Dawn, The Third Day

Dawn, The Third Day

Psalm 130:7 “Then we said ‘Let’s go to the throne
of the Lord and worship at his feet’ “

Paused in awe, wonder
a daring disbelief/dawning belief
hands raise to brush the buckle
of his nose.

Fingers itch to rub
the coarse texture of beard;
splay to comb smooth the
tangle of matted, sleep-tossed hair.

And the woman, this woman
does not dare—something there
radiates beyond her understanding;
kneels instead to hold the precious,
naked feet—

damp with dew, splattered
with garden dust— and tears
she wipes away in memory
with her unbound hair.

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The Longest Sabbath

Saturday before Easter

Darlene's Poetical Pursuits

The Longest Sabbath Ever

“ and many women who had come from Galilee with Jesus to care for him were watching from a distance.” Matthew 27:55 NLT

Friday, before the sun sets
Red-eyed women gather, scatter
The rites to perform, the myrrh, linens

All afternoon, huddled together
in the darkness before the cross.
Their loss immeasurable.
Sobs punctuated with the jarring
of the earth beneath their feet.

Now wait in grief.
Bound by tradition,
Sabbath strictures
they cannot seek Him out.
Cannot wash and anoint the
battered body, the dear wounds.

Exquisite agony,
the waste of time,
forced inaction, inconsolable
the fiery need to be there, find his tomb.
Pay love’s last due.

c. 2019 Darlene Moore Berg

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Maundy Thursday: 2020 and beyond

Maundy Thursday 2020

The Passover moon full, tinted rose-gold
Rises, reflects light into a world shrouded in darkness.
A sphere of hope, a time of remembrance.
Exodus, the gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.

Salvation comes for a people once enslaved.
Hope shines for a people sheltered in fear.
Death is near. Life is here.
We huddle separated, together.

The cup of Salvation is in His hand.
We lift up our cups of pressed grapes
and sip His words, His sustenance into our own.
The cracked bread we consume, our daily bread,
His provisions for eternity.

“ I will lift up the cup of Salvation and praise the Lord’s
name for saving me” Psalm 116:13

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Entombed 2020

Did it rain in Jerusalem
tears streaking down from heaven
in an outpouring of heavenly
grief— mirroring ours?

Rain cold, steady
the wind chill driving us
to wait indoors, huddled undercover
watching the flickering firelight
the faint glow of candles
inside shuttered windows.
all night
all the long Saturdays,
the never-ending shabbat

an intermezzo
a world in mourning.

Who believes Easter is coming?
Who has faith life will rise again—
somehow, some when?
A promised resurrection

c.Darlene Moore Berg

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Lenten Rose

Lenten Rose

Your glory nods, curtseys close to the ground.
Anticipation of sorrows found?
Petals veil, hide your pointed heart.
First flower in spring, first sign of hope.
Stained in the crush of the Savior’s bleeding feet
you play your part.

c. Darlene Moore Berg

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‘Ice Day

What an ‘Ice Day

Seek shelter from the rain
that freezes all it touches—
remain undercover, indoors,
cozy by a blazing fire.
Admire from afar the crystalizing

A layer of ice forms, clings
enwraps every unprotected thing
and if I open up this window
after a blast of winter chill
will I hear the birds sing
darting to and fro the feeders
before flitting back to safety
in the cedars?

c. Darlene Moore Berg

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Son Spots

Son Spots

“ Look up at the sky and see God in a cloud” David Lehman

Empty yourself and gaze in rapture heavenward
contemplate a moment or two as the sun peeks
coming out from between the cumulonimbus.

An indistinct silhouette, radiant,
viewed in a singular photograph, halo’d by sunlight—
a figure appears poised above the planet Earth,
striking through a fracture in the clouds.
Arms open in blessing or welcome.

Could it be a reflection from a prior millennium—
Christ in ascension over the hills of Bethany
disciples’ faces raised in apparent awe?
Or maybe a premonition of prophecy,
the long hoped for return in His full Majesty?
Oh, let His Kingdom Come!

Possibly, anyone’s guess, a trick of shadows,
a figment of someone’s fertile imagination?
The image shared hand to hand, scanned into media.
Or could it be an intimation of what will be?
Envision Faith— not to be spurned the blessed Hope.
One day yes, all, everyone, will see together
His glory explode from the firmament
and all life, belief confirmed in Him.

“Why are you standing here staring into the heaven? Jesus has been taken
from you into heaven, but someday he will return from heaven in the same
way you saw him go.” Acts 1:11 NIV

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New Moon

New Moon

The man in the moon,
tired, turned the job
over to his daughter,
but as she’s kind of shy
all you can see of her
is one fingernail
lighting up the sky.

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How Old?

No photo description available.

How Old are You Now?

“The fragrant air of Paradise returns
the aged to their youth.”

Skip like a child
down the gold paved streets.
Wave and smile, laugh with joy
to everyone you meet.
All your long-departed family
and friends you had hoped
and longed to see again.

Grab hands, “ring around the rosy”
with parents, grandparents, aunts,
uncles, cousins, children you wished
you had known
to the tune “Holy, Holy, Holy”
all the same: ageless, merry.

Juggle fruit from the tree of Life.
Toss it back and forth: saint to saint.
No complaint if one drops on a toe
or a poor throw lands another
in the River pouring from the Throne.

No one here will ever be alone.
No one neglected, forlorn
no tears to cry or cheeks to dry
no one deaf or blind or disabled.
No limping, no joints to creak.
Alive and lively with God Almighty
A never ending streak of glory,
Leap for Joy!

c.Darlene Moore Berg

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Grandmother’s Flower Garden

Grandmother’s Flower Garden: A Quilt

Who made this quilt, each delicate stitch,
flowers abloom in feed-sack prints?
The answer lies buried somewhere:
my mothers’s beloved aunt, a grandmother
or a great aunt, great-grandmother.
No one alive who knows or can remember.

I slept snugged up under it all my childhood years.
Pulled it up below my chin, all tucked in
from the winter chills.
Washed and dried time after time,
hung outside on an old clothesline,
kissed by the sun and a gentle wind.
No thought then of long term preservation.
Worn and threadbare, edges and binding unraveled.
The batting leaking through the faded petals.

The quilt followed me everywhere—
each move from house to house, town to town
never misplaced—never lost.
no longer in use, I refuse to toss it out as so much rags:
Someone’s loving care,
someone’s industrious fingers,
their hours of endless labor linger
freely bestowed to beautify, comfort a life.

What to do with it now? this battered, tattered quilt?
Should I cut out and frame a remnant or two?
Form a collage bouquet in photographs?
Keep it entire as a reminder of the application of love?
Or shall I make a small pillow out of it with ruffled lace
upon which I will lay my face and dream
I am a child, peaceful in its embrace.

c. Darlene Moore Berg

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