The Unheard Cry

   “But ask the animals, and they will teach you,

or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you;”

Job 12:7

 

In the hours before the sun reveals

The stains of our assaults upon the earth,

I pause and listen to the silent sky 

Listen with me to the unheard cry

 

The stains of our assaults upon the earth,

The grief of honeybees and mother wolves:

Listen with me to the unheard cry

Of innocents in bondage to our greed.

 

The grief of honeybees and mother wolves

The lonely calves in their darkened crates

These innocents in bondage to our greed

Wonder when the sun will shine again

 

The lonely calf stands in a darkened crate

Silent but speaking to us all

He wonders when the sun will shine on him

Like it did when he was new and free.

 

Silent but speaking to us all,

Their blood washes through the floor, 

Conveyor belts carrying what’s left

In the hours that the sun reveals.

 

(c) Judith Evans 2021

 

 

Acts of Kindness

We pass the light,
Candle to candle,
On Christmas Eve.

Much the same as God’s love,
The light is not diminished
But grows bright and bold
When we share it.

We leave offerings of
Encouraging words,
A hand to hold,
A warm meal,
Much needed laughter.

The candle glow
Travels row by row
On Christmas Eve.

Acts of kindness
Multiply,
Fill the room,
And give us sight
To see ourselves anew.

Judith C Evans  (c) 2019

Shared with Poets United Midweek Motif  — love
http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2019/02/poets-united-midweek-motif-love.html

Heart’s Ease

Viola, generous and humble,
I could harvest your sweet-smelling blooms forever
And never run out.

Heart’s-ease, violet, pansy, Johnny jump-up,
Your names are as innumerable as your gifts.
Spoonfuls of syrup strengthen our hearts, nourish our blood,
And quiet our coughs
Through every season.

You generously provide a colorful show,
And then your true flowers,
Pale green and hidden beneath heart-shaped leaves,
Do their work to guard your future.

In the garden I wait beside a shaded corner
As the morning dew disappears into a shaft of sunlight,
Grateful for one more day with you,
Purple, white, blue and pink
Protectors of our hearts.

(c) Judith C Evans 2019

Shamelessly Growing Sideways

Beside the ancient, sprawling honeysuckle bush,
A young apple tree leans in
And fights for her share of the sun.
Of all the trees in our backyard orchard,
She is voted least likely to succeed.

Her trunk nearly parallel to the ground,
She strains toward the sun.
Branches that should spread from side to side
Instead soar skyward.

We fret about this state of affairs.

What a shame, we sigh,
As we consider corrective measures
To help her grow properly.
Stakes and twine are put in order.
Websites are consulted.
We trim the honeysuckle branches to no avail.

Maybe best to cut down the twisted tree
To make way for a better fit?

Nevertheless, her trunk presses sideways,
Tearing up well-meaning stakes,
Sending boughs skyward, shrugging off our dismay.

Months later, the little tree puts our concerns to rest.

After shamelessly growing sideways,
Chasing her beloved sun,
This misshapen lady,
With horizontal trunk and vertical branches,
Bears more fruit than all the others combined.

(c) Judith C Evans 2019


Shared with Poetry Pantry #439 at Poets United

A Summer Well Spent

The potted thyme,
After a summer well spent,
Sleeps through fall and winter holidays.
Its tired leaves turn half golden,
A quarter bronze,
And the rest crisp brown.

I trim the stems in mid-winter
And can’t help but notice
A supple green leaf
Looking lost and perplexed.

I glance at the rosemary,
Evergreen yet dormant,
And back again at the thyme.
I see spring,
With aromatic oils that heal and refresh,
Within view yet just out of reach,
Drawing us ever forward.

Like Mary’s Heart

We first heard of Him
During a time of persecution,
When all seemed dead or dying.

His name was first engraved
On Mary’s heart,
Before she understood
What God had asked of her.

The last rose of our garden
Surprised us this November.
Surprised us all,
Amid bare trees and
Decaying,
Discarded leaves.

