I'm so grateful you decided to offer this space, Kaitlin. I'm often surprised by where I end up when following your prompts, and that definitely happened today. My poem isn't especially warm or celebratory. Instead, it's an honest reflection on where I am at this moment.
I am so looking forward to these ten days. This first prompt is perect for me right now. I am setting out to embody the prompt and see what rises to the table! Thank you Kaitlin!
I'm so grateful you decided to offer this space, Kaitlin. I'm often surprised by where I end up when following your prompts, and that definitely happened today. My poem isn't especially warm or celebratory. Instead, it's an honest reflection on where I am at this moment.
The table is full -
covered and cluttered
by all manner of items
- and yet...
the table is empty.
No one is gathering,
eating,
doing,
being
together, here.
There is so much
in the way,
and I am
so very
tired.
The Table
The Table
Every month, we come to the table:
Clean, ancient wood we call the welcome table.
A table of grace
A table of hope.
A table of peace.
A table of joy.
A table of love.
Always prepared to make the table bigger
and wider
as we come to understand
all who have been excluded
from these tables
far too long.
In my life,
I have found many tables.
Some of them have been empty,
others have been silent from the weight
of what has, or will, come.
Too many tables with empty places,
the quiet grief from those who have left us.
Oh so many tables where the language
of anger and fear was all
that was spoken.
I dream of a table where isolation turns to community;
Violence dissolves into peace,
rabbit holes become meadows and mountains of light;
Hate suddenly explodes in love;
Wars of heart, mind and body finally are history.
Broken hearts healed inside out.
My tears, our tears, move to quiet laughter,
gathered together, finally, at this table.
I am so glad you have created this opportunity - only last week I was telling some friends about May's poetry writing :)
The Table
The table is bare -
waiting, empty, loneliness in physical form
The table is cluttered -
working, busy, daily life in physical form
The table is set -
inviting, hopeful, compassion and hospitality in physical form
The table is filled -
nourishing, joyful, love and connection in physical form
Above the Table
Stories are shared and tales are told,
Around the wooden table.
No matter the meal or occasion.
Ordinary days or celebrations.
Memories made linger there,
Long after there are empty chairs.
Laughter and love, discussion and discourse
Remain suspended in the air above its well worn surface
Until such time they are recalled, revisited, relived.
Maybe even around that same worn surface,
Again and again.
Karri Temple Brackett
12/20/23
Thanks for doing this again, Kaitlin!
The Table
Serving tasty food
from the hands of my own labor
around the table
in the presence
of my beloved guests
allows me to feed
their bodies,
but it is my soul
that is truly nourished.
I’m not sure where these words came from; when I took a breath and closed my eyes this came bubbling up.
The table is where the magic of daily life happens-
where we nourish each other as we nourish ourselves.
The table is where life begins and ends and is sustained therein.
Where life is born anew every day, in each of us,
as we take time to be gentler with each other.
Where community and reciprocity meet and greet one another.
Where love is cultivated and grows.
Rebirth over a cup of tea or glass of wine.
Tenderness laid upon a plate.
The gift of our communion,
our shared need for one another
blessed by the simplicity and joy of breaking bread
Together.
What we bring to the table is more than food and drink. It is who we are as people, the drawing near of the heart to
One another.
It was Thanksgiving at the table,
and we walked in,
my son and I, and your
head jerked up, and you
spoke the first words you’ve uttered
since those angry texts.
Now you were eager to talk,
elated to claim that “there is no room,”
which didn’t seem right
when I tallied the chairs,
but what’s the use in tallying?
I’ve never wanted this fight.
So we walked back out,
my son and I, and we
sat on the couch and
made tables of our laps,
and I replay that moment sometimes,
the sting of it and
the wondering why, but also
the warmth of my child
and the plate on my lap
and the knowing
that my heart is a table,
and there is plenty of room -
even for you.
An object:
Meant to bring us together
Joining us in celebration, in joy
It held us there for a moment
Round and smooth
Nudging us with one purpose
To bring us together
Becoming a square with sharp edges
We’re at right angles
Each on our own side, divided
Unable to breach the gap
Four lives, separate without purpose
The table is unadorned this year. Last year, the table and the house were decked out In Christmas finery.
The table is unadorned this year.
Not because of great tragedy or deep grief.
The table is unadorned this year.
The meh, born of weariness, is in the air here.
Weariness of the unrelenting bad news in the world.
The table is unadorned this year.
Perhaps it is as it should be. Stripped of its Christmas splendor, it reflects Gaza and other places where there is no splendor, only war.
I sit and pray at the table that remains unadorned. I pray for peace, for remembering the One who came to a stable that was also unadorned.
Come to the table, Emmanuel.
I just sit, most all the time.
All by myself. In my own room.
Quiet.
dark.
Cold.
An overpriced hunk of
once majestic oak,
now reduced to patiently wait
for the few, very few, too few
opportunities to pop in my leaf
and shore up the fruit of the spirit.
and feel majestic once again.
It's my cross to bear.
Thanks for this prompt 💜 I wrote a palindrome poem:
“No Transubstantiation”
This is the living sacrament
I believe in: earth transforming
sun, soil, and water
into crusty bread, broth under winter-cracked
hands. Kindred voices shapeshift
into old songs, fog our humble stained-
glass suncatcher. Come to the table, soften
this early dark: a candle, borderless as
the generous loving self. One breath renders
heart into
earth,
hearth into
hearth into
earth,
heart into
the generous loving self. One breath renders
this early dark a candle borderless as
glass. Suncatcher, come to the table, soften
into old songs, fog. Our humble-stained
hands, kindred voices shapeshift
into crusty bread, broth under winter-cracked
sun, soil, and water.
I believe in earth. Transforming:
this is the living sacrament.
I am so looking forward to these ten days. This first prompt is perect for me right now. I am setting out to embody the prompt and see what rises to the table! Thank you Kaitlin!
There are piles on the table:
Papers, pencils and yesterday's mail
A garland of cards hangs above, on a sunny yellow wall
And tonight to mark the solstice
I string dried orange slices between cranberries
One slice, three berries, one slice, three berries
Now it hangs in the kitchen window.
My table is a desk
My table is a mess
Of my own making
So I am taking the time to put away the pencils
The papers, and place a tablecloth of red and white checks
No picnic fabric this is
More like winter: poinsettia and snow
Welcoming a new season, a stilling, a space
To sit and share
The last series of a poem a day was very meaningful to me, glad to be here again.
This morning at the table,
The candle lighter lit no more.
The candles in the Advent candle,
Diminish in size, after being lit so often.
This evening at the table,
I eat the last of the nut-free pesto,
Made in summer by a local farm,
I scrape the container for every last bit.
I am hanging on to the remnants of this year,
Yet striving to let go of fears of next year.