Passion dreams,
despite the rainfall,
in the rainfall,
melodic rainfall,
mountains are formidable,
she sees the rising majesty
and sweeps color to the horizon,
her sweet breaths
giving inspired life,
her heart sacrificing,
hands calloused,
never still,
busiest in the quiet,
the greatest riches
present in single moments,
dream,
yes,
dream.
Copyright June 2010 Joy Chastagner
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Monday, June 22, 2009
The End Comes
Good bye to what is dear,
tight chest,
uncomfortable stress,
shallow breathing,
long sighs,
looking away,
staring blankly,
in memory living again,
holding tightly
to what is already gone,
the end comes.
Even if eternity is waiting
and right choices have been made,
and time is short
with so much more ahead,
the end here,
on this earth,
still comes,
there is nothing to be done.
Now it's remembrance,
and a vacant place,
odd turnings to speak,
to reach for,
to share,
but no one is there.
Yes, it is only for awhile,
and hope is brilliant, alive,
and reunion is sure, anticipated,
and, yes, there is no fear.
For now acceptance
is what must be,
a continuing,
grabbing hold of today,
and living with passion.
Live!
And in that living,
passionate, alive living,
it's still okay,
it's a wonderful thing,
a good thing,
I think,
a kind of honoring,
to sit back,
now and then,
with long sighs,
and stares to nowhere,
and to remember.
Copyright Joy Chastagner June 2009
tight chest,
uncomfortable stress,
shallow breathing,
long sighs,
looking away,
staring blankly,
in memory living again,
holding tightly
to what is already gone,
the end comes.
Even if eternity is waiting
and right choices have been made,
and time is short
with so much more ahead,
the end here,
on this earth,
still comes,
there is nothing to be done.
Now it's remembrance,
and a vacant place,
odd turnings to speak,
to reach for,
to share,
but no one is there.
Yes, it is only for awhile,
and hope is brilliant, alive,
and reunion is sure, anticipated,
and, yes, there is no fear.
For now acceptance
is what must be,
a continuing,
grabbing hold of today,
and living with passion.
Live!
And in that living,
passionate, alive living,
it's still okay,
it's a wonderful thing,
a good thing,
I think,
a kind of honoring,
to sit back,
now and then,
with long sighs,
and stares to nowhere,
and to remember.
Copyright Joy Chastagner June 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
Earth Creature
A shudder rolled through the land and the oceans rippled.
Startled birds flew, animals tensed
and the air became charged with excitement.
Winds coming from the east
rustled even the strongest of trees.
Clouds rolled back
and even the sun seemed to pale
against the power of that one word
"MAN"
It started as a spark
and instantly became flesh.
Holy DNA infused
into the fabric of an earth creature.
Created not only to serve,
but to have relationship with the Everlasting.
A creation perfect in design,
yet ultimately,
so willing to deny its destiny.
Outworldly creatures,
angels and demons,
marveling at its power of choice,
and yet, despite its inherent DNA,
a weakness of universal magnitude appears.
Sin, an individual rebellion agains the Maker,
a lie passed on by an outcast prince,
and so began the war,
the prize,
the heart of MAN.
Copyright Fred Chastagner June 2009
Startled birds flew, animals tensed
and the air became charged with excitement.
Winds coming from the east
rustled even the strongest of trees.
Clouds rolled back
and even the sun seemed to pale
against the power of that one word
"MAN"
It started as a spark
and instantly became flesh.
Holy DNA infused
into the fabric of an earth creature.
Created not only to serve,
but to have relationship with the Everlasting.
A creation perfect in design,
yet ultimately,
so willing to deny its destiny.
Outworldly creatures,
angels and demons,
marveling at its power of choice,
and yet, despite its inherent DNA,
a weakness of universal magnitude appears.
Sin, an individual rebellion agains the Maker,
a lie passed on by an outcast prince,
and so began the war,
the prize,
the heart of MAN.
Copyright Fred Chastagner June 2009
Known
Come closer, listen.
There was a place,
a place that was, that is,
a place where time is not, was not,
had not yet come.
Your name was and is known there.
You are known there.
Your face, the shape of your eyes,
the curve of your head,
the rhythmic step of your feet,
the length of your arms,
the movements of your hands,
your successes, your disasters,
your celebrations,
the darkness that weakens your knees,
your struggles for significance,
your life span and all its choices,
all is fully known,
nothing is hidden.