Like Mary’s heart,
The rose unfurled each petal,
And reached for the dwindling autumn light
Until our expectations
Could no longer contain it.

(c) 2018 Judith C Evans

Jewel of the Garden

Two backyard planting beds,
A few half barrels,
And four fruit trees
Was all it took
To ignite her imagination.
“This year we’ll put up
Heirloom beans, crookneck squash,
Amaranth, garlic greens,
Rhubarb and zucchini (remember zucchini for future reference),”
She announced, setting cases of canning jars
On the kitchen counter.

She pored over web pages
Of native seeds,
Open-pollinated and bee-friendly.

She composed her garden in her head,
Much like her sonnets and haiku,
As if she could craft it
To end in so many syllables.

The plums came first:
Jams, first runny and then rock -solid.
Then the zucchini.
Remember the zucchini?
One or two or many more every day,
Until the neophyte farmer burst into tears.
So many zucchini and not much more.
Barely a purple bean or garlic green.
Frozen zucchini, shredded, pickled, wrapped in bacon.
Banish the word zucchini!

Who would think that this gardener
— This permaculture wannabe, this homesteader on a mission —
Would end up delighting
In ornamental flowers?
“Rose of Sharon jelly,”  she read on a favorite blog.
Half-pint jars of delicate pink glaze.

She doubled down and harvested
The red and white hibiscus blooms,
As worker bees hovered all around —
Ladies in the last weeks of their lives,
Who would work themselves to death
For the sake of the hive.

The next morning, the would-be farmer
Stood at her kitchen window and
Held up a jar of fragrant pink jelly
— That prismatic jewel with
A perfect, delicate texture.

She wondered how many worker bees
Had survived the night,
And she left the best
Rose of Sharon blooms
For the ones who returned.

Judith C Evans (c) 2018

Words and Muses (for John)

They read over his shoulder
And shyly watch his fingers
Tap the keyboard.

They tentatively step closer:
First one, then a few more.
“When will he notice us?”

He sighs over the keyboard
As a weight he was never meant to bear
Bruises every word
That appears on the screen.

They watch without speaking
And wish he’d turn around.
One reaches and softly brushes a tear
From his cheek.
Another wants to speak
But thinks better of it.

They stay with him as he sleeps
— These verses and phrases that wait for their friend.

One finally catches his eye in a dream.

At 2am he awakens, surprised at his optimism.
“Must be the sound of the crickets,”
He muses.

With coffee in hand,
He sits up straight at the keyboard.

The others wring their hands
As one steps forward and
Taps his shoulder —
These new words and characters
Who live only for him,
So that he can breathe life
Into their unheard stories.

Judith C Evans (c) 2018

Holy Week (On Returning to Church)

Image by Jackie via Flickr

Stained glass shards

Cut my heart.

Mary's brown eyes

Draw real blood.

I mourn her

Unattainable ideal

Of womanhood.

Black-robed men

With collars high,

Tell me when

I may speak,

Where I may stand,

What I may do, and

What I may wear

When I'm doing it.

I'd hide in a cave

Like David

But the man after

God's own heart

Would be lying in wait,

Watching me bathe.

"I'm not like other guys,"

Says the still small Voice,

Soft as a robin's breast,

Rich as mother's milk,

Commanding as Orion's knife.

So Holy Week

Brings me back

Through sanctuary doors.

Thursday night

All is purple

Like royalty,

Like the bruise

That drew

My Savior's blood.

Friday sings the blues.

Women wail,

But they stay.

Their grief slays,

But they stay

Anyway.

The hot wax smell

Draws me in,

Draws me down the center aisle

To the table laden

With candles, bread

And grape juice.

Most of me stays

In the back pew.

The rest of me lies

At the table:

Faint,

Defeated

By my own hand,

Needing to be fed

By the body and blood.

We eat and drink.

We are all

Women at the well:

Exposed, relieved,

We sigh

As our lies

Die.

