What To Do?

Should we not accept the refugee?

Give him shelter,

Give her sustenance to suckle the child,

Grieve with them

That the journey back

To their beloved land

May be long and arduous?

For are we not, after all, like them?

Do not some of us know their pain, if we will admit it?

I know in my heart

I am a refugee in this land

Even among the people of my birth.

I long for a place far from this plane

(Or is it right beside me, 

Unseen by human eyes?)

A place where light is brilliant and good

Without a sun,

Where tears and evil cannot exist.

The place from where I came,

Although seen only through mind’s eye

Or star-studded dreams.

I am driven with every step to return there.

Yes, we are the same, they and I,

All refugees, ever stepping over broken, bleeding

Pieces of life’s beauty,

Desperately trying to navigate this world’s chaos,

Longing for what cannot be ours right now.

I will reach out with love, comfort, help,

And I only hope they will do the same for me –

All of us on a journey home.

The Golden Orb

I dreamed,

Dreamed I was

In a lush meadow

Almost buried

In tall wheat-like grass.

I could see majestic

Snow-capped mountains

In the distance

And a beautiful wood close by.

Butterflies, intricately dressed

In fantastic designs

Fluttered around me,

And small creatures,

Perhaps lady-bugs,

Walked over me,

Begging me to get up.

But I did not.

I did not care

About the loveliness around me

Or the hope of adventure

To the far mountains.

I was tired,

Tired and lonely.

Had been for a very long time,

My entire life.

Such a long trek to get here

And no one to share it

With me.

Beauty is not near as beauteous

Without another heart

With whom to share it.

Suddenly, in the mist

I spied a small, golden orb

Approaching in the sky above.

Amazed, I watched

As it drew near

Growing larger as it did so.

A soft, gentle light pulsated around it,

And I was comforted --

I don’t know why.

It remained suspended

Above me

For long moments,

And I sensed it said to me,

“I love you dearly.”

Yet, I knew such things

Do not speak.

This had to be a dream.

I was gaining strength

All the while

And knew

I would be able to get up soon

To move on

And again try to enjoy

The gorgeous world around me

Alone.

I still wished desperately

For another like me

To go with me.

But the landscape

Was bare of humans

And had been 

For the many years of my travel.

Now I stood

And looked closer

Through the golden light

Into the orb.

Shocked I was

To see a man

Gazing at me

From within,

A man with the kindest eyes

I had ever known.

They seemed 

To dance with mirth

While inviting me

To come close.

Much like a frightened animal,

I cautiously stepped forward,

On the mark to run

If danger rose.

He spoke,

And the soothing vibration

Melted my heart.

“You are my beloved.

Come with me,

And we will live in this bubble 

Of love and grace

With the Father

And the Son

And the Holy Spirit

Forever.”

Eyes streaming,

Heart overflowing,

I responded with a wordless “yes,”

And dissolved into the orb,

Into him,

Forever blessed.

Suddenly, the meadow was empty,

All was drenched in that glistening, 

Sparkling, golden hue.

And the lady-bugs,

Tinged with that lovely light,

Danced in delight with us.

Tank’s Death

Sitting outside in the cool morning

Looking at the roof

That our Mexican friends

So excellently put on.

Thinking about my sorrowful trip

Beginning in a few minutes.

Thinking about beloved Tank

Thinking about beloved Turner,

And how sad it all is.

I gaze at the poplar

Whose leaves are beginning to turn

A brilliant yellow.

My eyes travel to the red maple,

Just beginning to glow red.

How beautiful they are

In the throes of death.

I realize anew that

That there is a season for dying

Just as there is for living.

Then the mockingbird,

Perched on the new roof,

Begins singing to me

A raucous song, seeming to say, 

“I salute the morning!

I salute life!

I salute death!

I salute God,

Who governs all.”

And then God speaks:

“Tank will cease to exist

As a dog,

But his spirit remains.

Tank is coming back to me.

Do not cry—

There is no pain.

He will chase squirrels 

On my Holy Mountain.

When he catches them,

They will all have tea

And fruit from trees

That never die.

Tank never dies either.

My form will change

And another beloved 

Will come into your life,

Perhaps animal

Perhaps human,

Another who will teach you 

More things, just as Tank taught you,

About love, about life, 

About yourself, about others.

I am in all, I AM all

The mockingbird knows these things,

The trees know these things,

The rocks know these things.

Now you must know them

And not despair.

Tank’s spirit

Will still be with you.

“I love you, Turner,”

Says Yahweh God.

Silence Bonds Us All

Silence bonds us all here.

It is the great equalizer,

Bringing us to our knees

Before God.

Clink of silverware,

Scrape of knives,

Food masticated,

The sounds

Of  the created

Being fed.

A humbling thing it is.

No zippy comments,

No quaint remarks,

No quick rejoinders

To keep the false fronts up.

Just they and I

In our nakedness.

Compassion flows in me

For myself

And my companions

In this place today.

We are beautiful

Stripped down,

Without the need

To impress or compete.

Clothed only in thankfulness

For gift of food and life

This day.

Protector of the Treasure

I cradle this gentle essence, 

This innocence, 

This beauteous creature of God

Who holds such limitless possibilities.

This fragile being carrying divinity within,

From which the fire of heaven glows.

This one so tender, 

So open, 

So willing to trust.

Yes, I cradle her with supreme love and delight.

Think you that I speak of a newborn babe, 

Come fresh into this sphere?

Nay, I do not.

This old soul speaks of herself

Newly finding the treasure within

A frame over six decades on this sod.

Where I Am From

This poem is the result of an exercise done at an enneagram seminar January 8-11, 2015, with a template devised by writer and teacher George Ella Lyon.