There is something else there.
Yes, something else, something powerful.
There is a great and tender yearning for you.
A yearning that cherishes,
that inspires, that strengthens,
that restores, that heals,
that fulfills, that provides.
Many thoughts have lingered over you,
thoughts, desires, plans,
to bring you a hope and a future.
Out of these thoughts,
out of this inexhaustible love,
a decision was made,
a decision that would affect all time.
The Timeless One, the One who is Love,
the One who is Wholly Other,
the Giver of Life,
the unimaginable beauty of Holy Majesty,
unleashed His creation power
and the very fabric of time was created,
it’s doors thrust open.
From nothing, into the darkness
the heavens and earth
were given their place,
deep churning waters,
tumultuous and formless,
rolling across earth’s surface.
The Life Giver, the Creator paused.
He hovered tenderly over the earth.
He knew what was to come,
how history would unfold,
He knew us then, He knows us now,
He was, He is calling us to Him.
Our names were whispered
in the darkness, in that void
where time had just begun.
From those first moments
we were fully known, fully loved.
He looked over the waters for some time,
then, in an explosion of supernatural power,
the Creator set in motion the forces of nature,
His thundering command
ripping through the darkness,
“Let there be light!”
Copyright Joy Chastagner June 2009
There was a place,
a place that was, that is,
a place where time is not, was not,
had not yet come.
Your name was and is known there.
You are known there.
Your face, the shape of your eyes,
the curve of your head,
the rhythmic step of your feet,
the length of your arms,
the movements of your hands,
your successes, your disasters,
your celebrations,
the darkness that weakens your knees,
your struggles for significance,
your life span and all its choices,
all is fully known,
nothing is hidden.
There is something else there.
Yes, something else, something powerful.
There is a great and tender yearning for you.
A yearning that cherishes,
that inspires, that strengthens,
that restores, that heals,
that fulfills, that provides.
Many thoughts have lingered over you,
thoughts, desires, plans,
to bring you a hope and a future.
Out of these thoughts,
out of this inexhaustible love,
a decision was made,
a decision that would affect all time.
The Timeless One, the One who is Love,
the One who is Wholly Other,
the Giver of Life,
the unimaginable beauty of Holy Majesty,
unleashed His creation power
and the very fabric of time was created,
it’s doors thrust open.
From nothing, into the darkness
the heavens and earth
were given their place,
deep churning waters,
tumultuous and formless,
rolling across earth’s surface.
The Life Giver, the Creator paused.
He hovered tenderly over the earth.
He knew what was to come,
how history would unfold,
He knew us then, He knows us now,
He was, He is calling us to Him.
Our names were whispered
in the darkness, in that void
where time had just begun.
From those first moments
we were fully known, fully loved.
He looked over the waters for some time,
then, in an explosion of supernatural power,
the Creator set in motion the forces of nature,
His thundering command
ripping through the darkness,
“Let there be light!”
Copyright Joy Chastagner June 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
Golel: The Tomb Stone
Warmth began its creeping rise above the horizon.
The quiet, still air rested heavy.
The great stone,
stood immovable,
a memory of violent death
only a few days past.
The wails and sobbing,
the tense stricken faces,
the withdrawn holding,
the anger filled confusion,
the aching of unanswered questions,
were all gone to various homes for rest,
leaving behind this quiet, tension filled air.
The banishment of dark night
was almost complete.
About the great stone,
shadow haze moved with the breeze,
giving odd appearance of dance,
as though sentience from somewhere dark
celebrated the setting of this great stone in place.
Bird song awoke
oblivious to
the stone,
the shadow dance,
the strong, leather clad guards,
standing, watching, wary,
glancing back and forth.
In the quiet,
two women approached.
As they neared the stone
the ground lurched,
moving in waves.
Wings pulsed into the skies.
The powerful heaving of earth
growled a deepening rumble,
a groaning.
Electrifying the air,
a man in brilliant white
descended out of the heavens
and stood before the great stone.
Bodies shaking,
eyes wide,
the guards
fell to the ground
as though dead.
Without effort,
the brilliant figure
rolled the great stone away
and sat upon it.
He saw the women,
clinging to each other,
and spoke to them.
“Don’t be afraid.
I know who you are looking for,
Jesus was crucified,
but He is no longer here,
He has risen."
The women moved
tenatively
towards the tomb,
looking in.