Judith C Evans © 2017 

Waiting for the Words

Grand metaphors elude my pen
As mocking, phantom lines flow.
Waiting for the phrase that will
Stun the jaded ear,
I drift from page to page,
Sure I've a arrived too late.

Judith C Evans © 2017

Give Up and Write

When the puppy is fussing
And the shelves need dusting,
The shrubs need trimming
And those jeans ain't slimming,
Give up and write.

Is the line too long?
Do you hate that song?
So the meeting is boring,
And you can't keep from snoring?
Give up and write.

Pen, pencil, keyboard or screen
Will do their job
If you say what you mean.
No more resisting,
No turning or twisting.
Give up and write.
Just give up,
Right?

Judith C Evans © 2017

New to Mary

Hail Mary, full of grace,
Forgive me if I don't yet have the words down.
I am new to this ancient, million-voiced chorus;
New to Mary, ageless mother of countless names.

Bead by bead, I unwrap graces.
I think of Mary at unlikely moments:
As I look through the latest Avon brochure,
Write a memo for a freelance gig,
Or take the puppy for a walk by the church.

She's a woman, like me, whose blood-soaked words
Appear faithfully as the monthly flow,
Whose sorrow and tenderness hide a warrior princess heart.

New to Mary, I dare to laugh with her,
Woman-to-woman,
In ways that make the faithful cringe.
But Mary knows.

New to Mary, I reach for her hand
And take my place
In the spiral dance that never ends.

I awkwardly finger the beads
As the day cools down,
Before I savor peaceful slumber,
New to the practice,
New to Mary,
New to me.

Judith C Evans © 2017

Parody

A couple of weeks ago, my mom found a stack of papers in her room, containing sketches and poems she had written. The poems capture memories from our lives in southeastern New Hampshire and Flagstaff, Arizona. Happily, she has agreed to let me post some of her work on my blog. My mom's name is Judith, but she is known to our family as "Majude." 

Since winter is winding down here in Idaho (we hope!), I thought that this poem would be a good start. It reminisces about hurried preparations for late winter storms in southeastern New Hampshire, as well as the hope of approaching spring. Enjoy the accompanying sketch, too!

Parody 

"Roses are red, violets are blue."
It will be spring, before it comes true.

Snowstorm is coming.
What should we do?
Bring out the shovels
And mittens too.

Gas up the blowers
To make the snow fly;
Catch flakes on our tongues
And in our eyes.

Fill the bird feeders
With crumbs and seeds;
String gobs of suet to
Decorate trees.

Make sure our larder
Has plenty of food,
With lots of cocoa
Carefully brewed.

Drive to the sand pile
Near the center of town:
Sand mixed with salt
To spread all around.

Generators are ready,
Filled with gas.
Can is empty --
We need more,
Alas.

Three containers are filled,
And we leave the line
Of neighbors waiting to
Fill up in time.

Not a bad storm,
Just enough to savor
Peace and quiet
Before the labor.

Yesterday's plow lines,
Neat and straight,
Rained on and frozen --
Spring may be late.

Walls of snow banks
Outlining each drive
Reduce in size and
Grass comes alive.

The loftier rays from
A warmer sun
Will do the job
Before we're done.

The sky is blue and
Birds are chirping;
Snows become puddles
That dogs are slurping.

Nature releases its bounty
Of white;
We'll stop to admire
And smile with delight.

The racket of blowers and
Neighbors at play...
All these things
Make a holiday.

"Roses are red, violets are blue."
We'll see it through...
And so will you!

Judith H. Chiarito "Majude" © 2011

Snowflakes (Dedicated to my sisters and brothers who march today)

Image by liz west via Flickr

“Snowflakes! You’re nothing more than snowflakes!”

Was that intended as an insult?

After all, each snowflake is fragile, translucent,

Melting on contact with concrete, fire, or water.

But look closely:

Each snowflake is a unique product of God’s handiwork,

A calling of design and purpose

Visible to those who recognize unadulterated beauty.

To the ignorant or hurried eye,

Snowflakes unite to create a nuisance

That interrupts one’s view or plans,

Creating more work when a day off was anticipated.

