I am honoured to share a guest post with you from my friend and member of our community Jennifer Patino. Jennifer has been writing poetry from a very young age. She has had work featured in various publications, both online and in print. She lives in Traverse City, Michigan with her husband where she enjoys nature walks, birding, and reading as many books as possible. She is an enrolled member of the Lac Courtes Oreilles Band of Lake Superior Ojibwe. You can read more of her work on her blogsite www.thistlethoughts.com.
The ability to express myself through poetry has truly been a life-saving gift for me. I was a third grader at a Catholic school in Detroit, Michigan when poetry was introduced to my ears. My teacher read a Thanksgiving poem out loud to the class and our task for the week was to memorize it and recite it word for word. The rhythm, the cadence, the rhymes, the flow. I had it memorized by the next day and remember whispering it to myself on the ride to school.
This was only the beginning. Soon we were instructed to pen our own haiku poems, our own rhyming sonnets, our own free verse. There were plenty more poems to be memorized. Our school library had little books of poetry that I would devour every chance I got.
The years passed and I never lost my love of the written word. I read more books, experimented with more forms, and in my teen years I found a way to vent all I was feeling during those tumultuous years. I would find myself having a dialogue when I wrote. I was creating, which in a way helped me to feel closer to Creator. Sometimes my poems were prayers. Sometimes they were lamentations. Other times they were a form of praise.
I found healing in writing poetry and that continues to this day. I am so thankful for all the poets in the world and that for whatever reason, I am able to call myself one. I am grateful for all poetry has taught me about resiliency, strength, the vast array of human emotions, and most of all love.
The following poems were written during a period of spiritual dryness I was experiencing years ago. I was nostalgic for the comfort I used to feel in my younger days when blind faith felt so much easier to come by. These poems helped me to reconnect to the Source. They helped me rekindle a relationship with Creator again. I was inspired by Mary Magdalene, who believed in Christ’s teachings even when it seemed the whole world was against her. I was moved by silence and how it seemed to open doors to guidance I couldn’t hear when I was caught up in the world’s noise. Finally, I reflected upon an old chapel I used to attend in my teen years and the joy and light it once brought me.
I don’t believe I’ll ever stop writing poetry, just as I don’t believe I’ll never experience spiritual dryness again. But in those moments where I feel disconnected, scattered, confused, or faithless, I’ll always have poetry as a good road to lead me back to Spirit. I’m a prodigal daughter when I pick up a pen and each line paves the way back home.
—
The First, The Magdalene
Death is a stone wall
The bruised violet was
the first
to pierce through the veil
To believe in true life after,
in the Lamb's glorious
resurrection,
in eternal salvation
The first ears to hear
the truth of a Heaven beyond
Petals soaked in dewfall
A heap at the feet of
purity,
a love as deep as the blood shed for her,
for all
An answer to a broken woman's call
She rises like the sun
toward the face
of the Glorious One
A rose now, white as snow,
forgiven, blessed,
a heart shining in gold
Death is defeated
The chosen voice speaks
of what her new eyes have seen
Telling all He is risen
and that every soul
has been made clean
—
Quelling the Combatant With the Quiet
The churning in the belly,
The swallowed hummingbird
sprouting thorns deep within
The tongue laced in barbed wire
leaving gashes in its wake,
and the meek absorbing the lashings
for every strong one's sake
Repressed wounds
touched by a cruel word
sparking a hurl in a heart
A faster beat,
a quickening,
a false start
A tear prickling a scourged iris,
a sharp intake, barely heard,
and a humble silence in response
to a piercing sword's lingering shock
—
Like a Beacon
The comfort of
stained glass windows
caught by half-light
Muted rainbow
and pastel shadow
painting parallelograms
on the floor, marbled
with teardrops and coated
in answered prayers
The old chapel, a staple
in a childhood of ruins,
a warm quilt on a hill,
inviting and petal soft,
a plain, wooden cross,
elysian singing echoes its walls
A protector, simple guidance
in a tranquil, pure space, beatific aura on a weathered face
This Presence, more than mortar, more than a structure,
Creator of all, Giver of breath
Homecoming for the weary,
a loving embrace upon which
a troubled soul can take rest
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