A Galilean Storm

It seems the world has had more than its share of storms within this past month.

 

I. Asleep, My Lord?
Fear rocks the boat in waves of disbelief,faith crashes into splinters….and the Lord sleeps.
Bailing doubts that wash unbidden into the keel,we try in vain to tie down vagrant, flapping sails;all our tattered hopes whip free in the ensuing gale.
Fear rocks the boat…and the Lord’s asleep.
Straining at the oars against a head wind,we search for the safety of solid ground.The boat floods in despair’s crescendo waves.
Our Lord sleeps, curled up, eyes closed, innocent…And the boat begins to sink.
In the wreckage of our faith….He sleeps,and when in deepest anguish we shout out to Him: can He still hear us above the roar of the storm?

 

II. “STILL”
The night shatters into sudden, quiet calm.Christ stands in the very center of our lives…The impression of a rope distinctly coiledacross his left cheek. Not asleep.
He knots our fears into absolute silenceand awe….our faces still wet with sea spray.We may not know who commands whom,but we know who is Lord—-the captain of this storm.We know the power of His single word.

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We Are All Eve’s Daughters

Darlene's Poetical Pursuits

This poem appeared in Bellowing Ark about 7 years ago and again in the very short lived journal Three.One.Six.

We Are All Eve’s Daughters

I chafe under any command
I do not understand the reasoning behind.
I resist a simple, “Go”, with “Why?”
A “Do this” with “What will it accomplish?”
And a “Do not touch” with “What would be
the ramifications if I did?”
Ready to listen to any serpent’s lies.

Simple obedience.
A skill not innate in woman.
God must have seen the complications
of an estrogen influenced mind.
The delicacy of hormonal balance,
the female curves—
her circular line of reasoning,
the logic that escapes a male perspective.

I cannot say I would not have caressed the apple,
tasted its crisp tart flesh.
We learn the hard way to resist temptations,
and Eve had no practice, no training.
And with all my self-imposed discipline,
sometimes there is…

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Sir Dad

In honor of Father’s Day This was written about two decades ago while my father was still alive and coming
to terms with his humanity and fallibility…

Sir Dad

He reflected the sun, the moon, the stars to me,
His armor bright, polished, gleaming.
I shadowed my eyes with my hands
in order to watch him in full regalia
charge through life’s tourneys—
large and valiant, a hero—
my father, my knight.

Tarnished armor:
mirror-like silver, dull grey patina,
black, no light reflected.

Retirement. Discards of past victories
shelved away in labeled boxes in the hall closet.
Memories of Truth, Integrity, Honour—-
“Fidelity”
Forgive an old fool.
Sorrow of wisdom won—late.
The castle sold; milady moved.

The armor doesn’t fit anymore,
perhaps, it never did.
I pick up a piece of it, rub it with my sleeve.
Still silver underneath the black.

Not a hero, not a statue up on a pedestal,
not a knight pursuing some holy grail—
a man, my father.
A few dents on the breastplate, battle-scarred.

We walk together; his hair a helmet of dun grey metal,
mine a scarf woven with a thread or two of white.
We stroll across a bridge side by side.
Grandsons tug insistently on his wrinkled, greave-less hands.
We stand before the mirrored surface of a lake.
We may never understand completely our reflections there…
The choices we each have made.
The intensity of feelings fade— Pax Familia.

Mary, at the Cross

Spring and Good Friday today, Easter is only two days away

Darlene's Poetical Pursuits

This poem made its debut in the mid 1990’s as part of a Good Friday service at New City Fellowship in University City,MO. It was the first in what became a series of poems I wrote centered around various women of the Bible.

Mary, at the Cross

A drop of blood
slowly falls
from His foot, lands
close to where I stand.
I close my eyes to
the anguish
in His face,
cannot close off
the anguish
in my heart.
As a mother
I would gladly
trade His place,
stretch out my arms,
embrace the wood,
the nails–-
Let them pierce me, instead.

God, I am not angry with You.
I hurt, am bewildered.
After all
He is Your Son, too.
What does His dying here
prove?

c.Darlene Moore Berg

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The Master’s Example

Darlene's Poetical Pursuits

Holy Week, the Easter season. This poem relates to a scene in the Last Supper where Jesus is washing feet. see the Gospel of John 13:12-16..

The Master’s Example

The road-dust stained towel set aside,
brown water thrown out the upper-storey window—
An unexpected anointing for the unwashed
lingering outside in the back street
with a touch of the humble holiness of God the son.

With hearts subdued, feet clean,
we listened as words bathe
our battered pride, our expectations.
Examples.
Hard to refute the Master:
the scene of Our Lord in service before us.
The lowest part, the most disreputable portion
of ourselves touched by His Hand.

Demands. Servant. Messenger.
Feet to carry the cleansing word of God out into all
the streets and alleys, the back lots of humanity.
Feet washed with water and towel by Jesus Christ himself.
Discipleship. Obedience.
We didn’t understand the price.
We…

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Teach Me to Pray

Teach Me to Pray

Palm to palm
finger to finger
press together
each coal black worry,
concern, fear

into the workings,
the anguish of a prayer
leave these there

the salt
in glistening diamond tears
crystallizes
becomes hope

now wait
let His peace, calm
trickle down
into your innermost being

when its time
your heart rhythm
slow and steady
open wide your hands
let it all drop into His
scarred ones

raise yours now
palms open to heaven
fingers spread wide
in wordless wonder
verbalize praise

c.2017 Darlene Moore Berg

Violets

Darlene's Poetical Pursuits

Violets invade spring:
tiny purple promises
bobbing gently between
blades of grass green.

c. Darlene Moore Berg

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