shamash says...

"Wood and Stone"

Day 3 of 30:  Our GloPoWriMo 2019 prompt for today is to write a poem that takes time.

"Wood and Stone"

My name in German means "pure"
I was born this way to a mother
of alabaster skin
and a father who wore
the deacon's suit

Tiny girl on the church pew,
I sat and listened, an
eager spy
with her ear to the
door of God.

Everything was wooden then
Pulsing with the afterlife of trees -- 
The church bench, the pulpit,
The doorway, and even
The doorknob,
Smooth and painted black.

But then, the blaze:
Orange tongues
Licking away faith
Scorching arms
Wrapped around all that
The carpenter made
In the end, nothing left
But cinders.

The only thing holy, then,
Was stone.
I am now the pilgrim god-seeker,
The gypsy, the wandering hobo.

The Temple of Artemis, Ephesus
The Cididel of Machu Pichu, Peru.
The Pyramids of Giza, Cairo
The Columns of Medusa, Istanbul
The Monastery at Petra, Jordan
The Ruins at Chichén Itzá, Mexico
The Tiawanaku Temple of the Sun, Bolivia
The Ring of Stones, Stonehenge

Oh, Greeks, Oh Romans
Oh Incas, Oh Pharaohs,
Oh Nabateans,
Oh, Mayans, Oh Aymara
Oh, Druids.

Your cold stones are beautiful, but silent
As my grandfather's gravestone.

The face of God?

It is not in wood.

It is not in stone.

The divine is the alabaster skin of my living mother,
The breath of my aging father,
The deep and generous filigree of roots
Under the ground
Of the tree outside my window
And the leaves upturned to
Sky.

Day 2 – GloPoWriMo - "Pink Menno"

Day 2 of 30: Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 

 

"Pink Menno" 

I. The Shunned
Sting of pink duct tape
across our lips
Shoulders square and proud
Terracotta warriors with
no weapons, no guns, no swords

Stand in formation:
with hymns.
with songs of our childhood.
with love. and wanting to be loved.

 

 

 

II.  The Annointed Men
I wish your hair weren't pink, or that it weren't cut so short
and I wish your arms were covered and that your shoes were black and laced up tight. I'd actually like you

To wear something to cover your hair.
Stop asking to share your stories to the assembly.
Stop that tattoo stuff, that talk of women leading a congregation stuff,
That "men and women of god are equal" stuff.

Stop that "women love women" and "men love men"stuff.
Just. Stop. It.
We will not 
listen to your stories.
nor give you a place at the table
nor break bread
nor share the cup

We'd rather look at your dirty, unclean feet

Than wash them,

or look you in the eye.

 

III. Jesus of Nazareth 

I came to earth
and died
for
this?

Who will cast  the first stone?

Who will enter the Kingdom of Heaven?

 

~by Kat Shamash

 

© 2018 Kat Shamash (April 2, 2018) 

#GloPoWriMo2018 #NaPoWriMo2018 

Steps of Broken Stones and Temples

Here in Rome, tsunamis and earthquakes seem as distant as the dated letters of the 18th century Grand  Tourists- the young British noblemen who came to Rome to study Italian art and to carry marble busts and statues back home to England. 

Here in Rome's historical district there are no skyscrapers, no billboards, and no high-speed expressways.  Instead, we walk over streets and sidewalks of cobblestone polished smooth by centuries of moving carriage wheels and the shuffle of pedestrians’ feet. One, red geranium peaks over a windowsill high above the street. There is more marble here than tarmac, and more cafes and patisseries than fast food. Our hotel has ornate, brass handrails and well-worn, marble steps leading all the way up to the 6th floor. In this neighborhood, there is no evidence, thank Artemis, of America: no McDonald's, no Starbucks, no strip malls, no Hummers. Instead: family-run ristourantes, cafes, small specialty shops, and Vespas.

As I walk on the very stones on which Julius Caesar walked on his way to the Forum, 

Chinatown High

Some people like to bar-hop in their free time, but shamash likes to temple-hop. A self-proclaimed "bohemian god-seeker", I’m hooked on the smoke of incense, the buzz of gold-on-red lacquer, and the high I get from watching the dancing street dragons.

-photos by shamash

The Year of the Pig

Try buying a piglet and then finding a red dress to fit.

Try burning paper money and trying NOT to free the caged sparrows.

Here in this country “Somewhere in Asia”, this Chinese New Year was celebrated in grand style:

Dragon-chasing, litchi martinis, Chinese dumplings, and the robe of an emperor.

-----photo by shamash

Two Worlds

Back where my Pennsylvania family lives, this is what I might see if I walked down the road.

(image via tony)

While strolling the other morning in this city “Somewhere in Asia” I snapped this shot of a novice monk with his begging bowl.

By the grace of God and the Buddha, I live in both worlds.

Despite appearances, these worlds are not that different.

Really.

Kiddush in the Suk

Buddha Bar gave way to the chanting of ancient Hebrew text. Matches were lit for Shabbat candles instead of clove cigarettes. The wine I drank wasn’t French. It was blessed. And kosher.

images by Pirate

The Buddhas Below

"Though dim: a light
Hope breeds in backwaters"

photo_by_shamash

When Will We Stop Killing Each Other?

This is my Lebanese friend Anila who lives in Beirut.

No More Walls

Is_ it too childish of a question to ask,

"Why can't we all get along?"

-image via Banksy's website

The security barrier separating the occupied territories from Israel.

West Bank, Palestine 2005.