Jesus and Cinderella: A couple poems of Magic, Mystery, Emotion

In the Catholic Church, we are in Ordinary Time. My days as a Catholic, as contemplative, feel anything but ordinary. What follows are a couple poems born from the wonderings, wanderings of my own heart, spirit, doubt, deep faith.

Perhaps they might speak to you?

Love, In the fullness of now,
Melissa


Jesus and Cinderella
By Melissa Borgmann

There's no fairy tale.
Even the resurrection sucked.
Seriously.
People standing around wondering.
"Uhh, what gives?"
The doubt is a kill joy. Suckage, my friend. Suckage.
So get over any princess and prince and kissing and magical endings where light shines and birds dance and things twinkle.
There's no marriage.
There's no life that we see after death.
Just this rolled open emptiness and mice lurking around thinking perhaps they were in attendance at something cool.
These furry, low-to-the-ground, tailed creatures: are hallucinating vermin.
We all are.
Jesus and Cinderella are silly and cruel jokes.



Climbing into Christ’s Wounds
By Melissa Borgmann

He is so large when I see him across the room.
Tall, brownish, handsome.
Open arms. I love these open arms. They are always extended. Palms up, ready.
We are in Brazil.
He is statuesque, looming, omnipresent, benevolent, asking me to climb up and in.
I feel shy at times.
Like He may not want me.
But He doesn't blink.
Come.
I step closer and He remains.
I grab hold.
No toppling. He can bear my weight.
And then I'm there.
Inside of his palms, He lets me wiggle and writhe and roll over.
And I feel safe.
I am little, a child. In my grandfather's lap. Only in this other fellow's hands.
And then inside.
I am sinking into His wounds.
They are open, too.
Even there, I am safe.
I recognize some kind of one-ness.
These are not another's ouchies.
They are mine.
They are the world's.
Brazil aches. I ache. Johannesburg aches. St. Paul aches. McClellan aches. Fort Benning aches. Tripoli aches. China aches. Burma weeps. He weeps. I writhe, He writhes. Somalia hungers. He hungers. Obama persists. He persists. Bush descends. He descends. Clinton steps, He steps. She shouts with joy, He shouts with joy.

And the benefits of these wounds?
We all can find them. Locate them on our own exteriors, interiors.
Battling, bleeding, beat up, we are.

Inside the palm, at least I know unification.
I am held.
He lives.
Amen.