Poem - Relics : A Good Friday Reading

Relics

A Communion Reading for Good Friday 2019

Chaplain O. Kris Widmer, Ordained Minister

Idea: February 27, 2019      Printed:  February 28, 2019

I need not be a groveling pilgrim

in a distant land

to remember Him.

I need not walk the actual street

where He dragged those timbers

with His bloodied feet. No,

            The bread and the wine

            Will do just fine.

I need not know the actual place

Where a soldier’s spit

Dripped down His face.

I need not stand on the actual knoll

where the crucified died

bringing life to my soul. No,

            The bread and the wine

            Will do just fine.

I need not have the actual cross

on which He died

to consider that loss.

I need not touch the actual crown

of thorns that a soldier

pushed in and down. No,

            The bread and the wine

            will do just fine.

I need not see the knuckle bones

used to gamble for

the garb He owned.

I need not touch the actual robe

that was won that day

when He saved this globe. No,

            The bread and the wine

            Will do just fine.

I need not behold the actual steel

that held His hand,

just to make it real.

I need no drops of actual of blood

to know there is power

in that cleansing flood. No,

            The bread and the wine

            Will do just fine.

I need not clutch the actual shroud

used to carry him away

from that mocking crowd.

I need not visit the actual site

where His body lay

on that Friday night. No,

            The bread and the wine

            Will do just fine.

I can vividly recall

what happened there;

when He died for all!

Echo (echo) of curse, of swear;

No heavenly voice answers

His lonely prayer! See,

            The bread and the wine

            Will do just fine.

                                   

Read each glorious Gospel page.

Earth’s recoiling

in a rumbling rage!

Horrible human death machine!

“Finished!” Silence…

Such closing scenes!”  Oh, Yes!

            The bread and the wine

            Will do just fine!

A bite of bread. A sip of wine.

Ground seed of field; crushed fruit of vine.

These relics appear every place I dine.

I need not be actually in Palestine.

A bite.  A sip.  And I’m where He stumbled.

I hear the echos of what He mumbled

“Truly, you’ll join me in Paradise!”

“After three days…you’ll see…I’ll rise!”

I need not feel His precious scars,

to know He’s risen

among the stars.

I need not stand where He ascended.

to spread the good news -

“We’ve been friended!”  Remember,

            The bread and the wine

            Will do just fine.      Yes…

            The bread and wine

            Will do just fine.

Poem - Please Drink Responsibly

Please Drink Responsibly

O. Kris Widmer

Idea: 12/14/2018   Published: 12/14/2018

Based on Experiences in 2018

A Lament for N. H, dead at 32 years of age, primarily from alcohol drinking.

What does that mean?

Different things to different people, to be sure.

To bed five, it means a bottle of Tequila a day.

To another, it means weekends were made for Michelob.

To you, it may mean one glass of wine with dinner.

To another, it meant 2 bottles of wine when given the opportunity.

To others, it means “lips that touch liquor will never touch mine.”

The 80 proof of your irresponsibility

is seen in the bed before me.

            dried blood red lips

            liver failure yellow skin

            listless, lifeless arms

Your kidney’s quit.  “Enough!”

Your liver stopped living.  “Bye.”

Your spleen split. “I’m out of here.”

Those are direct quotes.

You never left the hospital to follow through

on your death-bed resolve to go to A.A.

Another tragic proof of your irresponsibility

Is the 8-year old boy, your son,

That by now, should be in the custody of his dad.

Sad.

I sure hope, for his sake, this is a parental upgrade.

He shall live the rest of his life without you,

telling the story of how his mother died.

I pray he never tries to drown his sorrows,

For truly,

They know how to swim.

Poem - Chloe Speaks

Chloe Speaks

O. Kris Widmer

Idea: December 5, 2018      Published: December 11, 2018

Giving Voice to the Beloved Cat of a Patient,

Presumably Killed By the Heat and Flames of the Camp Fire, in Paradise, California

My Dearest Human,

Yes, I am the cat you are mourning for.

First I want to assure you

I did not suffer much.

It was quick and quite painless,

not like you have imagined.

I awoke on the edge of the rainbow bridge,

surrounded by thousands of my kind

that have gone on before.

A few had preceded me from the Camp Fire event

and many others came after me.

The meows of welcome were deafening.

We immediately formed an association.

Next I want to say “Thank You.”

You gave me the best life

any pampered pussy ever had.

I lived in your lap

and it was surely the lap of luxury.

Thank you for giving me

a place inside your home and heart,

where I could do and be what I wanted,

with or without you being present,

Though was always nice to have you around too.

Last I would like to instruct you 

how best to memorialize me.

Do not be finished with felines.

When you are ready, 

go down to another shelter

(any one will do nicely)

and find another forlorn, furry face;

forsaken, alone and shivering.

Wrap him or her up in your strong arms,

speak words of tenderness,

sign the papers,

pay the fees,

and take them home.

We both will find release

seeing them nap,

hearing them purr,

smelling their food.

To know your fingers

are scratching another chin

or other ears

will be all the heaven I will need.

Sincerely,

Chloe the Cat

Poem - Note Taken

Note Taken

Chaplain O. Kris Widmer, BCCC

(Board Certified Clinical Chaplain – CPSP)

Idea: October 24, 2018      Printed:  October 25, 2018

R is for Resident

My Lord is a writin’ all the time,

but then… so is Roberta (not her real name),

the resident in Room 113, Bed B (not her real room or bed.)

She opens her 70 page, 1 subject notebook

It is already well filled with the date of her life.

(How many notebooks has she filled? I wonder!)

Today,

She sits in the Resident Council Meeting

As if she is the assistant secretary

Taking minutes.

She opens to a random page.

She writes,

Then closes her book in satisfaction.

Note taken.

She takes up a smaller scrap of paper,

writes on it,

folds it,

then tucks it safely away.

Note taken.

She has a new idea.

She again opens to a page.

She jots it down, in her singular scrawl.

She closes the book.

Note taken.

“There.

Idea captured.

I’ve written it down for later.”

What did she do in her pre-dementia years?

What is she writing now?

Minutes?

To Do List?

Poem Idea?

Prayer Journal?

Last Will and Testament?

Ideas for a Novel?

We don’t know,

but there it is;

In clear, indecipherable black and white.

She writes.

Note taken.

In the meeting,

The activities director and his actual assistant

Try vainly to decipher the cursive

On various complaint forms.

It is better, but also illegible.

I join them in this futile task.

Just then…

Roberta’s stick pen run’s out of ink before our very eyes -

But, she finishes the current sentence anyway,

and with a flourish of penmanship.

The activity director sees this disaster

And deftly hands her his.

No, he won’t need it back.

She writes on.

I reach and take her empty pen.

She lifts her gaze to me with panicked eyes.

“I’m going to need that,” she protests!

Note taken.

“Your pen is out of ink.” I state the facts.

“Use this one for now.” 

She writes.

God only knows what she writes, and I believe they DO know!

Yes, the same Spirit

that translates our groanings

transcribes her squiggles.

Scribble on, Roberta, Scribble on.

Note taken!