About randamir

I pastor Grace Presbyterian Church in Kernersville, North Carolina which locals fondly refer to as K-vegas -- the town not the church. As D.T. Niles once said, "I am not important except to God."

All Creatures

A morning’s reflection. You may listen to me read the poem via the player below.

In the morning stillness
While the family sleeps,
Twilight finds its way in
As does an unseasonable coolness
Which blows through the opened windows.

The morning walkers make their way
Up the street telling yesterday’s stories
And sharing the day’s tasks which
Animate with an energy of excitement or anxiety.
But louder than they, and more constant,
Are the birds.

From each corner of the yard,
A mockingbird shows off his repertoire.
A pair of cardinals at the bird feeder
Take turns and chirp: “Eat. Eat.”
The song sparrows and finches patiently wait
But then push in at their turn.
And there from a birch limb,
A chickadee flies in and back
With his takings.

On the deck floor below,
A squirrel waits and works
The tactics and trigonometry of theft.
While beside me, our cat, Milo,
Watches from the window sill,
Loaded with longing.

And here,
The earnest, present zeal
Of creation and creature
Calls me to the care
Of Providence
Whose birds
Sing lauds.

© Randall Edwards 2021.This poem is for Christ’s church. If it is helpful, please feel free to copy or reprint in church bulletins, read aloud, or repost. I only ask that an attribution be cited to myself (Randall Edwards) and this blog (backwardmutters.com). Thank you.

Movement

When you wait for movement,
When you stand on your toes
And stretch your neck and squint
To see the horizon,
To see that for which you had hoped,
The peristalsis of time slows
To a crawl and sleeps
Or at best slips and slogs
Like a slug along the sidewalk.

Time, like an old man bent
Under the weight and burden
Of age and waiting and hope again,
Again deferred,
Shuffles and schleps
With that for which we long
Like he’s carrying lead
From bathroom to sink,
To recliner, and back to bed
To doze in dreamless sleeps
Through grey days
And moonless nights
As we wait.

© Randall Edwards 2021.

A Poem for Your Pocket

I learned from a friend that April 29 is Poem in Your Pocket Day. So, Dennie, here’s a poem for your pocket.

You may listen to me read the poem via the player below.

I need a poem for my pocket
One that I can take with me
One that turns into a rocket
Shoots me up and out and free.

One that lifts my eyes to heaven
Enables me to see
Words that work in me like leaven
Or root me like a tree

My pocket holds an iPhone
Some change and several keys
But my pocket needs a poem
To put my mind at ease

So here’s a poem for your pocket
One to take where’er you go
A promise in a locket
A promise you should know.

His word is written in you
Is seed a Sower’s sown
It spouts and grows within you
Till you become a poem
That sings His Hallelujah
Or weeps in sad lament
Leaves speechless in the awe
Of the gospel-Word He’s sent

Like a poem in the pocket
Of His waistcoat near His breast
You’re sealed in the locket
Of His love, near his heart, and blessed.

© Randall Edwards 2021

Time’s Fullness

A sonnet for Palm Sunday. You may listen to me read the poem via the player below.

Time's Fullness has comes to Jerusalem
Rocking a city who wave palms, give praise;
Cry, “Son of David!" shout in unison.
“Behold our king! To you Hosannas raise!”

This sudden coming, to show his power
On a donkey's colt, bearing salvation;
No longer secret, at last the hour
To save, redeem, vindicate the nation.

Now is fullness; full of expectation.
Rumor become real, promise become plan;
"Our enemies kneel! "See revelation!
Behold our king! Exalt this Son of Man."

Who could reject, not welcome his renown?
Who seeing, disown? Deny him his crown?

© Randall Edwards 2021.

artwork: abstract tapestry weaving by Jennifer Edwards. http://www.jenniferedwards.com

All Leave

A poem about being left and leaving.

You may listen to me read the poem via the player below.

They all leave. Every single, last thing, leaves 
And goes away til there is nothing left;
All are consigned to one life and then, death.

All of us, all of them, from the first cry,
Are counting down till their last, labored breath
When they shall stop breathing and die.

And every leaving leaves me feeling left—
Leaves me burning with the sting of death
Empties my hands, leaves me bereft.

And to whom shall I leave what I have left—
The things for which I have paid for in sweat?
Who shall take it after my own death?

They all go; it all goes over time;
Whether they leave in trickles or at once
Leaving won’t stop till it has the last dime.

And here Truth shines for me to see
The fleetingness of my mortality:
That day by day the one leaving is me.

© Randall Edwards 2021