Category Archives: Poetry

Mantra

Poetry, Spiritual Direction, Uncategorized

I come into this room
I close the door.
Two beautiful practices,
Too difficult at times.
A way of presence,
To say that I am here, is
To come into this room.

I come into this room,
I close the door.
A way of holding back
The day already full. 
A way of intention,
A way of focus is
To gently close this door.

I come into this room
I close the door.
I open myself and
I take a breath.
For breath is sacred.
The interchange is noticed,
Between the body and the air,
Between the body and the soul.
As I open and release.

I come,
I close,
I breathe.
To sit,
To read,
To listen,
To notice,
To be,
To be with.
It is that simple,
It is that hard.
But, I have come into this room.
I have closed the door.
I am open.
I am here.

Periphery  

Poetry, Uncategorized,

I saw a flock of snow buntings,
Once.  Once, just barely.
How I saw it I don’t know.
White on snow.
It was a slight movement 
That caught my eye.
Then we were gone.
Well on our way.

Look straight ahead
As though you know what to expect,
And where you are going.
Stay your course
…if you must.
But be alert
For what’s to the side
For there the path may lie.

Sit by the light
Reading the book
Studying the words
…but watching the margins
For something not written 
…For some thought that
   …Flits across the page.
Think about it straight on
Make your list of right’s and wrong’s
But don’t forget or pass over
What is niggling on the edge.

Notice the wiggling bush
At the edge of the field
Or the way the grasses sway
Or the hush that descends….
Wait for what is to come.
Wait for the moment,
   for the movement,
     out in the periphery
          That you know you barely see…

And what of the margins
Out on the edge
   …of society?
The people,
Who roost upon the street
Or dine in the dumpster
And move so slowly, 
Like ghosts, 
They live without margin.
So look at your phone, 
And rush on  if you must…
But wonder, oh god, wonder what you miss
If unaware of the side,
As though you were blind.

And what of the times 
We shimmer inside.
Are strangely warmed
By a breeze so soft.
A breeze that holds an invitation
…To something new,
…To something generous
… And generative?
To a special grace?
An Epiphany road
Where we don’t walk alone?

And I hope, someday,
My margins widen,
Ever so slightly,
   Helping me to notice…
      And not ignore.
For I have stood on the rim, 
…and was invited in
          to see the subtleties
    Of Periphery.

_______________________________________

 

Thursday

Poetry, Uncategorized 
Thursday

There is this strange transition
When chasing the very last beams of the beautiful, fading sunset. 
The light dims and quiet fills the space of the final goodbye. 
The sky is void
And I feel empty.
Tears dampen the soil and refresh my soul. Calm and peace slowly descend. 
Each droplet begins to flicker and flash, Casting reflected light upon the leaves, 
the trees, the weeds, 
and the place where the wild flowers grow. 
So with gratitude I realize, internalize, accept
The sun has not succumbed to the night.
No, it has simply begun its orbit of my heart.
Its fire adds to that of my spirit as 
I slowly take my place in the pre-dawn horizon. 

by Katie Faul 6/8/2023
The train home

It is Sunday. I am aboard the train back home and it feels appropriate that I leave with an actual setting sun. But this time it is after a final goodbye complete with a hug, a kiss, and so many tears. It is good to love one so much and to be loved just as much in return. To be known and to actually know some one is a gift. Although, neither of those actually make it easier at the end, but I wouldn’t change it for all the money in the world.

I love you, Grandma, forever and always. I will help bring the light, it is okay to rest now.

Stones

Poetry, Uncategorized

Stones that altars made.
Stones with names engraved.
Memorial stones 
That are a sign.
And those that form a line,
Boundary stones.
Building stones,
Precious stones.

And chiseled from the mountaintop,
Stone for tablet law.
And among the sheep,
Five round, smooth stone,
That are swung, then flung.

Stones that are not bread 
Stones for throwing 
Stones for stoning, 
Stones that could cry out. 

The singing stones
That felt the weight
Of colt and Jesus feet. 

Stones for rolling, 
And a cornerstone, 
That will make us stumble.

All for living stones,
Lively, living, precious, 
Temple Stones that do cry out 
And sing.

How Can Hope be Sewn so Late

Poetry, Uncategorized

This poem could be about mending clothes or it could be about our divided country, or our broken environment…so like fabric that has been torn.  I have a lot of concerns about the upcoming election and our environment.  I don’t feel as though I have the wisdom to “do” anything or much, and I wonder if we can afford to “go to bed”, or to let only the politicians find a solution?  What would happen if we each looked into our own “basket” and did a little mending?

______________________

Who will sit in stillness
When all the lights are dimmed?
Though tired, who will pick the needle up
And lay the fabric right
To patch or darn or mend?
   Who will say, “Do it now”?

My grandmother sat late at night
Silence all around.
Pulling threads with calloused fingers,
Adding her strength to fabric,
So clothes could still be worn.
   Who will say, “I will help”?

Who will stitch the patches now,
Where fabric’s weak and torn by rough duress?
Or seams that parted by weakened thread?
Who will stitch because of love
for person or the craft?
   Who will see the “us” in “them”?
   Who will say, “I forgive”?

If only the stitch was made
When fabric first was torn.
But now the basket’s full
And first tear forgotten how.
   Who will say, “Reconcile”?

We must pick up the thread and needle,
Not for stitching quilt or embroidery
Whose stitch is made for beauty.
With thread so thick with color
But made of thinnest wool.
   Who will say, “Bring the light”?

How can this repair be done
On fabric that has hardened?
We each must bring a light and
Sit in stillness,
With thick thread,
whose color has no arrogance or ego.
Or how can hope be sewn so late?

Who will say, “Do it now”?
   Who will say, “I will help”?
      Who will see the “us” in “them”?

Who will say, “I forgive”?
   Who will say, “Reconcile”?
      Who will say, “Bring the light”?