I sit in a circle of women …

My mother with her newborn granddaughter, my daughter

 

BABY SHOWER

I sit in a circle of women,
exclaiming over sleepers, booties and bibs,
careful not to startle
the porcelain doll –
soft unaccustomed weight in my arms.
I glimpse, across the circle, my baby
almost 17 and beautiful
laughing with her friends.

© 2004 by V. Nesdoly

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Happy Birthday to my beautiful daughter! Just before she was born, my husband got a Bible promise for her life from Luke 1:14—the angel’s words to Zechariah about John: “(S)he will be a joy and delight to you, and many will rejoice because of his (her) birth” (NIV).  That has proven true over and over!

I well remember becoming a mom for the first time (she was my firstborn). What an experience—an initiation into a season of life which never ends. Once a mom, always a mom, and I love being a mother and now a grandmother.

I wrote the poem above around the year 2000. It was first published in my 2004 chapbook Calendar.

Cerebrovascular Accident

Secretive, sneaky, unexpected and silent

Taking  things to which you never gave a thought
things you never thought you’d lose …

Reach, hug, walk
read, write, talk

Only blurry memories now
your mute self

Kept captive, confused within your betrayal of a body
awaiting prognosis of the next

Electrocardiogram, CT, MRI
lab report, doctor, therapist

© 2013 by Violet Nesdoly

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Thanks to the encouragement of Catherine and Joy in my Poetry Friday comments, I’ve decided to post some of my Poem-A-Day efforts. This is my April 6th one.

Though I often use prompts to write these daily poems, I like it best when poems arise out of my day to day living. I got the idea for this acrostic poem while thinking about my husband’s uncle and aunt, who have had cerebrovascular accidents (strokes) in the last while.

Betrayer

Judas – Artist unknown

Betrayer

I never fit with the eleven.
Fishermen, tax collector, even the Carpenter
lack my calculating mind.

Obviously now a push is needed
to make Him show Himself
for who He is.

The others will thank me
from their places by the throne
even the J. brothers—

getting their mother
to ask for left and right!
—how laughable.

Heavy bag
will soon be heavier still
this night

I alone have courage
to take their destinies
into my hands.

© 2013 by Violet Nesdoly

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Today is Good Friday, the day Christians all over the world commemorate the death of Christ. The story includes one of Jesus’ disciples—Judas— betraying Him to the Romans with a kiss in exchange for 30 pieces of silver from the chief priests and scribes.

The Bible gives us this chilling explanation of why he did this: “Then Satan entered Judas…” (Luke 22:3).  How he rationalized his actions and what  he hoped he would get out of it is not told us. “Betrayal” is one scenario I’ve imagined.

This poem is part of Poetry Friday, hosted today by Mary Lee Hahn at A Year of Reading

Speed Prey

Author David Harrison’s Adult Word of the Month (W.O.P.) Poems feature snake poems this month. Here’s my take on SNAKE.

Tabitha

Dorcas (Tabitha) – Artist Unknown

TABITHA

While others haggled over meat and fish
I caressed bolts of nubby linen
examined weave of wool
marveled at the rich lightness of silk.

When I became disciple
love of finery and fabric
was all I had to give
the Risen Wearer of the unseamed cloak.
Then I forsook my search
for that embroidered purple robe
which would proclaim “Gazelle.”
Instead stitched love for Him
into the tunics of orphaned lambs,
pieced sad raw sackcloth mantles
for widowed wives,
decorated girdles to flatteringly fit
more hopeful garments.

This day I find myself
(my needle stilled—
I couldn’t move it steady for the chills)
floating above them all
(strange how the drape of fabric
changes with perspective).

What is this place I enter
all so white (the fuller* here
must be exceptional)?
Beings of dazzle walk me arm-in-arm
to where He stands
and then I see what He is holding
in His hands
garment so gleaming white
I cannot look to tell
if it is silk, linen or purest wool.
“Gazelle!” He cries,
and I am held
by warm and welcoming eyes…

“Tabitha! Arise!”

I stare surprised
into amazed and tear-smudged faces
feel the sturdy weight of covers
hear the squeals of children
remember—it seems years ago—the tunic
I put down yesterday,
and know that I again
take up the shuttle
to weave the warp and woof of life
as ever—but not
for I have seen my robe
and looked into His eyes.