But dig deeper into the hidden places,

Where roots are nourished and readied for the harvest.

Where soil remains alive as minute miracle workers

Tunnel and turn over compacted aggregates

Of yesterday’s plantings.

Months from now,

Thanks to those annoying bands of snowflakes,

Branches will once again be heavy laden

With fruits of all colors, shapes and sizes:

Sweet, bitter, sour --

But always juicy and nourishing.

Snowflake?

Wear the name proudly

And keep gathering, storming, coating, drifting, and preparing

For history’s next vernal equinox.

It always comes.

© Judith C Evans 2017

Sabbath

We are safe here.
No hurry-up worries may intrude
Because this day and all its allotted hours
Belong to You and Your call.
"Shoulds" and "what ifs"
Make way for strolls
Through the chilly, damp garden,
Where the first tender shoots
Reach for the mid-March sun.

Later, I browse through our bookshelves.
I pick up a poetry book
That I had vowed to read "someday."
I stare at the pages
And the pages stare back
Until the stirrings of unwritten poems
Overtake me,
Because it's safe to be a poet today.

© Judith C Evans 2016

The Last Daisy of Summer

Dear Happiness,
I think I saw you today.
Yes, I'm sure it was you.
You fluttered near the cage
I had prepared for you.
I briefly touched you,
And then the wind carried you
Just beyond my fingertips.

My old friend Happiness,
When I was young,
We walked side-by-side, you and I.
We explored the seashore,
Noticed sparkling pebbles in the tide pools,
Painted my nails for the first time,
And celebrated the last daisy of summer.

Do you remember?

I should know better than to chase you.
I just wish you would chase me.

© Judith C Evans 2014

Shared with Poets United Midweek Motif. This week's prompt is "happiness."

Ashes

Children,

I watch you learn the same paper crafts that I learned

Nearly seventy years ago.

I might have been your great grandmother,

Had history taken a different turn.

Fold the paper just right

And pray for me as you set the paper cranes

To flight.

Forever six years old,

I am in every sunbeam, cloud and snowflake

That falls over Hiroshima

As the ashes of my bones,

Caught up in the poison windstorm decades ago,

Look for a peaceful place to rest.

© Judith C Evans 2014 

Written for Poets United Midweek Motif prompt: "Hiroshima, or Ring a Bell"

Wise Choices

Barely as tall as the shopping cart,

I could tell that we were getting closer to the produce aisle

As fresh peach and apple fragrances greeted my nose.

I reached upward toward the sparkling display of grapes.

I noticed that my mother’s navy blue sneakers kept on walking.

“We’re boycotting grapes,” she said as she pushed the shopping cart

Past the green and purplish-black jewels

Without missing a beat.

(I thought of one day during the previous school year

When we had an assembly because a great man had died.

We saw a film about bus boycotts and lunch counters,

And signs that said who could drink at which water fountain.)

I turned and looked at the forlorn grape display,

Realizing that they did not look as sumptuous as they did two minutes ago. 

And that was the day I learned to shop.

© Judith C Evans 2014

Shared at Poets United Midweek Motif . . . this week's prompt is BOYCOTT

PTSD-Slayer

Ah, to be a knight!
I'd slay the devouring serpents:
Those screaming, voracious dragons that
Crush our joy.

I'd guard our castle,
Deflecting smouldering darts
That would not dare inject
Their venom into your
Sweet poetic mind.

Until then, we will find refuge, you and I,
Between the lines of sonnets,
As the perfume of homemade blackberry jam
Drifts through our kitchen
And envelops the acrid smoke
Of old nightmares.

© 2014 Judith C Evans

Unshattered

A collection of mismatched shards:
That is how I saw myself
Until You handed me the missing pieces.

Examined in the light,
Each piece offers
Unexpected colors that change context
And deepen perspective.

Nearly whole,
Revived by Your breath,
I speak with my voice
For the first time.

© Judith C Evans 2014