I didn’t want to share the poem then, and at first I didn’t want to add it to this website because I thought it was too negative.  But my inner observer caught me being an 8 (The Boss) and again trying to do God’s job for Him.   I always tell myself not to be arrogant, not to think that I always know what God wants.  I finally realized that I was not listening to that good advice.  God then said to me, “I am very big and can take care of myself and everyone who reads it.  Share the poem as it is.”  I said ok.  But eightness goes deep, and we don’t give up without a fight.  I said to Him, “You know, this exercise has been so beneficial.  These mostly negative words do not tell the whole story of where I am from; in fact, it has been so good to bring up other more positive memories from my blocked childhood.  How about I rewrite it and use those?  That sounds like a reasonable idea, doesn’t it?”  Absolute silence.  “Well, doesn’t it?”  Now only two words.  “Trust Me.”

So, begrudgingly, I offer you the original.  

Where I Am From

I am from a thousand chicken coops,

From John Deere tractors and Chevy trucks.

I am from Mississippi Delta cotton fields,

A pure white blanket, endlessly gorgeous

And soft as down to my skin

On the ride to the gin.

I am from mimosa and evergreen trees,

Tangled honeysuckle on the riverbank, sweet to my lips,

And the mourning dove in the dense thicket

Whose plaintive coo can even now, half a century later,

Instantly summon a nameless, unquenchable sadness

And put me back on that riverbank.

I am from loud, mean voices

And haughty, critical eyes and thieves of a child’s identity.

From Jack and Mary Ruth

And a slew of other upstanding Barneses and Gaithers 

All the way back to Scotland and England, even France.

I am from the “We’re from excellent stock”

And “Let’s look good at all costs.”

From “Because I said so”

And “Shut up you frasling idiots!”

I am from Presbyterian fire and brimstone, predestinated pulpits,

From a scrapbook full of certificates 

For memorizing what seems half the Bible

And a gold cross for reciting all of my catechism at age 7.

I’m from Clarksdale and New Africa Road and the Sunflower River bank,

From fried chicken in the Sunbeam cooker

And mustard greens out of the garden.

From the rusted farm implements we dug up at the barn 

And called buried treasure.

From the playhouse Daddy built for us

And the bruises from his cruel, capricious belt that found all of us way too much, 

Until he took his life when I was 16.  

I was relieved.

From the cakes and pies Mother taught me to make,

Eaten with the proud Strasbourg silver on Wedgewood china. 

From the houses where my sister and I became maids so very young

After Mother came home from the partial lobotomy changed forever.

I am from a filing cabinet full of yellowed photos

And moldy slides,

Tattered remains of a billion scattered moments

Imprinted on my ragged spirit over my journey here.

For long years, it’s been my sad shrine, my fractured identity, 

My address of rage

On this foreign, faraway sod,

This often unsafe place.

But, of late, I have packed up and moved,

Have left this cramped and suffocating place,

That causes me 

To strike out at you in hostility.

To protect myself from you and your probable threat

That causes me to try to control you

To compete with you to be the best, thus validating my existence.

To have the last word 

To fight for justice

Both of which I never got when young and tender.

Yes, I’ve left it all

And moved closer to Home.

Closer to Source.

Back to where I’m really from.

Back to where I really belong.

Back to who I really am.

It is so very good.

Rebecca Barnes Hobbs

Enneagram 8

The Healing

Shattered shards of beauty

Weep silently at the rending

Then gush great fountains of tears

For the wounds made by

Hammers of youth, of family, of circumstance

Which broke the luminous mold.

But, lo, He is bringing the jagged pieces,

Still pulsing with divine light,

Together.

They tremble, first touching,

Then pull away in fear.

What will it be like to be whole?

To show forth the Light

As was meant from ages long past?

Perhaps the energy will be too great--

Perhaps, coalescing, it will explode.

The thing of beauty is too wonderful to behold.

How much easier to gaze upon

The broken remnants!

But slowly, irresistibly, they come together

In Him.

I am finally who I was meant to be — the created.

And I am not afraid to look.

Claire

 I came to you

In Claire

I will come again

In another.

You were kind,

An excellent master

Of My manifestation.

You will be rewarded

For your steadfastness

In My creation.

Go now

And grieve

But do not waste time

In despair.

I am ever new,

Ever changing,

Ever creating

Joyfully!

I am Claire

And Claire is I.

Her essence

Will always be alive

And you will see her again.

She has taught

You much from Me,

And she has

More to teach.

Love is all.

You have loved 

Her here.

I love her

From all time.

A poem written for a dear friend whose precious elderly cat died.

The Shining

Two brilliant lights

Swimming in God

Made of God

Spin toward each other.

Why do they slow

Then come to rest

Beside each other

In the inky vastness?

Love shines from one to the other

Channeling hope, love, truth.

There they remain

Until the healing is done.

Hope and truth and love

All three

Standing in eternity

All hitched a ride

On an arc of light

A tiny morsel of humanity.

Transformation

Once the path seemed so clear

Through all the brambles

And dense undergrowth.

But I noticed as I hacked

My way through it,

Making judgments,

Giving ultimatums

About the truth as I saw it,

I left angry welts on those

I encountered on the way—

Sometimes ugly gashes,

Watering the earth with crimson.

Even the vegetation seemed to cry out

At my harshness.

Mystery has now settled over the path;

Unknowing often reigns.

And I consider much

Before my machete

Comes down.

The briars now do indeed

Draw my own blood.

I cry countless tears.

But, oddly, joy

Even compassion

Wells up in me

For those I meet along the path.

I cut carefully, mindfully

Around them as I go.

No longer do I hurt them.

We move along together

Toward that Brightness

Only the soul can see.