Burial clothes were in perfect place
as though the body had whisped away,
disappearing from within.
The sweet,
other world smell
of burial spices
still filled the air,
nothing was disturbed,
the great stone was rolled away,
and the body was gone.
They turned and ran,
running for home
with compelling need
to tell what they had seen.
Only moments down the path
a man wallking towards them
brought them to a stop.
He smiled.
They knew Him,
they knew His face,
He was immensely dear to them.
They could not deny it was Him.
The One who was no longer dead,
no longer a prisoner of Golel,
the One no longer bound
by life's irreversible conclusion.
Conclusion?
The One who defied death
was with them again,
the Son of God, Jesus,
was among men again.
Jesus appeared to over five hundred people
over the next forty days.
He spoke of the cross
and the reconcilliation of man to God.
He spoke of what was to come,
of His departure to prepare a place
for all who believe in Him,
of His, God's, immeasurable love for man,
of His patient waiting, delaying His return,
that man would have opportunity to choose life with Him.
He spoke of His return for those who believe in Him,
and the coming of the Comforter, the Holy Spirit,
who would reside with believers until His return.
Then, it was time,
after earnest address to the disciples,
and tender encouragements,
before them,
He rose into the heavens
and was lost from sight behind the clouds.
Listen now,
please listen,
the day is coming,
and we will all see...
“…the Son of Man coming on the clouds of the sky, with power and great glory. And he will send his angels with a loud trumpet call, and they will gather his elect from the four winds, from one end of the heavens to the other.
No one knows about that day or hour, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.
So you also must be ready, because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect him.”
Matthew 24
"For God so loved the world, He gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish, but have eternal life.
For God did not send His son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him.......” John 3:16-17
This poem was based on the NIV New Testament Gospels of Matthew Chapter 24 & 28, Luke 24 and John 20.
Copyright Joy Chastagner April 2009
The quiet, still air rested heavy.
The great stone,
stood immovable,
a memory of violent death
only a few days past.
The wails and sobbing,
the tense stricken faces,
the withdrawn holding,
the anger filled confusion,
the aching of unanswered questions,
were all gone to various homes for rest,
leaving behind this quiet, tension filled air.
The banishment of dark night
was almost complete.
About the great stone,
shadow haze moved with the breeze,
giving odd appearance of dance,
as though sentience from somewhere dark
celebrated the setting of this great stone in place.
Bird song awoke
oblivious to
the stone,
the shadow dance,
the strong, leather clad guards,
standing, watching, wary,
glancing back and forth.
In the quiet,
two women approached.
As they neared the stone
the ground lurched,
moving in waves.
Wings pulsed into the skies.
The powerful heaving of earth
growled a deepening rumble,
a groaning.
Electrifying the air,
a man in brilliant white
descended out of the heavens
and stood before the great stone.
Bodies shaking,
eyes wide,
the guards
fell to the ground
as though dead.
Without effort,
the brilliant figure
rolled the great stone away
and sat upon it.
He saw the women,
clinging to each other,
and spoke to them.
“Don’t be afraid.
I know who you are looking for,
Jesus was crucified,
but He is no longer here,
He has risen."
The women moved
tenatively
towards the tomb,
looking in.
Burial clothes were in perfect place
as though the body had whisped away,
disappearing from within.
The sweet,
other world smell
of burial spices
still filled the air,
nothing was disturbed,
the great stone was rolled away,
and the body was gone.
They turned and ran,
running for home
with compelling need
to tell what they had seen.
Only moments down the path
a man wallking towards them
brought them to a stop.
He smiled.
They knew Him,
they knew His face,
He was immensely dear to them.
They could not deny it was Him.
The One who was no longer dead,
no longer a prisoner of Golel,
the One no longer bound
by life's irreversible conclusion.
Conclusion?
The One who defied death
was with them again,
the Son of God, Jesus,
was among men again.
Jesus appeared to over five hundred people
over the next forty days.
He spoke of the cross
and the reconcilliation of man to God.
He spoke of what was to come,
of His departure to prepare a place
for all who believe in Him,
of His, God's, immeasurable love for man,
of His patient waiting, delaying His return,
that man would have opportunity to choose life with Him.
He spoke of His return for those who believe in Him,
and the coming of the Comforter, the Holy Spirit,
who would reside with believers until His return.
