I sat down at the dining table and read the book and looked at all the illustrations and felt an intense calm and peace cover me. And I just want to say, "Thank you, Mary, one of God's dear children, for the book and for listening to the Spirit that caused you to send it. The timing was stunning!

Comin' Around Again - by Carly Simon

I love her voice, her style, her songs. She will always be one of my favorites...

To the Archaeologist

I am your fossil
shaped by and for love,
a green leaf pressed into rock
long ago by
great heat and pressure
that fell with the stars
from heaven to earth.

I wait to be lifted and touched,
handled and smoothed,
softened by the grain and grooves
of tool prone hands.

I long to be studied
through eyes that are
rightly fascinated
by that which is both
ancient and ever new.

Turn me and sift me
with fingers trailing.
Measure me.
Lay me down...
pick me up.

Write me into your leather book.
Press me deeply into your memory
of permanent records,
a marking of your
latest excavation.

(c) Anne Bryant-Hamon

Tears of Sleeping Beauty

I've been revising this poem for 3 years now. Can't tell if it is getting better or worse. But the revision made sense to me for now - for the things I've been going through. So in that sense, it works. The first line is from a Science magazine article I read back in '07. I knew when I read that line, there must be a poem (probably many poems by many poets) spun from it.

Tears of Sleeping Beauty

And the LORD God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam,and he slept; and he took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh in its place. - Gen 2:21

Moths drink the tears from eyes of sleeping birds.*
The same is true of certain butterflies.
Sometimes the facts sound just like pretty lies
that poets chose for loveliness of words.

It may be that the strangest facts in life
exist to help us weave a melody
as if God knew that every flower and tree
would comfort us, as does a man, his wife.

There’s beauty even in the realm of death.
Without such splendor we might not endure
this earthly plane. With suffering there is grace.
For every teardrop – may there widen the breadth
of love. And in the end there lies the cure
when grace and peace are etched on every face.


original © 2007
(Revised for the umpteenth time March 2010)

Postcard from Jennifer came today...

She writes... "I'm so excited that I am going to live in California. Choosing between Cal Tech and Stanford University is a difficult decision." I think she'll choose Stanford. But I am not a betting person since our kids have left us nearly broke!


STANFORD UNIVERSITY - The Road In

Perhaps Love - by John Denver

Couldn't find sleep, so I have been awake listening to old songs by John Denver. They are timeless - ever new. He was an angel among us. His spirit lives on through his music.

Where the Sidewalk Ends - by Shel Silverstein

A contemplative poem by the late Shel Silverstein (God rest his soul). I'd not read this one before but it is lovely.
-~-..-~--~-..-~--~-..-~---..-~--~-..-~--~-..-~---..-~--~-

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

-~-..-~--~-..-~--~-..-~---..-~--~-..-~--~-..-~---..-~--~-

Why I Sit Beside the Door

I wait
and think of what I’ll say
in quartered years –a slice of day
with fifteen minutes of his ear
to talk about my joy and fear.
I wait
I wait for him – I try
to gather thoughts of what or why
I’ve come – and yet my thoughts are thin,
yet here I am – I wait for him.

I wait, I wait , I wait
for him –
I sit beside the entrance door
and place my purse down on the floor,
glance at the mantle to my right –
stocked full with pamphlets - gleaming white.

And in a ‘half-moon’ little while
he lights the room up with his smile
and clean, pressed shirt – I love that style!
A hint of ocean blues, his eyes
are full of mystery and surprise.

With seeming care he calls my name,
then I remember why I came.
I came, I came to talk to him
about the issues – bright or grim
and yes, about the medicine
I need. At least he knows my name
and never makes me feel insane.

My eyes meet his – it’s my turn now
to sit, to talk, to cry, to smile,
to do whatever I must do –
before my time with him is through.

Anne – February 23, 2010