The Pieta

Was it in her arms his battered body

first became the broken bread?

As she held him did she know

she would share his body with the world?

As his blood ran down

now staining clothes and hands,

did it there become the wine

we now share in remembrance?

Oh, Mary, I too grieve and mourn

the wounding of your son.

I too long to hold him

weeping, wondering

Taking now the bread and wine

in his remembrance,

passing it to friends, to sisters,

all the wounded round the world

Looking at this broken bread

now in my hands,

the wine I grasp with tears—

I become the Pieta.

Of all the memorable works of art I saw in Rome, Michelangelo’s Pieta has stayed with me. I had never thought of Mary holding her crucified son, and the image moves me greatly.

 

Reverie

Darling, here I sit

On a crumbling bench

On the island

At the cabin

And after all those years alone

This is till the place

Where I sit

An early morning breeze

...and I remember

You are very present to me here

The weeping willow

Has grown tall

And occasionally I sit beneath

Her drooping boughs

And weep with her

But mostly I smile

As I thumb through

Pages of memories

We made here at the cabin

Enough of them to last 
Until I’m old...

And then beyond.

Nancy Perkins

7/2014

The Magic Waterfall

The hike is not too long

Following the creek

Crossing one side to the other

Over shaky wooden bridges

Stepping over fallen logs

Stopping now and then

To inspect a toadstool

Or a flowering beauty

Then…there it is

Cascading over rocks of ages

Laid down by stormy millennia

Smoothed by rushing waters

Icy from the mountain top

 

Now bring the children

Quarrelsome and cranky

Hot from the hike

Complaining of bugs

Take those same disgruntled children

Release them to the water

Watch them dip their feet into the edge

Jumping back at stinging cold

Give them freedom to get wet

To climb over mossy rocks

And slide down slippery slopes

Into icy pools below

Laughter rings off rocky cliffs

Heat and arguments forgotten 

As water works its magic

As only water can

Time stands still

There’s only present moments

Delighted cries of joy

Smiles of grownups

Sound of rushing water

Sun through towering trees

Skipping stones

Rolling logs

As children become angels

We’re in love with the world

An afternoon at Lost Creek, 7/26/14.

-Nancy Perkins 

World Peace

A simplistic dream that seems possible when sitting by the pond and an early morning fire at the cabin.

I revived the fire this morning

From the ashes of last night’s roaring flames

As I sit here listening to it pop and crackle

Moving from chair to chair to dodge the smoke

All is peaceful and quiet as the sun rises

Above the trees.

It comes to me…

This could be the world’s Camp David

Warring tribes and countries

Could send their diplomats

To sit around the fire

Smoking stogies, drinking wine

Watching children play and fish

And swim in the pond

Under the warming sun and disappearing clouds

They would speak of their children and loved ones

Planning their peaceful legacy

Their common love for trees and water

Differences and fights

Would lose themselves in laughter

Mingling with smoke from the fire

While their children play together without fear.

-Nancy Perkins

July 2014

Communion

I’m at the table with my friends.

Sitting there, my mind whirls ahead to

all the things I need to do

I love these people that I’m dining with

but, seriously, hurry it up.

I have a long to-do list.

This is my body, broken like this bread.

Eat it and remember me.

What? Gross!

Oh well, I’m hungry so I’ll eat the chunk

of bread he hands to me.

His eyes look deep into mine—I turn away first.

Dinner’s good; nothing special.

I eat and mentally go back over my list.

Someone brings the jug of wine

And pours it into our waiting cups,

And then he speaks again.

Drink this wine, and when you do, remember

my blood which is poured out—for you

Okay. This is weird. What is he talking about?

Once again our gaze rests on each other

And one again I look down.

He knows something—about me, about the world.

Centuries later, I approach the hands that offer me

the wafer and the wine.

Once again I feel that look of love and belonging

and as tears stream down my face

I eat the bread and drink the wine…

And I remember.