Three Poems

Intro from author: I wrote the poem "Sighted-Dark" during a restless night. A train whistle called me to put words to the tossing and turning. My night fretting was coming from parts of myself blind to the reality of how Beloved I am, as I follow Jesus on the way.

Being with this the Gospel lesson, Mark 10: 46-52, I was struck with what must have been forming within Bartimaeus as he begged in blindness on the city street. What healing and strengthening was the Spirit doing in the dark to give Bartimeaus the courage to name his need to Jesus, and to trust that it would be seen?

Like Bartimaeus, I too desire to see the whole. What forming is happening in each of our pained nights? May we ever be more be open to the Spirit's alchemy, healing the dark places unseen, creating space for the courage to ask for what we need to be able to see, and then to follow.


Jesus said, "What can I do for you?"
The blind man said, "My Teacher, I want to see."
Mark 10:51

As a distant train groans
across midnight, I wrestle
with what I cannot yet see.

In this tumbling dark,
I am with blind Bartimaeus,
huddled on the sidelines
of the spinning world.

Fully there yet hardly seen,
he could listen
to dusty street-talk, to words
between those spoken, to words
not intended to be heard.

Maybe he needed the years
of sighted-dark—
shadowed shapes alchemized
not touched by direct gaze—

such, that when he heard
The Healer's question
there was stillness within
the swirling depths.

What he needed,
had been formed—
the courage to name
his deepest desire
to the One
who would see it.

Faithful Moon

it will be established forever like the moon,
the faithful witness in the sky. Psalm 89:37

Curled wisp of blonde on Honduran sky,
luna-moona I called her.

Child-moon, out by day,
milky smudge in a blue bowl sky.

The Stillpoint in this turning,
steady fill to wholeness.

Aguinaldo said some plants only
germinate on la luna llena.

That pearly seed must be in me
tucked into my soil, for bloom by liquid-light.

Constant Presence shines,
I swallow the wafer of silver-glow

the moon in my bodyby day and night,
most faithful communion.

Velvet Communion

I fill each cup with velvet.
Chocolate topped with cream,
SwissMiss and Cool-Whip
the elements.

They come to the table
red-nosed toddlers,
permed grandmothers,
and lanky tweens released
into expectant night.

Light stains cloud breath,
winking in rhythm with "Santa Baby."
My vestment of bedazzled antlers
dip low as I lean,
and place warmth in each cupped hand.

For less than a breath
the skin of our lives
brush against our separation,
only cells between us.

We are so close to the Body.
We are so close to the Blood.

About the Author

Julia Baker

Julia Baker, a 2011 Goshen college graduate, has many places she calls home. She just moved to the Whitewater River watershed to begin studies in Theopoetics at Bethany Theological Seminary in Richmond, IN. She tussles and plays with the complex wonder of embodiment through penned words and the flow of watercolor paint.