The 60-Second Sabbath

She returns to the house
after the funeral,
alone for the first time
in weeks.
She exhales onto the couch;
a sadness of flowers
surrounds her.

This is the silence
that is not silence:
    the refrigerator hums;
    the traffic grumbles; 
    her heart beats.

This is the emptiness
that is not emptiness:
    shadows shift;
    memories jostle;
    objects reach for her.

This is the death
that is not death:
    dreams yet to fulfill;
    wine to pour;
    grace to shed, widely and without regret.

Text and image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Homecoming

My dear brother
stands in the kitchen
with his brand new bride
and her three beautiful children,
faces the horrid awkwardness
of my father
who is rooted in the hallway beyond,
where he appears to be glued to the floor,
stuck in a morass of religious allegiance
despite the Spirit's pleas
to walk in
and embrace them all.

Text and image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

The Burning Bush

I am the burning bush,
engulfed in flame,
but not consumed.

I am the burning bush,
scorched by cruel circumstance,
but not destroyed.

I am the burning bush,
charred by soul-lost longing,
but not devoured.

I am the burning bush,
beckoning in the desert sun,
God's voice, unheeded.

Text and image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

On the Loss of a Friend

I take stock
of sadness.

How is it
measured?

At times
it fills this chipped cup.

At times
it fills the sea.

Text and image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Thinning Walls

How thin these walls have become,
the walls between youth and age,
    between the conscious and the unconscious,
    between this world and the next,
    between my heart and yours,
    between our hearts and theirs.

Permeable.
Translucent.

Through ever-thinning walls
I hear other voices.
I am still and I listen:
    cataracts scale away;
    old skin sloughs off;
    new appendages grow.

Some tell me this is maturity,
but I say

grace.

Text and image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Road Trip

"I'm just not creative,"
I said.

"Ha!" she replied.
Her long hair whipped around her face.
I wondered how she could see to drive.
When I had suggested putting up the windows
and turning on the A/C
she waved the idea away
with one hand,
the nails of which were each painted
a different shade of green.

"No, really..."

There was the hand again,
palm to me,
like a stop sign.

"Everyone's creative,"
she said.
"Some people use their creativity,
and some people don't."

Now the hand grabbed mine.
(Both hands on the wheel,
I begged,
but silently.)
She squeezed and said,
"You are either afraid you might fail
or afraid of what you'll discover.
You can't make meaning
unless you make art." 

She again had both hands on the wheel.
She'd painted the nails of her other hand
shades of yellow.
Imagine looking at your hands all day,
constantly remembering sunshine,
green grass and tree leaves.

"You can't make meaning,"
she repeated,
"unless you make art."

We rode on,
while wind from our open windows
wore away my resistance,
washed we with wondering.

Text and image © 2012 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Moonlight

They call it lunacy,
this peculiar feeling
brought on by moonlight
wrapping the pines in silver.

Life moves beneath branches,
and my heart leaps
between fear and anticipation. 

Text and image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

The Slippery Slope

"Fear not!"
announced the angel.
"Fear not the slippery slope!
Strap on those skis
and ride."

Text and image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Lacking Scarcity

There is
enough.

I am
enough.

I live as if
there isn't enough:
    not enough time,
    not enough money,
    not enough sleep,
    not enough room,
    not enough accomplished...

But there is always
enough.

And I am always
enough.

Text and image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

The Abyss

He stands at the edge,
in his head believing
that the plunge
will not kill him,
will, in fact,
free him.

Yet his heart quakes;
blood rises to his face;
heart pounds;
breath comes shallow and fast.

"Thar be monsters,"
he has heard,
monsters that loom large in the dark,
yet are reported to shrink
when exposed to the light.

 But what if they're wrong?

His head says, "Don't be silly."
His heart says, "Don't risk it."

Text and image © 2012 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.