© 2007 by Violet Nesdoly

(Based on Acts 9:36-42)

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This week Adele Kenny’s poetry prompt was to write about heaven. After reading it I thought of this poem I wrote some years ago. It was inspired by the story of Tabitha from Acts 9:36-42 in the Bible. Tabitha (who is also known as Dorcas and whose name means gazelle) was an early Christian woman who got sick, died, and was then raised to life by Peter.

I’ve read many accounts of near-death experiences, and I’m sure my imaginings were influenced by those stories in my flight of fancy about how Tabitha spent the time between dying and coming back to life.

(Though written years ago, this poem fits into my current project—poems about women of the Bible.)

This post is part of Poetry Friday, hosted today by Julie Larios at The Drift Record / Julie Larios

“Tabitha” was previously published in my book Family Reunion – 2007, Utmost Christian Writers

* fuller:  The word “full” is from the Anglo-Saxon fullian, meaning “to whiten.” (See complete definition, bottom, under Bible Dictionary definition.)

Leah

“Rachel and Leah” by James Tissot

“…bury me with my fathers…. There they buried Abraham and Sarah…Isaac and Rebekah…and there I buried Leah” – Jacob in Genesis 49:29-31

The morning after Jacob lay with me
even my weak eyes saw his anger.
When I give him a son
he will love me.

Even my weak eyes saw his joy
at the births of Reuben and Simeon
will he finally love me
after Levi, Judah?

At the births of Reuben and Simeon.
Rachel brooded.
After Levi, Judah
she fumed and schemed.

Rachel brooded
bargained for my son’s mandrakes.*
She fumed and schemed
at Zebulun—my sixth!

The bargained-for mandrakes
have produced a son at last.
Zebulun, my sixth
followed by Joseph, Rachel’s first.

Have produced a second son—her last.
She died birthing Benjamin
who followed Joseph, Rachel’s first.
Still Jacob doesn’t love me.

Though she died birthing Benjamin
and I gave him six sons
still Jacob doesn’t love me
though forever now Jacob lies with me.

- Violet Nesdoly – January 2013

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This bittersweet love poem is from a new project I’ve begun: writing poems about the women in the Bible.

You may know the story of Leah. She was the oldest daughter of Laban and sister of Rachel. Rachel was beautiful and Jacob, son of Isaac and Rebekah, fell in love with her, then  worked seven years to earn the right to marry her. But on the wedding night, the girls’ father (Laban) switched Leah (who is described as having “weak eyes”) for Rachel, telling his disappointed son-in-law the next morning that it wasn’t customary to give the younger daughter in marriage before the older one was married. A week later Laban gave Rachel to Jacob as a second wife on the condition Jacob would serve him another seven years. The jealousy and friction in that home are well documented in Genesis.

The voice in the poem is Leah’s from beyond the grave. And maybe she’s wrong. Maybe Jacob did come to love her, seeing that he chose to be buried near to her and not Rachel.

This poem is based loosely on Adele Kenny’s prompt about the old becoming new again. I chose the pantoum form because it literally circles back to the beginning.

(*Mandrakes were thought to be an aphrodisiac. In the story, Leah’s oldest son brought them to his mother, but Rachel persuaded Leah to give them to her in exchange for a night with Jacob.)

This poem is part of Poetry Friday, hosted today by the wonderful Linda at Teacherdance.

The witness of rooms

The Witness of Rooms

The heart of our family was the dining room
more than the tight kitchen
with its claustrophobia of cupboards
woodbox on wheels, tilting-out flour bin
that hid desperate-legged beetles
and gas stove whose oven POOF!
terrified me when I was eight.

The dining room had the fridge
and the wood table squeak-stretched to fit eleven.
Beside it sat the bench for four brothers
squished in a row–-the bench where I swayed organ
when we pretended church, the bench I left
seconds before the plaster
crashed from the ceiling
leaving a hole the shape of Africa.

The living room was off the dining room
our house’s holy of holies
cold, and kept tidy for company
though it had the piano
so I was allowed in to practice.
Its cracked north wall showed off Mom’s clever
camouflaging wallpaper vine
its south had a bay window
that nooked ancient plants
under panes of tinted gold and rosy.
There was also a green stuffed chair
and a matching couch
from where, on sick days
I watched the flowers in the curtains
stare at me, then whisper to each other.

