A Prayer for All Creatives

I have paced myself with the paces of exuberance

and littered the floor with scrumpled-up papers.

I’ve peeled myself like a ripe fruit

and shared the segments, squeezed out juices.

Of grace, I have wondered upon

and peered between the slats of your kingdom,

but  you have been to me closer than

what is cherished as close

and have shown me the kingdom within.

You have handed me brushes, and a palette of colours,

You have reached out to take my hand

and kept my hand in your hand.

You are not in a hurry

and wait to hear my voice as it stumbles

in wave upon wave on the tide of your shores.

You have handed me a pen, and some paper on a table

and you have shown me the garden, on the edge of attention.

We have breathed the same breath, under the pre-dawn light

and thought the same thoughts, trembling on what begins.

There are times when your face alone is enough for my heart,

because the words have lain down, and gone into hibernation.

And when this comes, I mustn’t fight it, but take it instead

as the most intimate of invitations.

I feel the turning of what must be borne,

as it grows and lurches deep down

And finds its first breath when we least expect it,

howling to come out and make itself known.

So untidy, we are not made for perfection,

but find our truest expression when we run into ourselves,

to find the Son there is rising.

Jenneth Graser

Photography Johannes Plenio Pexels

Waking Up

I find you under crushed weeds lining the path
of our morning rambles.

Someone got here first and strew them out of the way,
pulled up by the roots.

How many things are you pulling up by the root
to reveal the turned over loam in us?

The sun briskly challenges the mountain,
which cannot hold back the pure poured-out light

generously misting the dew amongst reeds,
all standing like champions and witnesses.

I am being attended by the chorus of rooster,
a playful enterprise of birds so unafraid.

My prayers tumble out of my mouth
into the cracks of the valley, exposing lies for lies,
truth for truth.

We can walk here and stop being fearful of
what could be lurking in every unknown future.

We can run here and feel what it is to
have the blood surge through our muscles,

reminding us that we are a body too,
a temple called into the holy of a body-made prayer.

First thing in the morning, when the sun is bursting
at its seams with enthusiasm and there is

so much breath puffing out like clouds
all over the trails, and the day is waking, waking,
waking up all over the place.

I am waking up too.

Jenneth Graser

Photography Ban Yido Unsplash