Night Raider

A few bean plants lost their leaves in the night. A trail of dainty hoofprints led across the garden. Who, then, is the thief?

© 2009 Janalyn Voigt

My Mark

I've never met them,

These silent strangers.

They are to me but

A name on a stone -

Or no name at all,

Just a depression,

A mound of earth,

Unmarked.

They lived before me

In a younger world -

Real people sighing

Through life

Before I took on

Flesh and breath.

They're gone now -

Unremarked.

It doesn't seem fair.

They might never

Have existed at all -

For good or ill,

They came to rest here,

On this windy hill -

Forlorn,

Forgotten.

I cannot know them,

I who am living.

God alone has

Decided their fate.

I walk from the place

And leave them behind.

I must make a mark

Not written on stone.

© 2009 by Janalyn Voigt

The Truth We Told

Photo credit: gbh from morguefile.com

You were crowned in glory
Though we thought it less.
You were clothed in honor;
We mocked your nakedness.

Blood and tears ran together
Down your battered, gentle face.
We thought of it as defeat --
Your sacrifice and grace.

"Father, forgive them,"
Was your heartfelt plea.
Your love was greater
Than our enmity.

We told the truth
When we called you King,
Though we didn't know
What your death would bring.

We didn't know
When we nailed you up
That you were drinking
Our own death cup.

We didn't know
When we pierced your side
That for three days only
Would you abide

In the darkness of the tomb
To pay our fee.
Now cross, tomb and cup
Stand empty.

© 2009 by Janalyn Voigt

Nowadays

When I was young,

I sprang from my bed.

Nowadays,

I rise from the dead.

©2010 Janalyn Voigt

Singing

I listen to the rhythms of life, for within them I will sing my melody.

The Stuff of Life

We traveled long miles to see a family member confined to bed, unable to walk. She's lain there for a year now, drifting in and out of sleep, her memories ebbing and flowing. Her days have condensed to a set of DVD's played again and again, to the nurse's visits, meal time, and the view from a window where chickadees gather around a feeder. What I find annoying -- gray rain driving against the windshield and blowing into my face whenever I leave the car at rest stops -- she would probably drink in as the stuff of life.

Journey

A train passes, ratcheting, whistling in the night to transport me from my bed.

© 2009 Janalyn Voigt

Tango

Today I’m going to dance with life and see where it leads.

© 2009 Janalyn Voigt

Wonderment

Children’s eyes

See marvels --

Creation born anew --

Wonderment

In each small

Everything.

Give me, Lord,

A child’s view.

 

© 1985 Janalyn Voigt

River Voices

Stones tumble and thump.

A fish jumps and plashes.

Wavelets overlap sucking mud.

A child laughs.

© 2009 Janalyn Voigt

Helpers

Hands that strengthen mine I cannot despise, for they give more than they take.

© Janalyn Voigt

Grace

Harsh words spoken in haste cannot erase themselves without me.

© 2009 Janalyn Voigt

Ghost Train

I pick up a rusted spike, passed to mine from a hand now dead. A trainless tunnel arches overhead. Rails and ties pass from memory to dust. Faint, a whistle sounds.

© 2009 Janalyn Voigt

Storm Song

The thrum of rain in the gutters, the swish of tires on the street, the purr of my cat provide music enough.

© Janalyn Voigt

Majesty

The mountains stand sharp, edged in green. Storm clouds roil in a summer’s sky. An eagle soars. I gaze, but cannot hold them thus.

© 2009 Janalyn Voigt

Focus

Cracks split the pavement and nurture weeds, but in the garden flowers bloom.

I choose my world.

© 2009 Janalyn Voigt

Poetry

It comes at odd hours without warning. A word – a sentence – elusive as a butterfly. And I, imperfect net in hand, attempt its capture.

© 2009 Janalyn Voigt

Busy Me

It seems I need another life just to keep up with this one.

© 2009 Janalyn Voigt

My Strawberries

Two snails, pulled from a ripe strawberry, earn a gratis trip to the yard waste container. A fat brown slug follows them. A beetle sees me coming and runs.

© 2009 Janalyn Voigt

Garden Logic

I don’t know why God grew a gardener from one who weeps at a worm’s death.

© 2009 Janalyn Voigt