A daily short poem written inspired by each verse in Psalm 37. Seeing there are 40 verses, this project contains 40 poems, each one written on each succeeding day of the 2023 Lenten season.
Refuge (Psalm 37:40)
“The Lord helps them and delivers them; he delivers them from the wicked and saves them, because they take refuge in him.”
The sky is falling,
horizon on fire,
all that can be shaken
is rattling at a higher frenzy
since these forty days began–
span of the rainfall
over the floating menagerie,
of the desert waiting
with the wild beasts,
of the unknown fate
on the terrible mountain.
When Lent has spent
its seeping sorrow and I
am lost with help long overdue,
I calm myself and
once again choose You.
Stronghold (Psalm 37:39)
“The salvation of the righteous is from the Lord; he is their stronghold in the time of trouble.”
When the rapacious river,
roiling brown and angry,
left its banks to hunt down houses,
drown the innocent countryside
and everything living in it,
the ninety concrete pylons
holding up my home
appeared as unconcerned as if
the day instead was setting up
perfectly for a picnic.
Cut Off (Psalm 37:38)
“But transgressors shall be altogether destroyed; the future of the wicked shall be cut off.”
Ripping up the third
overdue notice, he took a long shower,
and went about the rest of his day
without giving it a second thought,
until, having grown thirsty
in the middle of night,
the kitchen faucet mocked
his wanton disregard
by yielding nary a drop.
Posterity (Psalm 37:37)
“Mark the blameless and behold the upright, for there is a posterity for the man of peace.”
I can’t remember there
being so many foxgloves here.
Every year more and
more appear, it seems.
The corner lot, shorn of its trees,
has exploded into color cacophony
from foxglove seeds long dormant
under the once shaded canopy.
I wonder where the first stalk
staked its belfry claim,
its lonely seeds catching wind
at the violent shaking
of a summer storm or playful deer–
ancestor of all these foxgloves flourishing here.
Disappeared (Psalm 37:36)
“But he passed away, and behold, he was no more; though I sought him, he could not be found.”
The Thanksgiving feast
was days in the making:
dreaming, planning,
shopping, sorting,
chopping, grating,
pulling out the finest china,
washing glasses, special sauces
marinating, kneading, baking,
choosing seating,
tasting, basting,
pasting, calling
all to come to
the sumptuous meal
with all the arduous
detailed preparation
finally finished!
(Every bit of it disappeared
in less than twenty minutes.)
Spread (Psalm 37:35)
“I have seen a wicked, ruthless man, spreading himself like a green laurel tree…”
The Himalayan Blackberry vines
have overwhelmed the alder like
a pride of lions gang-tackling wildebeest,
like sugar ants swarming an abandoned
piece of a piece of apple pie left
behind under the table.
The daggered tentacles, able to force
branches down toward the ground,
alter their lifetime trajectories,
showcasing in the years to visit
the bullies’ power to do as they please
and get away with it.
Keep (Psalm 37:34)
“Wait for the Lord and keep his way, and he will exalt you to inherit the land; you will look on when the wicked are cut off.”
Come, sunrise, again tomorrow.
Tide, your circadian blanket throw.
Leaves, return this Spring, outgrow
the gray of winter sorrow.
Shuffle through your phases, moon,
another cycle, another tide,
another dawn coaxing bright
diurnal birdsong into bloom.
Defend (Psalm 37:33)
“The Lord will not abandon him to his power or let him be condemned when he is brought to trial.”
Invading microbes
in stealth mode
spread out
in a takeover bid
to destabilize
the health grid.
Helper T cells intercept,
and send out a Cytokine S.O.S.
A microphage calvary
descends upon
the germ soldiers,
swallowing them into
lysosome bellies,
spitting out
the acid remains.
B Cells alongside
memorize faces
as the evil company
steadily degrades,
efficiently finishing
the rescue job with
handy antibody grenades.
Kill (Psalm 37:32)
“The wicked spies upon the righteous and seeks to kill him.”
The hunter sits immobile in his blind,
alert eyes behind camouflage paint,
arrow notched in his Matthews bow,
waiting for deer to appear below.
The gray of early morning
passes into crisper light.
Alert for a whisper of a warning,
he shifts neither left nor right
in spite of screaming muscles,
staying perfectly still,
paying the price for the pleasure to kill.
Slip (Psalm 37:31)
“The law of his God is in his heart; his steps do not slip.”
After replacing the carpet with wood
the stairs were as glossy as a roller rink,
as slick as the porcelain of a kitchen sink.
Descending in socks was an auto-death wish.
Even Sunday’s best lacked grip.