Then, it was time,
after earnest address to the disciples,
and tender encouragements,
before them,
He rose into the heavens
and was lost from sight behind the clouds.
Listen now,
please listen,
the day is coming,
and we will all see...
“…the Son of Man coming on the clouds of the sky, with power and great glory. And he will send his angels with a loud trumpet call, and they will gather his elect from the four winds, from one end of the heavens to the other.
No one knows about that day or hour, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.
So you also must be ready, because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect him.”
Matthew 24
"For God so loved the world, He gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish, but have eternal life.
For God did not send His son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him.......” John 3:16-17
This poem was based on the NIV New Testament Gospels of Matthew Chapter 24 & 28, Luke 24 and John 20.
Copyright Joy Chastagner April 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Storms and Flamingoes
I find myself holding a little box
with which I can not part
its ruggedly hewn, but intricate,
carved on a little island named Zanzibar
There, mysteries are enfolded
in a labrynth of narrow crooked streets
Brass studded ancient doors remind me
that what was, is not now what I see
Behind those mighty doors
are dusty orphans playing, cobwebs, and disrepair
I remember that long ago illustrious Sultans
kept slaves, riches, and consorts there
Feel the heaviness, the aroma of cloves, and
cardammum, ocean, fresh fish, and coastal heat
Dhows grace the warm ocean currents
and take my mind to places I can sense but not repeat
I am standing on the tallest building in Zanzibar
overlooking the beautiful confusion of life below
Wind whips around me but I am at peace;
layered with dust and sweat, I'm enchanted still
My lungs filling with ocean air, and I remember
the little rugged box, still in my hands
Was it empty, was it old?
I wonder why I hadn't opened it yet.
I open the box. Nothing inside.
But suddenly gushing out come
beautiful, powerful storms from Africa
and fleeing pink flamingoes by the droves.
Years later this memory still brings excitement to my soul.
But only now, in this very moment, I realize:
Those storms and flamingoes are my stories,
and they must be told!
Copyright Cherie Teasdale 2009
with which I can not part
its ruggedly hewn, but intricate,
carved on a little island named Zanzibar
There, mysteries are enfolded
in a labrynth of narrow crooked streets
Brass studded ancient doors remind me
that what was, is not now what I see
Behind those mighty doors
are dusty orphans playing, cobwebs, and disrepair
I remember that long ago illustrious Sultans
kept slaves, riches, and consorts there
Feel the heaviness, the aroma of cloves, and
cardammum, ocean, fresh fish, and coastal heat
Dhows grace the warm ocean currents
and take my mind to places I can sense but not repeat
I am standing on the tallest building in Zanzibar
overlooking the beautiful confusion of life below
Wind whips around me but I am at peace;
layered with dust and sweat, I'm enchanted still
My lungs filling with ocean air, and I remember
the little rugged box, still in my hands
Was it empty, was it old?
I wonder why I hadn't opened it yet.
I open the box. Nothing inside.
But suddenly gushing out come
beautiful, powerful storms from Africa
and fleeing pink flamingoes by the droves.
Years later this memory still brings excitement to my soul.
But only now, in this very moment, I realize:
Those storms and flamingoes are my stories,
and they must be told!
Copyright Cherie Teasdale 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
Whispers
The signs are there.
The fragmentations evident
long before the carnage begins.
The signs are visible as small comparisons,
lifting up one and tearing down another.
Undermining criticisms and
phrases of division are oft spoken,
spoken with tones of puzzlement,
advice seeking, “innocent” passing observations
given in “friendly” camaraderie
with disclaimers of all sorts.
Over time, it is evident, there is a fixation.
The statements grow in boldness
as they are told over and over.
Motivations are assigned and character is maligned.
In no time at all, the words spoken
have little, if any, resemblance to fact or reality,
they only serve the cause of the one who speaks.
I first encountered such a thing,
one day, in a crowd, a gapping,
bleeding wound of a man smiled at me.
He spoke to me with sickly, warm tone,
pointing out another’s weakness, the incompleteness.
“Shocked” and “aghast” with whispers,
“heartbroken” and “sad” with undertone of pride,
chin lifted high, eyes searching for agreement,
for a comrade to build momentum of cause,
as though pointing out another’s imperfections
rendered his own festering sores invisible
and him lovelier.
He was a whisperer.
The subjects of his fascination were
those who were unafraid.
They were imperfect, yes,
and they were unafraid of the messiness of life.
