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

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.)

Two poems about Christmas

Two poems about Christmas

i
this is a poem about the last page
a poem about feeling panicked
a poem about lists
this is a poem about shopping and tired feet
about choosing the right card
then signing your name 47 times
a poem about wrapping paper, tape and ribbon
this is a poem about putting up lights and garland
bells and wreaths, while playing old records
a poem about finding mom’s recipe
and buying butter – for baking!
this is a poem about feasting
this is a poem about getting around
to reading the familiar story and wondering
how did something
that started out so simple
get to be so complicated?
this is a poem about Christmas

ii
this is a poem about hearing the songs
of baby Jesus, at the mall
and having the urge to go
and sing them to all your neighbors
this is a poem about the magic
of blinking lights, toy trains
and sipping a cup of warm cocoa
while you visit the Holy Family
come to your cul-de-sac
this is a poem of when home
is the only place to be
even if the tree is small, the gifts few
and your house is crowded as a Bethlehem street
this is a poem about candlelight and sweet carols
in a place where simple gowns and sequin crowns
transform even urchins and scamps
into shepherds, angels and wise men
this too is a poem about Christmas

© 2009 by Violet Nesdoly

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I wrote the first stanza of this poem quite a few years ago as a verse to put inside a Christmas card to my neighbour. But I never sent it, thinking it sounded too whiny.

It was published about a year later (first stanza only, called ‘this is a poem’) in an anthology called Celebrating the Season 2001 – (Essence Publishing, 2001).

When I submitted it to another Christmas collection a few years later, the editor said it was too negative and suggested I write a second stanza, highlighting a more positive aspect of Christmas. That wasn’t hard to do – and so we had what I called ‘this is a poem 2.’ I believe the poem (both stanzas) eventually made it into that collection, though I never got a copy so am not sure. (Then last year it was published in a little devotional magazine called Rejoice under its present title “Two Poems about Christmas.”)

I submit it to Poetry Friday (hosted today by the very talented teacher/poet Heidi Mordhorst at my juicy little universe) with Merry Christmas wishes to all who read here!

Advent preparations

“…a starry night / around the creche”

Advent preparations

Pull Christmas out of the crawl space
blow dust off pine cones
fluff up ruffles
arrange wired ribbon
hang Christmas plate
and Mom’s embroidery
test music box
find Christmas candles
and chip last year’s wax off the holders
unpack green and red mugs
untangle lights and find the empty socket
for the candle-carrying angel
twist a starry night
around the creche where baby Jesus
is now taking visitors
relax the two-hundred pre-lit tips
trim with coordinated balls
and reflect, as I vacuum needle, cone and glitter bits
If only preparing my heart for Advent
was so simple and straightforward a process

- Violet Nesdoly – December 2, 2012

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The world of Christendom is now commemorating Advent: “a season observed in many Western Christian churches as a time of expectant waiting and preparation for the celebration of the Nativity of Jesus at Christmas. The term is an anglicized version of the Latin word adventus, meaning ‘coming.’ It is the beginning of the Western liturgical year and commences on Advent Sunday ” – from Advent (on Wikipedia).

The commencement of Advent—Advent Sunday—was yesterday.

I put up my Christmas decorations during the weekend just past, and realized how much the decorated house shifted my mood from apprehensive (so much to do…) to joy, excitement, and expectation.

But there are other shifts to be made… shifting attention from the commercial and cultural aspects of the celebration to the spiritual is one I am working on. The newsletter I got from fellow Canadian poet D. S. Martin a few days ago helps in that department. In it he quotes the poem “That Holy Thing” by George MacDonald, and then links the index of Christmas poems that he has featured on his excellent blog Kingdom Poets. I’m going to be checking these out in the days ahead as I focus on the true meaning of Christmas. Why don’t you join me?

Broken Things

Broken Things

(for Fran)

Often when her house is tidy
with the floors all clean and swept
she will slip into a back room
where the broken things are kept.

There she stands amid the clutter
of the puzzles, games and dolls
feels an inner sadness welling
as the tears begin to fall

on her knees to sort and gather –
finds a Ken who has no arms
someone’s pulled the head off Barbie
here’s a bracelet with no charms.

Dolly’s buggy wheel is missing
puzzle pieces need a frame
happy endings ripped from stories
dice and tokens but no game.

So she gathers parts and pieces
seeking one or two to fit.
But the chaos is too hopeless.
How does she make sense of it?

Then she feels the gentle presence
of His hands upon her own.
They are putting things together
better than she’s ever done.

There’s a piece – it goes with this one
here’s an arm, a leg, a face
there’s the ending of a story
here’s a picture of that place.

Oh how fast an hour passes
as they put a few things right
she may come again tomorrow
even slip back in tonight.