But court shoes and hi-tops and rubber-bottomed slippers
wore the magic of spiders and creepers and lizards,
were the wheels of a car on a hill with new brakes.
O the difference that a good sole makes.
Wisdom (Psalm 37:30)
“The mouth of the righteous utters wisdom, and his tongue speaks justice.”
Tina stopped after one mug of beer.
The other three continued chugging
prodigally well into the new year.
At closing time she confiscated
their keys without asking permission,
without saying please, articulating with
conviction: “I will drive and I alone.”
After muddled protestations,
four women left the bar alive,
and alive four made it home.
Forever (Psalm 37:29)
“The righteous shall inherit the land and dwell upon it forever.”
Around the time
of the Giza pyramids
a bristlecone pine
was finding its footing
on the high climes
of the eastern Sierras,
setting its sights
on living forever,
its resin-packed dense wood
impervious to pest
and adverse weather.
Having survived
the millenia test
without ostentation,
it may well yet
achieve its desire
and pass through fire
to the new creation.
Justice (Psalm 37:28)
“For the Lord loves justice; he will not forsake his saints. They are preserved forever, but the children of the wicked shall be cut off.”
I don’t know your name,
or how far away
in the world you are,
but you have something
that belongs to me,
treasure of your cruelty,
measure of my loss.
The cost as I try
to forgive is high,
but still I am sure
one day I will.
But even when I do,
know this to be true:
as long as you
hold illicit things
and do your best to hide it,
the Lord’s exquisite eyesight sees
your hoard and does not like it.
Dwell (Psalm 37:27)
“Turn away from evil and do good; so shall you dwell forever.”
After the wolf had blown
down the house of straw
and eaten bacon for breakfast,
he saw another house built
with thick sticks, the freshest
picks from winter’s deadfall.
He blew that down too with
breath all the more bully, tough
lung punch breaking through.
He ate pig two for lunch,
after which he spied a house
made of bricks fresh-fired in
the local kiln. Confident from
recent success, he blew and blew
with visions of juicy pork-chops for
dinner. By midnight the moon
declared the mason pig the winner.
Generous (Psalm 37:26)
“He is ever lending generously, and his children become a blessing.”
Among our company no leader
had brought a match or gas or lighter.
But one odd duck had flint and steel,
who rained down a spiel of sparks on a
tinder nest, nursing its flicker into
the best grade of dancing flame,
about which we gathered, young and old,
to warm our hands in the cold night air,
where even the shyest of us,
mesmerized by crackle and hiss,
joined in on wistful story-telling.
Just how many slipped out of the dark
with kindling to play Prometheus
I cannot say, but soon the whole beach was a
virtual fire-feast from the titans down to the least of us.
Forsaken (Psalm 37:25)
“I have been young, and now am old, yet I have not seen the righteous forsaken or his children begging for bread.”
Three weeks ago
on a camping trip
we lost our dog Otto,
in a freak thunderstorm,
the exhaustive search
that followed failed.
We awoke last night
to a familiar sound,
cheerful ring of a collar jingle.
We opened the door
to eager scratching,
and there sat Otto,
wagging his tail.
Fall (Psalm 37:24)
“Though he fall, he shall not be cast headlong, for the Lord upholds his hand.”
In the terrifying
nothingness
of the vacuum,
a brittle autumn leaf
falls as fast
as a heavy stone,
the shattering impact
fatal.
But break the seal,
let the world-mothering
air congeal,
and see that same leaf
float slowly down,
rocking back and forth
as gently as a
baby in a cradle.
World-mothering air is a phrase from Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem The Virgin Compared to the Air We Breathe
Step (Psalm 37:23)
“The steps of a man are established by the Lord, and He delights in his way.”
All around were arms outstretched:
protective mommy’s in release,
daddy’s waiting to receive,
baby’s eagle-spread for balance
lurching over the carpet ocean,
toy boat tossed by unseen waves,
actor-captured staggering drunk
by the improvising year-old boy
tacking toward the harbor-father’s
cheering voice’s tremulous joy.
Land (Psalm 37:22)
“For those blessed by the Lord shall inherit the land, but those cursed by him shall be cut off.”
This little wooded lot
holds a spell over me.
Old alder shade
on a hot afternoon
dapples the playful
stream teasing tips of
unraveled fern fronds
nodding up and down,
I along with them,
lulled into wonder
by the sound of
mockingbird songs
and wind in the firs.
I sit within sight of
such remarkable works:
what nests, what webs,
what mole excavations!
What a beaver dam masterpiece:
its stripped sticks stitched
together so ingeniously–
just as I am to this
land and it to me.