Category Archives: Poetry

Washing Feet Thoughts on Holy Thursday 2016

Holy Thursday 3/24/16   MaryBeth Scalice

Washing Feet

Slipping off my sandals,

Peeling away a bit of skin,

a bit of death between the toes

insists on sticking.

I reach to grab it

noticing then the thickness

of my nails –

the shadows of gray,

evidence of fungal life.

I shudder at the thought of a parasite

growing in the folds

of my feet.  And more,

the shame, the wonder and blame

of feet so unsightly

in His gaze.

The neglect and busyness of my life

is reflected here;

a reason for rejection and fear

apparent here

on this big toe warped with time.

I wonder how to hide

the damages, the ugliness.

It is too late.

He is before me and within me,

and around and through me.

He feels my pain, bowing low

knees to hard packed earth,

taking my feet in His Hands,

caressing my soles!

Shame rises in my checks.

He is pouring the waters,

a flow of pure light.

The God in His hands,

my Holy Doctor,

stroking, holding tight.

I want to hide from this ablution,

but He is Water inside,

just as he is before me

and every defense is submitted,

every pride given

to the peace and the purpose

of His Way.

I protest, I am not worthy.

I want to reverse everything

bathe His feet, kiss His toes;

to bend low in the Presence

of such glory, to honor His Spirit.

He makes me understand

this demonstration is a gift,

a lesson of servantship

to be offered every brother and sister.

Leadership that bows Its head

and bends Its knee

embracing the ones that belong to Me.

I belong to Him

and feel the conversion,

my unworthiness becoming a steward

to His Greatness,

my reluctance becoming the

Will of God,

that sons of men

may turn within

and find acceptance there.

He gives a bit of water,

a towel and a kiss,

teaching me to minister.

Soft eyes reveal His bliss.

His hands under my heels

girding me up, lifting higher

the Mind of Power.

I cannot help but submit.

Every part of me wants to submit.

His marrow sweeps through

my bones, anointing me, apostle,

high-tower, Queen of Purity.

His Heart pours into

my vulnerability

and shows me a Way of Strength.

Lead this Way, I hear Him say.

This is the Way of Love.

Perfect Communication

The thought dangles like a diamond on a chain, twirling above my head.
Is it possible?

Tears speak first, evidence of the pelting rains of judgment within.
I let them flow, splashing down on my breasts, burning and cooling.

They complain of promises broken, dreams unfulfilled; loneliness and littleness
popping out of the ducts of my eyes, while someone rests inside, watching,

allowing the honesty.  My spittled words lie like pits on an immaculate altar.
Still I decide to share my truth, the pain offered to an invisible Listener.

Poetry flows as the wings of my heart flutter with joy. I so covet the desserts of spiritual solace!
But pause…though the journal is open and white page impatient.

I am led deeper, meandering through the canal of the One Ear Who Hears,
knowing somehow silence is the greater Poem, and truer conversation.

I fall into quiet like tears into a placid pool and bathe in the immunity.
But the grabber seizes the pen. She pours out this little bliss.

The communication is broken then. The immaculate instant refuses to birth anything less than Christ. This will never suffice.