That house has another room now
–-one my brother and his wife added
to watch TV and store stuff.
On the other side of the kitchen and two steps down
it has glass doors that gaze
onto an endless field.
They had lately moved into it a hospital bed.
I visit on the weekend of the memorial:
the bed is gone now.
I study the red walls
the only ones in this old house
to have witnessed such a thing.
They give nothing away.

© 2011 by Violet Nesdoly

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Two years ago today (January 25, 2011) my brother passed away after a several-year battle with cancer. He died in the farmhouse where we grew up. In this personal poem, I recall some of the scenes the walls in that farmhouse have witnessed. What would be the memories of the walls in your house?

This poem is part of Poetry Friday, hosted this week by Tabatha Yeatts at The Opposite of Indifference.

Messy – Poetry Friday

“… untidy on the shelf”

Messy

Poetry is messy
all these snippets of poems
lying around
all these lines that keep asking
to be changed or moved
into another poem altogether
how do I keep track?

And look at these books
—mere brochures
with spines too skinny for titles
slight, yet too weighty
for the garbage
lovely to hold
but untidy on the shelf

and as impossible to catalogue
—with their love, humor peace,
protest, outrage and grace—
as the motley bunch of us
at our last reading.

© 2013 by Violet Nesdoly

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At the beginning of the year, do you find yourself with the urge to organize—even your poetry? And how impossible is that!

Welcome to Poetry Friday, the impossible-to-catalogue weekly collection of poetry and poetry-related blog posts for readers of all ages!

Please click on the button below to add your Poetry Friday  link to the inlinkz widget.

Of course comments are welcome too. Please use them to tell us more about your post THANK YOU!

Tea-a-tete

“An offer of tea” – Tabatha Yeatts – Photo from Flickr.

I steep in your presence
your interest draws from me
thoughts I had stashed

We brew a future
infused with possibility
fragrant with hope

cosy in each others company
our dreams in the pot
at the end of Celestial

it is time to uphold ceremony
and become a party
to our unique blend

© 2013 – Violet Nesdoly

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The lovely tea poster from Tabatha Yeatts (a perk of being part of the poem swaps Tabatha has organized) brought to mind this poem I wrote a few months ago.

Drinking tea with a friend or lover seems like a good activity for the cold and dreary days of January (dreary here, anyway… where there is no snow, but it has rained the creek full of water that, by the way, is the colour of tea with milk).

This poem is submitted to Poetry Friday, hosted this week by the always full-of-surprises Renee La Tulippe at her blog No Water River.

Coffee or tea poems are also welcome at Tweetspeak Poetry, where January’s  challenge is to write a poem about coffee or tea. Post in the comments.

Wear a Scarf

A birthday scarf for my sis!

Wear a scarf with memory
sweat-cloth of ancient Rome
Chinese army neckerchief
silk mask in cockpit fume.

Wear a scarf that’s beautiful
cashmere, pashmina, silk
woven or embroidered
in gold or silver gilt.

Wear a scarf that’s versatile
stole over evening gown
shawl covering for the time of prayer
pouch for your little one.

Wear a scarf with savvy
learn how to knot and drape
Windsor, cravat, ascot
necktie, Gypsy cape.

Be one with all your sisters
in their lovely shawls and scarves
saris, tichels, hijabs
turbans and khimars.

© 2012 by Violet Nesdoly

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One of the poetic activities I enjoyed in 2012 was joining in on Tabatha Yeatts‘ poem swaps. I found it a wonderful way to get to know a few Poetry Friday contributors well.

My winter poem swapee was kidlit author and poet Joyce Ray. Tabatha supplied us with get-acquainted questions and a poem prompt. Joyce’s answer to “favourite colors: ocean colors, sage green, even lavender” immediately brought to mind a scarf! And so I was on my way. “Wear a Scarf” is the result. (Of course I enclosed an actual scarf as the gift. I never did find one that exactly matched the scarf I had in my imagination, but it was close. And for those familiar with what we did, no, I didn’t follow Tabatha’s challenge to start each line with the same letter. I completely forgot about it, so when my poem from Joyce came with an “L” at the beginning of each line I was so impressed!)

If Tabatha runs more poetry swaps in the new year, join in! You’ll find it an enriching and fun experience!

Now, a Happy New Year to all who read here. May your 2013 abound with poetry!

For more end-of-December poetry check out Poetry Friday, hosted this week by Carol at Carol’s Corner.