Tulip

The baby’s name was there,

Right on the tips of their tongues,

Tantalizingly ready to spray into the open air,

And then it was gone,

Not to be revealed, at least not that day.

So we continue to call her Tulip,

And I imagine her face,

Her impossibly tiny hands,

Her outrageously demanding cry,

The wiggly warmth of her newborn body.

For this, and for her name, I will wait.

© Carolyn Brumbaugh

Newborn infant in Nepal
Photo by Krish Dulal
from Wikimedia Commons

Embrace the Mystery

In the innocence of my youth, old folks were wise, 

The flow of their lives distilled into a wondrous elixir of perfect understanding.

God, being older, was wiser yet, intoxicating.

And so, though I could not comprehend, I believed that if I should die before I wake,

God would send me to a fiery furnace or a beautiful garden,

Based on His tally of my young deeds.

In the self-absorption of adolescence,

I deduced that followers of God

Were drunk on their own self- righteousness.

Words did not match deeds.

God  benefited  their own salvation.  He was their God.  

Not the God of those who questioned, or, God forbid, doubted.

Not my God.  

Then, the stunning arrogance of youth.  

Ah, then all could be as clear as Caribbean waters.  All could be understood. 

The world defined, made rational through diligent study and observation.  

Look hard enough.  One would always equal one. 

Everything had a purpose.  Everything had a place.  

Not God. That Opiate.

Then came my son and daughter,

And I began to suspect miracles.

Who fit all the intricate parts into such small packages?

What told that one tiny cell to become so many, and take on so many forms, so many functions?

And by what means did the million descendants of that single cell know 

When to crawl, to walk, to run?

To mold themselves into such delightful beings, 

I suspected miracles, but life was too busy

To track down the source of my suspicions.

Now I am one of those old people. 

 I marvel at the beauty of the rose.

Sorrow at the brief moment of its life.  

 I am humbled by majesty of the mountains,

Swept away by the vastness of the universe.

 I weep at the cruelty of those who claim to love a loving God.

Yet, I am not wise.   My world still floods with questions not answered.

But I have learned to let them be, 

I seek, but do not demand, 

And failing to understand,

I lovingly embrace the mystery 

That may be my salvation.

© Carolyn Brumbaugh, 2014

Seneca Rocks ~ West Virginia
Photo by Tony Russell

Love on a Stone Wall

What is it about this stone wall

That so inspires the public baring 

Of your private souls?

This sharing, Jeremiah,

Of your forever love for Karly

With the next stranger to stop by?

Will the mountains towering above this wall

Bow down in awe, KS, of

Your forever and ever adoration?

Or the morning mist that 

Lingers sleepily

In the lush valley below

Delay one second longer

Because you, Lilly Wheeler,

Were here?

Will the sun burning its way

Through the morning clouds

Turn down its flame,

Stunned by the beauty 

Of the turquoise flower

You drafted on these rocks?

And the hawks that circle above,

Gracefully hunting their breakfast,

Will they shield their talons

Out of respect for your love

That is maybe not forever, though true enough?

What do the hungry birds care for your truth?

And Carla, why bother to engrave your love for Tre

Only to return the next month with Alex?

Such is the permanence of love on a stone wall.

Even you, who in despair

Declare yourself a “bonehead.”

Why must you share your pain with random passers-by?

Can you not see

Before you at this moment

The loveliness of the stone wall,

The majesty of the towering mountains,

The delicacy of the rising mist,

The power of the burning sun,

The grace of the circling hawks?

And is all this not enough

To make you stand in humble silence?

© Carolyn Brumbaugh, 2013

Graffiti wall at Venice Beach
Photo from Wikimedia Commons

A Hot August in the Sistine Chapel

Shoulder to sweaty shoulder they stand

Eyes focused upward, seeking the perfection painted there.

A naked Adam, perfect, muscular, and beautiful

Reclines on a cool, verdant slope

His left knee bent, supporting

A hand that reaches out

His finger gently touching that of the Creator

Unpainted, but implied, a spark leaps

Giving birth to the human soul.

Below, the sweltering crowd stares

Their gentle murmer growing in

A crescendo of wonder.

“Silencio. “ An Italian bass booms over the crowd

Too unruly for such a sacred place.

They quiet, wondering when they will be prodded back into the August heat

To make room for the next pilgrims.

They wait, struggling with this demand for reverence.

“Silencio.”  Again, the sinners are chastised.

They have failed to be worthy of such beauty.

© Carolyn Brumbaugh, 2013

 God Creates Adam, from Michaelangelo's Sistine Chapel ceiling
Photo from Wikimedia Commons