Stones Shall Shout

Our raucous parade is over;

hosannas waft into the cloudy sky.

Hush.

What do you hear?

The choir’s last suspended note.

Bird song.

Cars and semis rumbling down 29.

An Amtrak whistle.

March winds swishing pine needles.

A sluggish wasp in flight.

The constant buzz of tinnitus.

Put those sounds aside.

Listen.

The mountains, rocks, and stones

are cheering.

a poem for Palm/Passion Sunday 2016

by Rachel Horsley

Mary Knows

"Mary and Martha" by He Qi

she shopped
for the spikenard oil
exchanged denarii
with the high-end herbalist

Mary knows

this perfume is for His burial
yet when Jesus arrives
at her brother's house
it is His life she anoints

Mary knows

the fragrance is strong
heady incense
she wipes the excess
from His feet with her hair

Mary doesn't know
in the violent days to come
she will seek solace
drawing scented tresses
about her face.

a poem for the fifth Sunday in Lent by Rachel Horsley

based on John 12:1-8

The Prodigal

It's a transparent story:
world-weary son,
driven by hunger,
back to his father's farm —
reduced to barefoot begging,
praying for menial work.

From a distance,
the father recognizes
something in the walk,
the posture,
the son he assumed
died dissolutely,
trudging toward him.

It only takes a second
to forgive.

Then the gifts:
the best robe, a ring,
sandals for his callused feet,
the roasting of a calf,
a party.

The thing is: we're all invited.
Let's put on our robes of love,
slip rings of faith on our fingers,
tie on our working/ dancing shoes,
feast at the table of spiritual cuisine;
let's rejoice!

a poem for the fourth Sunday in Lent, 2016.

by Rachel Horsley

Testing Times Lament

Sometimes the tests are easy:
an extra trip to town
to pick up oranges, seltzer and Zicam
for my sick spouse;

this nagging toothache,
the new filling fell out
making eating effortful.

Some are numbing:
Wednesday, Kim didn't show up for book club.
Was she combing her hair,
thinking of The Cat's Table
when her heart burst?

Some are downright daunting:
Mat's memorial
at the old Waldorf school
where Khay studied, played, loved;
driving the old car pool route,
walking the familiar tiled halls,
standing on the wood floor
in the eighth grade room,
sitting in the crowded auditorium
to hear of Mat's life,
the fifth boy from this small community
to die young.

a poem for the third Sunday in Lent

by Rachel Horsley

Tell That Fox

What would you do
if you were given three days
before the walk to your demise?

I would gather family and friends,
touch each one, look into their eyes,
ask forgiveness for my derelictions.
I would eat my favorite foods
unless anticipation felled my appetite.
I would pray.
Would I volunteer
to make the trek to Jerusalem?

Jesus said, Tell that fox
I'll be there in three days,
and went back to work,
casting out demons,
performing cures,
touching people,
looking into their eyes.

a poem for the second Sunday in Lent 2016
(see Matthew 13:31-35)

by Rachel Horsley

Wednesday

A cross of ash on my forehead I enter the emergency room seeking my friend, Lyn.
I don't know if the intake person looks quizzical because of the ashes or my inquiry about Lyn's mother, Wayne, her lifetime weighted with a man's name.
I find Lyn in a tiny, gritty room, Wayne deceased on a gurney, her 86-year-old body blanketed, her white hair haloing her face.
Earlier, on the drive to church, clouds softly pillowed blue and pink, soon to dissolve dark.
I whisper Impermanence, it is all impermanence. Lyn, that moment, in her car, carrying her mother to the hospital.
As I inhaled sunset, Wayne exhaled.

a poem for Ash Wednesday and the first Sunday in Lent 2016 by Rachel Horsley

Photo by Danny Hassell