Happy Mother’s Day

A beautiful Mother’s Day to all!

Darlene's Poetical Pursuits


Wishing a Happy Mother’s Day to all women: whether currently a mother, grandmother, waiting to be a Mother, or a mother to those who have none. God Bless.

Mother Heart

The heart of a mother
derives from a Father:
the Abba, Daddy
loving God of heaven.

She absorbs love
leaning against his knee.
She drinks compassion
into her soul from the cup
offered by His hand.

She croons her suffering child
into her breast,
smooths his wayward cowlick
with her cheek,
kisses his tears

Her fears she whispers
to Her Father
in almost silent prayers,
knows He understands.
She shares each concern
with Him.
He gathers her tears
in crystal spheres
adorning His throne..

c.Darlene Moore Berg

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The Empty Cross

The Empty Cross

Three crosses on a hill
Two occupied, bones picked clean
One stained only with blood
In death empty

Where is the body?
Wrapped in linen, incense, myrrh?
Hidden in a rock-hewn tomb?
Guarded by soldiers?

The Tomb stands open, vacant
Scattered stips of cloth
Left on a stone slab
The garden quiet, birds singing
In the distance

Where is the Man buried here?
Where is death’s victim?
Where is the crown of thorns?
Where are the tears shed here?

A crowd on a hill
A man glowing in light
A rising, shining glory
Clouds enclose the view
Christ is ascended..

c. Darlene Moore Berg

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A Dogwood Blossom

Darlene's Poetical Pursuits


A Dogwood Blossom

Trace the contours,
the edges of each petal
come to the point, indented
dipped in darkest red.
In legend, it is said
that each white quartet
is living memory
of the cross
where Christ once bled.

c.Darlene Moore Berg

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Where it All Began

Where it All Began
cropped-img_3774.jpg

Time to come back to the stable
stroll through the stalls
brush the mane from a donkey’s eyes
scratch the head of a calf
pick up a kid, a lamb
cuddle in their soft fur

and through an open door pause
kneel before the newest occupant
an infant bedded in straw.
A young woman caresses his cheek
wets his face with her tears of joy

it is crowded here
but quiet, reverent
something new, intangible
a fragrant incense of hope
arises in each human heart
breathe in the presence of God

c.Darlene Moore Berg 2015

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Hands

An infant, newborn

Fits between two palms

 

Imagine the immensity,

The entirety of God’s love

Cradled within fragile

Human hands.

 

His gaze locks with yours,

A focus, fixed, intense

Searching

 

Blink your eyes

And the Man, the Son of God

Before you stands

And now

He holds you within

His hands

c. Darlene Moore Berg 2015

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Mary’s Baby

 
Mary’s baby Jesus, she
held upon her knee.
The son of God, an infant boy
she tickled to his glee.

Mary’s baby Jesus, she
held up to her face.
The son of God, her little one
she danced around their place.

Mary’s baby Jesus, she
picked up when he fell.
The son of God, a toddler she
brushed off, kissed him well.

Mary’s baby Jesus, she
looked around to find.
The son of God, a growing child
she couldn’t believe the time.

Mary’s baby Jesus, she
hugged good-bye and waved.
The son of God, a man full-grown
she watched him walk away.

Mary’s baby Jesus, she
saw him crucified.
The son of God, the son of Man
she touched his bleeding side.

Mary’s baby Jesus, she
mourned when he had died.
The son of God, the Savior Lord
she saw him glorified.

Mary’s baby Jesus, please
answer when he calls
The son of God, the Prince of Peace
give Him your heart, your all.

c. Darlene Moore Berg

this is an older poem of mine but fitting for this season

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Mother and Child

Madonnas and Child
after a painting Mother and Child by Maurice Sterne 1926

“He was suckled at his mother’s breast.”
A classic image of maternal love,
the Madonna and child—-
visible in a thousand different faces,
a hundred various shades of skin tone,
ivory white to darkest brown.

Tranquility: the breast feeding hormone,
prolactin, releases its calming effect.
And a quiet peace steals a moment free from anxiety,
lines smooth on a weary woman’s face,
a racing heart slows to the rhythm of an infant nursing,
clutched protectively to a bare breast.

Mother to the world,
a transcendent experience, out-of-time,
the nurtured, nurturing child of God’s design
feeds on warm, sweet milk;
he tastes, digests his mother’s muted fear.
Her terror packs away in bundles slung
over an ass’s back and tied with sturdy cords.

A warning thunders in the distance,
the sound of hooves, the rumble of chariots..
Tanks roll across the horizon, the vibrations of artillery
detonate in the next village.
The soldiers come, and come once more…
and safety is always a thousand mile flight
across the shifting sands…
the landscape of another war.

c. Darlene Moore Berg

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