Here at nearing fifty
I don’t shock easy anymore.
I’ve seen and heard more than
you’d guess just looking at me.
I keep my composure through crisis;
hold it together when hell breaks loose.
The only thing that still unsettles me
is that sharp, sweet wave of desire
that washes over me, sometimes,
catching me at unawares.
~ Rebekah Choat
At least to pray is left, is left,
(and wilt thou set things right,)
Oh Jesus in the air?
I’m knocking everywhere.
I know not which thy chamber is,
(else I would call when just in sight.)
(Or would I thus thy wrath incite,
who) settest Earthquake in the South,
and Maelstrom in the Sea.
(Lord, is that truly thee?)
(Thou art my one hope of respite:
I cast myself upon thy might.)
Say, Jesus Christ of Nazareth,
hast thou no arm for me?
~ Emily Dickinson (and Rebekah Choat)
Yesterday I thought
that I would weep forever.
Now tonight I know
there is nothing left in me —
no tears, no sighs, not a word.
~ Rebekah Choat
The day grows darker still, and still the clouds won’t loose the rain.
How much anticipation must be borne before the pain?
~ Rebekah Choat
I’d like to tell you
my earliest memory of stars:
dozens of dozens of diamonds
scattered freehand
on a velvet midnight sky
above a gentle sea,
the delicate acoustics
of salt and sand and surf
supporting the soaring chorus
of the Pleiades.
I’d like to tell you
that’s how it really was —
so much lovelier than
bits of gilt paper
and paste stuck carefully
into squares within squares
on the beige Sunday School wall.
~ Rebekah Choat
All is quiet; not quite still.
A mourning dove repeats his trill,
“I am here, I am here.”
The sun is chary of the sky.
A sparrow ventures to reply,
“Right here, right here, right here.”
Though it’s morning, light is dim.
Shadows are approaching Him,
drawing near, drawing near.
Clouds grow darker through the day.
A freshening wind touches His face.
He swallows down His fear.
Evening dies into the West.
His heart knows, and His jaw is set.
The way ahead is clear.
At table with the ones He loves,
outside the walls He hears the dove
again call, “I am here.”
~ Rebekah Choat
Becka's Blog 