Chris
Rice Cooper
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Personal
Lord
Savior
Jesus
Christ
Poetry
Contest
2017
“And the Winners Are . . .”
PersonalLordSaviorJesusChristPoetry Contest 2017 is the first poetry contest sponsored by the www.chrisricecooper.
blogspot.com.
Right - The Entombment by Moretto de Besco
The CRC Blog received a total of 63
entrants from Albania, Australia, France, India, Nigeria, United Kingdom,
Paraguay, and the United States.
Poets submitted from Alabama, Arizona, California, Colorado, Florida,
Georgia, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota,
Missouri, Nebraska, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, South
Carolina, Texas, Utah, Virginia, Washington, Washington D.C., West Virginia,
and Wisconsin. Above Left - Agony in the Garden by Andrew Mantegna.
Poet Helen Losse https://helenl.
word
press.com/about/ judged the contest determining the Top Three Place Winners ($300, $200, and $100); Three Honorable Mentions $25 each); and four poems noted for Excellence. All received a Certificate of Poetry.
Below
are the winning poem titles, the status each poem placed in the contest, the
poet’s name, contact information, the place the poet resides in, and the poem. Above Right - Helen Losse
First Place “Promises
Had Been Made”
by Sarah Sarai
by Sarah Sarai
New York, New York
Promises Had Been Made
On “The Entombment” by
Moretto de Besco
The women hide nothing.
She, captured in
accusation,
a collaborative creator.
Her envelopment has no meaning
to a dead man
whose death won’t
even end death.
Promises had been made.
Would that be me in her arms?
Not me here on
a bench in the
gallery’s center
squaring off
with loneliness and imagination,
both being among art’s
disciples.
But some me – with a body
almost human as his.
I know much of
everything
but not enough.
Another Mary,
head lowering to his
arm –
his conjuration of a
once life
– touching but for
the confident artist’s oils of
celestial buoyancy.
The men are concerned in their way,
eyes averted from
mine.
I’m no Mary.
Loyal middle-management, they deny
the present’s threat of pain,
the present’s carry-through.
He is translucent in her arms,
an embodied splay of
too much beauty to be
real.
Second Place “Another Pieta”
by Atar Hadari
United Kingdom
Another Pieta
She
is looking out over his shoulder
Eyes
wide awake to what’s in store
And
the babe is no longer a baby,
He
sprawls across her arms, her chair
His
eyes too are now itinerant,
He
has a look like he has known
Too
many tables set like this,
Sees
a last one with twelve plates down.
But
they sit there in a huddle,
The
radiant mother and longed for child,
Both
now more darkness in their eyes than wonder,
Both
now in wait for the lion on the prowl
That
slouches toward Bethlehem,
Trailing
a crowd with prayer-shawls,
Tourists
desperate to believe in anything,
Addicts
who have seen it all
But
want the blood to spurt
Out
of a tiny child holding a ball
Before
they watch the cracks
Run
to the ceiling as the cake crumbles,
His
maid mother weeping with abandon,
The
streets run with blood entirely pure,
The
Temple empty finally of tourists
When
the last family meal has done.
Where
is the baby, where is his mother?
The
lion’s on the loose, stay in her lap, don’t run.
A
man with a cup is looking to anoint an heir,
Whatever
you do, play dumb.
Third Place “View from Gethsemane”
Erie, Colorado
View from Gethsemane
The
olive trees stand throughout the land.
Abundant
white blossoms
Ensure
a harvest of plenty.
Plump,
ripe, dark fruit
Gladly
give of their bounty—
Drops
of nourishing oil;
No
thought given to the stress
Of
yielding to the oil press.
The
Savior’s knee bends; life blood He lends.
Abundant
life blossoms,
Promising
a harvest of plenty.
Fresh,
clean, light fruit
Gladly
give from the bounty—
Drops
of life-giving oil;
Ever
mindful of His stress
In
yielding to the oil press.
From
the mount He ascends, again He will stand.
Eternal
life blossoms,
Reaping
a harvest of plenty
Pure,
whole, perfect fruit
Gladly
rejoice in the bounty—
Drops
of everlasting oil;
Forever
grateful for the stress
Of
the long-forgotten oil press.
by James Langley
Washington, DC
20016-2716
Left Victory Over the Grave by Bernhard Plockhorst
Left Victory Over the Grave by Bernhard Plockhorst
Atonement: Mystery and
Reality
Long heralded, the coming of a Savior,
Now an open secret for humankind,
Revealing the grace and heart of God’s mind
To offer the repentant heaven’s favor.
