Janet Smith Post

Facebook Icon



The Eyes of the Heart

The eyes of the heart

receive the unseen,

as the tall grass

receives the waves of the wind.

The eyes of the heart

clear the dross, the dregs

as water clears to blue,

like truth, if truth had a color.

The eyes of the heart hear 

what is wanting to be said,

and shapes the sounds

to cry or sing the want.

The eyes of the heart

unveil the wonders of God

as the raindrops reveal

rainbows hiding in the light.

Night Sky
Look!  See!  (In the Style of Rumi)
Look!  See!
The night sky is wearing all its diamonds.
The moon has silvered the roses
along the garden wall.

There are love rings on every finger of your hand
and the silken gown of joy
kisses your ankles.

Follow the Beloved to 
the sound of dancing
and the carrillon of bells
twirling in your heart.

Such Was His Power

And the angels gathered

to sing the Overture of Creation.

A word from His mouth

and the earth rolled out of noting

to find its path

through the vast field of space.

With His power,

He poured the oceans to their brim,

hung up the skies to dry,

and filled every mountain,

stream and cranny

with moving, rollicking life.

And yet, and yet,

this same power allowed Himself

to be taken up by the Holy spirit,

to be reduced to less

than could been seen in a thimble,

to be planted in the dark womb of a peasant girl.

And yet, and yet,

we are all peasant girls,

birthing Him anew!

In honor of Iraqi and Syrian Refugees

By Janet Smith Post

A few days ago, a friend sent me an email, urging me to listen to Iraqi and Syrian refugees sing Psalm 51:1-6 (Psalm 53) to Pope Francis at the Svietyskhoveli Cathedral in Mtskheta, Georgia. (This riveting music can be heard on You tube by listing call words: Psalm 53, Pope Francis and Georgia.) Its haunting beauty inspired me to write the following poem:

Inside of A Church

The heavy drone begins,
a haunting to startle the sleeping ear,
wrung-wrenched from deepest wound.
Now begins a wail-harmonic above the drone,
a cry, a mournful longing, pitched
above the weary way, stretched ageless.

It strikes our sympathetic scars, which shudder—resonate.
It pierces through till we confess,
“Yes, we know this primal song,”
the one we silence with our busy illusions.

We, too, are tethered here,
round and round this ring of earth,
turning on its dirge through seamless time.
These ancient Aramaic strains remind
that all the world is sorrow—not a stage

And yet, and yet,
these—who journeyed, fresh from war,
with nothing left to carry but each other,
lift up, lift up, to keen the shapes and sounds of God!