The Poet's wardrobe ..

Some poems come in evening dress, white tie, tails and all the rest.
Others clad just for the hunt, booted and spurred for every stunt.
Some in chiffon frail of fragile hue, just to catch an eye or two.
Don't dismiss without a thought, the home-spun tweeds, hand-made, not bought.
Last of all, if you want the truth,
Seek those that come in birthday suit.

Margaret Tindal rscj

I hold a treasure in a shell of clay:
Christ, broken in my brokenness. His heart, sharing creation's grief,
Gives birth to life with healing tenderness
Bearing in pain, with every labouring breath,
New life, that urgent grows to challenge death.

And would I rather simply stay at ease
Invulnerable in my complacency,
At any price preferring so-called Peace,
Than risk being wounded in his company?
Christ of the broken heart, 0 let me be
One with thy woundedness, and one with thee!

Elizabeth Grantham rscj

God’s little greenfinch

So beautiful,
So frail,
So soft,
So warm
He was on his back
Breathing
Little heart beating
So still
One eye open
He lay quiet in my hands
No Struggle
Laid in a little basket
On soft paper.
On his right side
“Your Father Knows …”
I asked Jesus to bless him.
Slowly he spread out his wing
As if to fly off to his heaven.

Elizabeth Hughes rscj