It is not in us to undo wrong,
The wrong which stains and warps the soul,
Corrupts God’s image and scorns life’s goal,
That drains life’s joy, and steals our song.
How vain the boast of mastering evil,
How empty the hope of cures man-made,
The debt is deeper than any has repaid---
Apart from One who battled the devil,
And won---at infinite cost, for us mortals,
Salvation of which the angels only dream,
Reversing the ages’ dark, disastrous scene,
So opened for man high heaven’s portals.
It was for me---the bitter tree,
For all, He suffered in our place,
Yet through time no tongue can tell or thought
trace
The travail of His soul that sets us free.
Atonement rests on grace alone,
Beyond all logic, a mystery baffling reason,
But reason gives way to a glorious season
For love, all loves surpassing, to atone.
So man must plead for mercy divine,
No claim of worthiness to bring,
All human goodness does hollow ring,
Where God’s love alone restores God’s design.
Received by humble trust, a gift,
For faith itself, to willing hearts, is offered,
By the God whose conquering love is proffered,
That heals our self-righteous and ruinous rift.
To the Father, Son, and Spirit, all praise!
Our shame and unpayable debt redeemed,
Forgiven, made whole, set free, life-streamed,
To strive for God’s will in all our ways.
Still, sinners all we remain, yet more,
For now our sin is against the Holy Cross---
Its light, and unfailing love, and loss,
As though the Christ need die as before.
If heaven marks where we are impure,
Can any stand? But grace is there,
To lift the fallen, whose cry is a prayer---
On divine grace our hope and peace are sure.
Long heralded, the coming of a Savior,
Now an open secret for humankind,
Revealing the grace and heart of God’s mind
To offer the repentant heaven’s favor.
It is not in us to undo wrong,
The wrong which stains and warps the soul,
Corrupts God’s image and scorns life’s goal,
That drains life’s joy, and steals our song.
How vain the boast of mastering evil,
How empty the hope of cures man-made,
The debt is deeper than any has repaid---
Apart from One who battled the devil,
And won---at infinite cost, for us mortals,
Salvation of which the angels only dream,
Reversing the ages’ dark, disastrous scene,
So opened for man high heaven’s portals.
It was for me---the bitter tree,
For all, He suffered in our place,
Yet through time no tongue can tell or thought
trace
The travail of His soul that sets us free.
Atonement rests on grace alone,
Beyond all logic, a mystery baffling reason,
But reason gives way to a glorious season
For love, all loves surpassing, to atone.
So man must plead for mercy divine,
No claim of worthiness to bring,
All human goodness does hollow ring,
Where God’s love alone restores God’s design.
Received by humble trust, a gift,
For faith itself, to willing hearts, is offered,
By the God whose conquering love is proffered,
That heals our self-righteous and ruinous rift.
To the Father, Son, and Spirit, all praise!
Our shame and unpayable debt redeemed,
Forgiven, made whole, set free, life-streamed,
To strive for God’s will in all our ways.
Still, sinners all we remain, yet more,
For now our sin is against the Holy Cross---
Its light, and unfailing love, and loss,
As though the Christ need die as before.
If heaven marks where we are impure,
Can any stand? But grace is there,
To lift the fallen, whose cry is a prayer---
On divine grace our hope and peace are sure.
Honorable Mention #2 “Conversation with my lord on a terrace in California”
by Michelle Reed
Kentwood, Michigan
Conversation with my lord on a terrace in California”
The mist is so thick in this valley, my lord
like lace, shall I weave it? Like Avila
told her virgins, to see you at last through their blushing
of white toothed hills, claws clasping their cloud of unknowing
shall I crawl, my lord, like Rome’s saints for lapsing
if you’re here with me already, my lord?
I can’t see through the mystic Aquinas’s vision beatific
in this terraced terra more like Dante’s Purgatorio, shall I
be the hero in my own solemn comedy, my lord, shall I
see the uplift of the clouds muffle my own crucifixion scene,
while someone somewhere looks on, gently draws smoke
from his cigar and puffs, sad eyes seeing us all? My lord?
