Private

Privatization is the power charging

the flashlight of capitalism.

  When its acid leeches into the switch

  of connection, there’s an inability

  to distinguish between good and evil,

  a failure to distinguish on from off.

    When it corrodes the chamber

    of community, cooperation is voided

    in favor of competition and victory.

  When it interferes with the bulb of hope,

  more heat than light is generated,

  more hoarding than loving.

Despite the individuation

of our own economies,

the universe holds all in God’s trust.

© 2016 Todd Jenkins

Ode to Phenomenal Women

“A good woman is hard to find,
    and worth far more than diamonds.
Her husband trusts her without reserve,
    and never has reason to regret it.”

(Proverbs 31:10-11 MSG)

You do not need an ode from which

   to draw your power, for the light

      in your eyes emanates from a fire

         centered deep in your being;

            a burning placed there

             by the Spirit of the great I Am.

  

Your worth was determined

   before your birth, calculated

      on spiritual DNA; a value made richer

         by your unabashed living into it.

Biological motherhood, as many of you

   have learned, is neither a right

      nor something completely

         within your control.

Some with offspring never quite

   make it to “mom”, and many

      have mothered without benefit

         of labor and delivery,

            walking the tightrope between

               quiet strength and gentle nurturing.

In a culture and economy that largely ignore

   the strength of matriarchal bonds,

      you blend a powerful mixture

         of rebar and rose petals,

            holding families and communities together

               with the power of resurrection

                  planted in your soul

                     from the foundation of the universe.

Praise be to Yahweh

   for the gift of life you bring!

© 2016 Todd Jenkins

Visceral

Painters and drawers and sculptors and countless other visual artists are able to combine and manipulate various physical substances into objects that pique our imagination and show us a peek at the universe and ourselves that we have yet to comprehend. Once we have seen these creative vistas and ourselves reflected through them, we cannot forget or go back to the way things used to be without tremendous expenditure of costly personal energy. 

Writers are visual artists of a different sort. Authors paint word pictures that hang in the passageway running between head and heart. Narrative/prose is a medium in the realm of realism, often hanging closer to the brain's end of the hall. Once a good story seeps into your marrow, the door at the coronary end of the hallway usually swings open a bit wider as a particular vocabulary and its precise ordering provide a view of what's been right in front of your face for years and yet may still have eluded your perception.

Poetry tends toward impressionism, just outside the heart's door. It often makes you want to race back and forth between the cerebral and the emotive, between fading distant memories and the possibility of what lies around the next bend, anchoring the here-and-now in a sense of hope, if not peace. Story's and poetry's art galleries are for the curious; those who're willing to peruse stacks of beauty with only a handful of syllables scratched on the surface, daring aficionados to crack a spine. Welcome to a visceral gallery of words, brushed on life’s ever-flowing canvas.

© 2016 Todd Jenkins

Creature

Photo by Jennie R. Jenkins

Keep a dragon's egg

in your pocket long enough,

pulling it out to marvel,

turning it over

in your sweaty little palms,

   shaking it at the folks

   who stir you from

   the laziness of your

   inherited perch of status quo,

      and sooner or later

      you'll be the unwitting

      (Or is it dim-witted?)

      owner of an uncontrollable,

      fire-breathing maniac.

         It's getting hot up in here!

© 2016 Todd Jenkins

Deeps

Photo by Holly Jenkins

Life is easier when your enemies

are all external, identifiable,

and you get to completely define them.

Yes, easier, smoother, shallower.

Give me the deeps anyway,

where ruts and ridges

surprise and challenge my assumptions;

where mirrors reject

my narrow, retouched imaginings.

© 2016 Todd Jenkins

Planted

When the deathiversary

rolls around each year,

we can hardly believe

it’s here again.

Wasn’t it the day before yesterday

when our hearts were still beating

and normal was something

we thought could last?

It seems like yesterday

the casket was lowered

into the earth or the ashes

were scattered by the wind;

We knew a huge chunk

of who we were 
was dead now, too.

The dirt was like a weight

on our chests, pressing, squeezing.

  We could never imagine that

  our burying was also a planting;

  that the love being sunk and scattered

  could somehow ever break through

  the sod with a shoot, a bloom,

  and perhaps flower or fruit;

    but sometimes it does,

    in ways and places we

    never could have imagined.

You have surrounded us

with the love of those

who can and do sing

the songs of faith for us,

reciting the creeds,

believing on our behalf, 
for a while, until 
we can breathe again.

© 2016 Todd Jenkins

In Memoriam

As we once again enter the room called remember, the edge of earth and sky as clearly defined as ever, we pray you'll grant us faith, O Lord, strong and flexible, to mortar the vast expanse between our tiny bricks of understanding. 

For all the saints 

who from this life now rest, 

we give you thanks, O God, 

for by them we are blessed. 

When hate has been unleashed, 

indifference unfurled, 

into holy humus 

their toes securely curled. 

Inspired by burning bush 

and heaven-descended dove, 

they walked the path of grace 

and lived sermons of love. 

We speak their names aloud, 

and breathe their memories, too; 

open palms release them, 

eternally to you. 

For all the saints 

who through our lives have trod, 

we lift our hearts in praise, 

and give you thanks, O God. 

  2016 Todd Jenkins