Category: Poetry (page 1 of 2)

all are welcome

The sign outside the church
said “all are welcome.”

Perhaps they meant to say
all who look like us are welcome,
all who think like us are welcome,
all who believe like us are welcome,
all who wear masks like us are welcome,
all who don’t make a ruckus are welcome,
all who don’t shine the light of truth on us are welcome.

Come on in,
make yourself at home.

This is such a warm and friendly place,
such a nice community.

And we mean to keep it that way.

 

 

© 2014 Kurt Struckmeyer

the Lord watch over your going out

Do you ever find it odd
that worshipers are greeted
as they leave the sanctuary?
This rite of transition
from comfort to challenge.
The grasping of hands, a warm smile,
a word of encouragement
as if to say
this was just the prelude—
worship begins outside these doors.
The one you seek is not here
he has gone ahead of you.
You will find him
amid the brokenness of the world.
For true worship does not consist
of heartfelt words,
of fervent prayer,
of bread and wine,
But of lives well lived
among those who need our love.

 

 

© 2014 Kurt Struckmeyer

praying to God

I sometimes wonder if God
ever tires of our prayers.

Weekends must be the worst.
Friday prayers at the mosques,
Saturday appeals in the synagogues,
Sunday petitions from the churches.

An endless round of requests.
Do this, O Lord
and do that, Almighty God.
Watch over the sick,
care for the lonely,
help the poor,
encourage the unemployed,
bring peace among the nations.

As if addressing every human problem
great and small,
is part of God’s job description,
and somehow God has forgotten.

Someday I imagine
that God will lose patience
with our foolish words
and will tell us in no uncertain terms
that the care of the world,
the care of one another,
is our job.
Ours alone.

“This is your mess, not mine,” God will say.
“Get busy and stop bothering me.”
Perhaps God will add with a chuckle,
“Amen, so be it.”

 

 

© 2014 Kurt Struckmeyer

the arms of love

I went to the funeral home last night
to see a friend whose life was entwined with mine.

Someone once told me
that if you want to know the truth about a person’s life,
go to their funeral.
Job, wealth, and possessions have no meaning.
Relationships and love are the only real measures
of one’s true worth.

The visitation is always a study in contrasts,
the living gathered around the dead,
the laughter amidst the grief and sorrow.
Photos of the past carefully displayed,
triggering memories of happier times.
Old friends meet again
reunited by relationships forged in youth.
We gather in community to say goodbye.

They say that she left us some time ago
lost in the arms of dementia.
Yet she died surrounded by those who loved her
in the warm embrace of her children.
And even though they may have seemed like strangers
she did not die alone.
She died in the arms of love.
And for that we are thankful.

 

 

© 2014 Kurt Struckmeyer

a child is born

A darkened room
A trembling womb
Her sharp breaths cut the air
Now nearly done
The hour has come
They bring him forth with care

The child is born
In early morn
Their long-awaited one
With matted hair
He gasps for air
His journey has begun

A child’s first cries
A mother’s sighs
The sweetest song of all
Now put to breast
At last they rest
Asleep within the stall

Five fingers, toes
A button nose
Like any child, the same
His father’s son
His mother’s one
And Jesus is his name

 

 

© 2002 Kurt Struckmeyer

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