Honorable Mention #3 “My Shepherd”
by Sherill Morris
Metamora, Illinois 61548
My Shepherd
I
hang, precariously, over the edge -
Convinced
that just beyond this tangle
Of
briars, that mercilessly rip through my soul,
Lie
the green pastures, the still waters,
The
world of tranquility - the world without wolves.
He
calls my name; I do not care to hear.
I
thrash through thorns; my cries obscuring His voice.
But
then I feel the determined, solid crook of His staff
Around
my struggling soul: insistent; persistent.
He
draws me firmly from the precipice
Toward
His sheltering arms,
Engulfs
me with His tender presence,
And
carries me safely home.
Poem Of Excellence “Clay for the Potter”
St. Pauls, North
Carolina.
Clay for the Potter
Upon the potter’s wheel
I stand,
A piece of clay in the
master’s hand.
Lines and cracks there
may be,
But without them there,
I wouldn’t be me.
So, examine these places
within my clay,
And listen well to what
they say.
I’ve walked in valleys,
And felt their pain,
Yet, through each one
there was gain.
I’m still here upon his
wheel,
A piece of clay for him
to build.
Shape me, mold me,
Make me strong,
Place inside me a brand
new song.
It’s your holy presence
that I seek,
Come before me,
Make me meek.
Draw me in,
Please, hold me tight,
Never lose me from your
sight.
It’s you I trust Lord,
With my whole being.
For I walk by faith,
And not by seeing.
So, upon your wheel I
firmly stand,
A piece of clay in your
great hands.
Poem of Excellence “I Broke My Bust of Jesus”
by Susan Sundwall
Valatie, New York
I Broke My Bust of Jesus
I broke my bust of Jesus
‘cuz I don’t believe no
more.
I picked it up and
laughed at it
then smashed it to the
floor.
“It’s just a silly
myth,” they said.
“How stupid can you be?
To think someone would
hang for you
upon a cursed tree.”
You can’t imagine how it
felt
To finally give it up;
leave hypocrites and
thumpers,
the wafer and the cup.
A carpenter from long
ago
He couldn’t have a clue.
And would have been much
better off
to stick with wood and
glue.
I got the broom, I got
the pan
to give the floor a
sweep,
then suddenly I felt the
urge
to bend my head and
weep.
The broken bits around
my feet
were hard to recognize,
but somewhere in the
rotten mess
I saw a pair of eyes.
The eyes implored, “I
love you,”
and were somehow
piercing mine,
the dirty windows of my
soul
were cleansed in salty
brine.
What madness had come
over me?
What stupefying lie,
had crept into my very
soul,
my savior to decry?
I scooped the broken
pieces up,
my own eyes rose to
Heaven,
convicted then, I
knew my doubts
in His love were
forgiven.
Poem of Excellence “Little Political Sense”
by Lindsey Martin-Bowen
Lee’s Summit, Missouri
Little Political Sense
Zebar says you have little
political sense.
He grumbled with other
Sanhedrin scribes
in the Temple. Its
pillars tremble when you whirl in,
overturn tables, upset
cages, and let loose doves—
they spread winds and
flock to altars. You squint at them
and your heart breaks
open. Its two halves become dove wings
spread out in a
sacrifice. And you don’t adhere
to politics when you
heal a blind man on the Sabbath.
His hands quiver as his
eyes fill with water.
I, too, have little
political sense
when I watch the Humane
University dismiss
a spinster librarian who
served there fifteen years.
The supervisor drove her
mad—harped at her
like a magpie pecking
eggs in a dove’s next. She can’t
remember which day is
which. She blinks dovelike
eyes. “They’re trying to
fire me,” she repeats, clutches
her walking papers. Her
void voice spooks me. I squeeze
her fingers and later
try to reason with her supervisor.
But my words rebounds
from the speech she draws
with Roman numerals.
“Not doing her job,” she argues,
her eyelids taut as
steel. Her teeth glow like iridescent glass.
I shake my head. “Not
so,” I try to say, but she’s gone on
to Roman Numeral II. I
nearly choke on her Channel No. 5
and chew my lower lip.
Her numerals stand like the pillars
in the Sanhedrin Temple,
where you once preached love
of God and man. They
will not bend. So I check out
of the library and brush
the dust from my sandals.
And you exit the Temple,
lug wood beams on your back.
by Annette Marie Griffin
San Antonio, Texas
*Poet
chose not to print the poem.
Enjoyed reading the winning poems prayerfully.
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