They were busy embracing the wounded and loving well,
lending strength and courage,
sharing their lives,
generous, compassionate,
faithful in their commitment
from moment to moment.
In an awful way that makes us forget to breathe,
whisperers have a terrible way of proliferating,
undermining, tearing down, destroying, and
“drawing blood.”
The whisperers strike from behind.
A trail of “blood” marks their path.
They smile and extend a “warm” hand of friendship.
They watch for any perceived imperfection
and then the whispers begin.
Their fabricated words and implied meanings,
in a bizarre reality,
become truth,
merely by the fact they are spoken,
their hearers giving life
and the appearance of truth
by constant recitation and regurgitation
to anyone who will listen
to their wind sewn words.
Standing against a whisperer
and their whispers
is a tricky thing.
If you actually find one and confront them,
if they are even able to understand,
if they are repentant and never whisper again,
there is till nothing to be done
for all the whispers
they have given flight to.
Who can identify where the whisper went?
What other person spoke
the fabrications into life
in another ear?
The ones the whispers feed upon
are forced to battle with a wind
that draws “blood”
and drains life, indefinitely.
Scar tissue and, tragically,
when there is no forgiveness,
open wounds,
unable to heal,
putrefy
memorializing
the whisperer’s deeds.
We don’t always know
much about the whisperers.
Often we don’t know who they are
or why they whisper.
We could speculate,
but that would be whispering.
We do know,
they are wounded,
they have lost their way,
and they allow
their own unattended,
gapping,
bleeding wounds
to drive them to battle
and into a whirlwind
of destruction.
Copyright Joy Chastagner November 2008
The fragmentations evident
long before the carnage begins.
The signs are visible as small comparisons,
lifting up one and tearing down another.
Undermining criticisms and
phrases of division are oft spoken,
spoken with tones of puzzlement,
advice seeking, “innocent” passing observations
given in “friendly” camaraderie
with disclaimers of all sorts.
Over time, it is evident, there is a fixation.
The statements grow in boldness
as they are told over and over.
Motivations are assigned and character is maligned.
In no time at all, the words spoken
have little, if any, resemblance to fact or reality,
they only serve the cause of the one who speaks.
I first encountered such a thing,
one day, in a crowd, a gapping,
bleeding wound of a man smiled at me.
He spoke to me with sickly, warm tone,
pointing out another’s weakness, the incompleteness.
“Shocked” and “aghast” with whispers,
“heartbroken” and “sad” with undertone of pride,
chin lifted high, eyes searching for agreement,
for a comrade to build momentum of cause,
as though pointing out another’s imperfections
rendered his own festering sores invisible
and him lovelier.
He was a whisperer.
The subjects of his fascination were
those who were unafraid.
They were imperfect, yes,
and they were unafraid of the messiness of life.
They were busy embracing the wounded and loving well,
lending strength and courage,
sharing their lives,
generous, compassionate,
faithful in their commitment
from moment to moment.
In an awful way that makes us forget to breathe,
whisperers have a terrible way of proliferating,
undermining, tearing down, destroying, and
“drawing blood.”
The whisperers strike from behind.
A trail of “blood” marks their path.
They smile and extend a “warm” hand of friendship.
They watch for any perceived imperfection
and then the whispers begin.
Their fabricated words and implied meanings,
in a bizarre reality,
become truth,
merely by the fact they are spoken,
their hearers giving life
and the appearance of truth
by constant recitation and regurgitation
to anyone who will listen
to their wind sewn words.
Standing against a whisperer
and their whispers
is a tricky thing.
If you actually find one and confront them,
if they are even able to understand,
if they are repentant and never whisper again,
there is till nothing to be done
for all the whispers
they have given flight to.
Who can identify where the whisper went?
What other person spoke
the fabrications into life
in another ear?
The ones the whispers feed upon
are forced to battle with a wind
that draws “blood”
and drains life, indefinitely.
Scar tissue and, tragically,
when there is no forgiveness,
open wounds,
unable to heal,
putrefy
memorializing
the whisperer’s deeds.
We don’t always know
much about the whisperers.
Often we don’t know who they are
or why they whisper.
We could speculate,
but that would be whispering.
We do know,
they are wounded,
they have lost their way,
and they allow
their own unattended,
gapping,
bleeding wounds
to drive them to battle
and into a whirlwind
of destruction.
Copyright Joy Chastagner November 2008
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