There is still so much to sort through.
Will she ever get it done?
“Do not fret my child, I’ll help you.
You and I have well begun.”

© 2009 by Violet Nesdoly

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I was reminded of this poem earlier in the week when I listened to 100 Huntley Street’s Magdalen John  interviewing Justin Bieber’s mother (Pattie Malette). She told the story of a dream she had, where she was supposed be cleaning a house. Each room was the room of a girl of a different age, but they were all hopelessly messy with toys, pizza boxes, clothes etc. up to the knees. She didn’t know where to start.

On waking, she realized that she was the girl whose rooms she was to clean, and the mess was the confusion of all the stages of her growing up.  It was a touching interview and hearkened me back to Fran whose life was similarly shadowed by a painful and confusing childhood, and this poem I wrote thinking of her. (The poem is published in the MSA Poets Potpourri 2009 anthology, River of Words.)

100 Huntley Street Interview with Pattie Malette Part 1 || Part 2

This post is linked to Poetry Friday, hosted this week by the wonderful children’s poet Laura Salas atWriting the World for Kids.

Just Before Cock-crow

"The Denial of St. Peter" Jean-Louis Forain

You are his friend from Galilee
I do not, do not know the man
I’m not his friend and not his clan
he really is stranger to me.

You’re dreaming up a fantasy
you little wench with evil plan.
You were with him from Galilee.
On oath, I do not know the man!

Cease and desist your lying spree.
Why do you paint me partisan?
I told you true when we began
swear by each herring in the sea…
You sound like him from Galilee!

© 2012 by Violet Nesdoly
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This rondel paints a few moments from the story of Passion Week. The account of Peter denying that he even knew Christ, let alone had spent time with Him (Mark 14:66-72) is a cautionary tale to me. I wonder, how would I have reacted in the same circumstance? Do I ever deny Jesus in situations that are far less threatening?

Clay Cup

Clay Cup

“Does a clay pot argue with its maker?” – Isaiah 45:9 (NLT)

A clay cup put to the lips
of a Dalit, Harijan, slumdog
is not rinsed, washed or reused.

The drinker is to break it
crush it, ground it into dirt
a reminder

he is below, worthless
untouchable. Would I
be willing to be such a pot?

© 2012 by Violet Nesdoly

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The story of the Clay Cup

From the Dalit Freedom Network

“In 70% of India’s villages, non-Dalits will not eat or drink with Dalits. It is this societal distinction, and the discrimination that accompanies it, that has led us to adopt the Clay Cup™ as our symbol.

Traditionally, when Dalits enter a tea shop and request a cup of tea, they are served in a clay cup rather than a glass or metal cup that others receive. After drinking their tea, they are expected to crush the cup on the ground so that no other person risks being polluted by their cup.”

Trust?

Trust?

(After Psalm 91:4)

Under hollow bones
connected by mere cartilage and skin
clothed in feathers and down?

Then I remember
the wing-bearer
has the heart of a lion.

© 2012 by Violet Nesdoly

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The internet is full of interesting poetry prompts. My attention was snagged by this photo of a wing with its challenge to write a poem on the Everyday Poems Facebook page (way back on January 20th).

Just when you thought the excitement was over

"Rest on the Flight Into Egypt" by Luc-Olivier Merson (1846-1920)

I know you just fell asleep
after his midnight feed
and that you’ve had an exhausting day.

I know we’ve dreamed of living
– just the three of us –
in rooms behind the cedar-fragrant shop

and that I promised to build you
a kitchen table and new beds
when we got back to Nazareth.

I know that you can’t wait
to show him
to your mom and dad

or put him in the clothes
you stitched for him
that he is even now outgrowing.

I know that you were looking forward
to things getting back to normal.
But heaven keeps interrupting

for I’ve had that dream again.
There’s no time to delay –
we’re on our way to Egypt!

© 2011 by Violet Nesdoly

Guided

When confluence in the heavens
shone brighter than any illuminated text
they high-fived, then headed
to the mall for myrrh and frankincense
stopped by the bank for gold.

Whenever, on that dusty trek
needles of sand attacked
camels were crabby
thighs chafed, tailbones ached
eyes rose again to blue-white beam
that drew them like a magnet.

In Jerusalem when no one knew
about an infant king
heaven’s eye winked seeming to say
“Carry on boys.
There is a reason you’ve come all this way.”

The single-file Bethlehem street
led to a crescent of modest bungalows
but even here
their confidence never wavered
for their star hovered
over one.

And so they double-parked
jumped off those dusty camels
rummaged through sandy saddle bags for gifts
knocked on that humble door
with trembling anticipation.
Despite the unkingliness
of the whole business
faith never faltered
for God’s spotlight
had guided every step.

© 2011 by Violet Nesdoly