Press "Enter" to skip to content

h. renell's Hearth Posts

Indian Summer

Farmhouse kitchen family gathered
around the table shucking corn,
ceiling fan stirring the silk.
Cat napping in the corner
as they drink iced tea.
Bounty harvest
sustains through
coming
year.

My poems

War Lullaby

No speech, only
    violins, violas, cellos, bass
        flying across stings,
        gusto, allegro
then

plucking staccato.

Bows rising in unison
like toy soldiers.
Andante, smooth, sleepy rhythm.

Strings play a story
for every heart to hear.

Bravo!

My poems

Indiana

Other than the asphalt roads dividing the plots of land, the only other signs of modernization were the tractors that looked like aliens rusting in the middle of an earth attack. On summer days, ninety-five degree weather covered the popcorn farmers with sweat, and tornadoes swooped down ready to take Dorothy and Toto to the land of Oz. At night the crickets played country music, soothing weather-worn faces. January brought snow drifts blinding the front windows of the farmhouses. Children came flying from the front porch, dodging phantom snow snakes slithering across the asphalt roads, screen door banging against the house, to pelt each other with snow balls.

My poems

Martha’s Mustard Seed

My brother’s body will smell,
like the corpse flower,
his bone marrow
drying in his bones
to mingle with the earth.
How can fragrance come from
four days dead,
messy cloth-embedded flesh?

My mustard seed faith aches
to squash the ambiguous
agony of plotting the time and place
of his resurrection.
one word,
one touch,
the stake was high,
why?

Yet casting off restraint,
coursed tears affirmed
Your love for him,
moving You
to call
for the stone to be removed.

Come forth, Martha.
Come forth, Martha.

My poems

Teacher

He stands
before the chalkboard
telling tall tales
to his disciples,
pointer in hand,
inviting them to ask
Why do you teach metaphors:
fig trees,
lost coins,
lost sons,
persistent widows,
mustard seeds,
valuable pearls?

My students You say
Your eagle eyes
spot the meat
of My word
But not all
the flock can fly
over the thorns surrounding
their rose hearts.

Class graduation
will marry
their tenor, vehicle.
Thorns will burn
allowing the heart
to hear Me.

My poems

Copyright © 2021 hrenell's Hearth. All rights reserved.