haiku//november

one (I worry)

I worry. the words
are not good enough, as ink
smears across paper 

and hand. I worry. 
meanwhile, my heart is melting
into pools of ink—

surely if I wait 
to be eloquent, I might 
never write at all.

five (perhapsing)

perhaps she wanted 
to try and do it herself. 
perhaps she was too 

frightened to let go. 
perhaps it was the weather 
that made her weep 

as her white knuckles 
clutched the steering wheel. perhaps 
the pain has strong arms. 

seven

every wave is a 
little glimpse of grief, and a 
little glimpse of joy. 

eight (I have nothing for you—)

I fail to begin, 
paint simple pictures with words
spilled out in puddles, 

splash in syllables, 
and dance around the questions 
in a cold rainstorm 

of adjectives. see
me, now, under the moon, drenched 
in prayer, wordless. 

nine (isaiah 25)

sometimes you have to 
run into the wind biting 
at your chest. it’s not 

quite eden, this land 
we find ourselves worrying 
in and living through. 

sometimes you have to 
wait in the middle for the 
stone walls to crumble, 

to lay down, asleep—
before you can fly through the dust, 
so alive, singing. 

ten (isaiah’s song)

what will we learn when 
the earth whispers her secrets? 
when our brother’s blood 

cries up from the ground? 
when the dew, lit by the dawn, 
reveals everything? 

when this land remains 
a silent sentinel no 
longer, no longer? 

eleven (for once)

may I not run from 
the peace offering because 
I’m afraid of how

it feels to let go. 
for once, may I leap off of 
this tightrope and fall. 

twelve

the highway, once dark 
is now populated with 
traffic lights and drive-

thru’s. the field, once home 
to tall grasses is now meat
for bulldozer mouths. 

the horse, once chomping 
carrots from my tiny palm 
is now a stark row 

of identical 
houses, the so-called progress
accelerating. 

thirteen (isaiah 28)

in the name of truth 
we built a refuge of lies
in the great hall of 

politics, and wore 
our empty falsehoods like they 
might camouflage us, 

or, better yet, make 
us invisible. when the 
storm finally comes 

may thunder shake that 
flooding basement, may the floor 
crack, line upon line. 

fourteen (jonah, sunday evening)

wild storm, raging 
with my own deep pent-up pride, 
will you cease if I 

throw myself over? 
will you fling me the taut line? 
will you submerge me 

in this dark mercy 
with a gentle tug on my 
shoelaces? wild 

storm, will you also 
watch me wake slowly in the 
quiet aftermath? 

sixteen

perhaps salvation 
teeters in a rocking chair 
on the front porch, or 

sits in the window
seat on the last flight of the 
night, watching the clouds. 

perhaps she packs her 
bright red suitcase and looks both 
ways before she steps out 

in quiet crossing, 
waits a moment for the wind, 
eyes closed, savoring. 

seventeen

when worlds fall apart 
why do we run to power 
instead of to trees

who house, willingly 
tiny creatures and do not 
boast about it? and

see, now, the nests they’ve 
held in the crooks of their arms 
all this weary time? 

nineteen

we praise the hunter
and devour the mother 
deer in the center 

of the city. but 
do you see how her blood stains 
our hands, our crooked 

streets? whose wailed prayers 
are you listening to? the 
gunman or the dead? 

twenty (isaiah 34)

a line is stretched out
through the brown sea of grasses 
and into the dead

end streets of this home. 
once it touches everything
there is no one left 

to tell its story. 
the once wild river runs 
empty, and we all 

pray to our own 
god, confused and crumbling 
in a cul-de-sac. 

twenty-one

when did we become 
more concerned with impressing
and forgot to pray 

with our hearts open 
and honest like no one was 
listening but you? 

twenty-two (moses, monday night)

the circle back here 
feels daunting, each step digging 
a deep pit in my 

stomach. but again, 
this place is not square one, not 
really—but a place 

where mere words are our 
power, this well, filling, this 
piece of holy ground. 

twenty-three (self-portrait)

curly wet hair stuck
to my scalp, wrapped up in a 
blue towel, soft bare 

shoulders and neck tipped 
to the right, just so. as if 
I’ve never seen this 

woman before, with 
my same brown eyes but older 
now, somehow, and more 

gentle. we just stare
at each other, curious, 
strangers passing through. 

twenty-five (after mary oliver)

she writes “joy is not 
meant to be a crumb,” but there’s 
a sadness stirred in 

and the trail of these 
bittersweet breadcrumbs leads me 
to the department

store, age six, watching 
you trot out after us in
your tiny brown clogs

it was the first time 
I knew I would die for you, 
even as my heart 

splintered everywhere. 
yes, this life must be lavish. 
the joy, the pain, both. 

twenty-six (for sondheim)

see, I want to make 
a hat but—always this pause!—
there are too many 

choices and threads and 
questions with no answers. will 
I, too, ever make 

a hat worth wearing? 
something beautiful and brave
enough to wade in 

the mystery? Teach 
me to make a hat where there
never was a hat! 

twenty-eight (advent, day one)

tired shoulders push 
up to my ears and bloody 
hangnails burst open 

in the dry winter
air. this year, I feel as though 
I am carrying 

all the wait and none 
of the hope. it’s never as 
it seems—I even

cried while doing the 
dishes on thanksgiving. yes, 
o come, come, I sing 

with a fractured heart. 
I am weary with this long 
expectation! will 

you meet me at long 
last, wailing and wild and 
alive with wonder? 

twenty-nine (advent, day two, annunciation)

warm. a fire in 
the belly. slashes of light. 
deep pain, sudden and 

glorious, somehow. 
a message, story drenched in 
specificity. 

hand open, hand closed. 
a dance. to say yes or no. 
nothing is the same. 

impossible. this 
new thing. this holy, living thing! 
this only thing that 

moves me now. no, not 
so impossible. I am 
broken. alright. with-

out what I thought I 
knew. needed. I am 
woman. prophetess. 

small. afraid. chosen. 
seen. filled up to the brim. free. 
as if I have wings. 

thirty (advent, day three, light)

somedays the light in 
me feels like a match, which is 
no match for the cold 

and wind of looming 
december. maybe today
as the tiny blaze 

burns, fierce and brave, I 
will look up from pinched fingers 
and see how the deep

night makes room for the 
shadows, the unwavering 
glow that still burns,

persists, spilling it’s 
inextinguishable light 
over everything. 

advent poems based on the readings from Honest Advent, by Scott Erickson, aka Scott the Painter