On Earth . . .

By Susan Delaney Spear

These poems were born in the ups and downs of the "here and now": hot air balloon rides, an afternoon jog, the everyday beauty of the natural world, yoga, Impressionist art, a global pandemic, and the inadequacy of words. And yet, these poems are ever looking forward to when the "there and then" joins the "here and now," on Earth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Release date: Apr 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781666740745

Susan Delaney Spear

Susan Delaney Spear is an Assistant Professor of English at Colorado Christian University in Lakewood, Colorado. In 2012, she earned an MFA in Creative Writing / Poetry from Western State Colorado University. Along with teaching and writing, she serves as the Managing Editor of Think, a journal of poetry, criticism, and reviews.

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Prologue

On Earth . . .

Blessed be the lettuce pickers

the wards and waifs

the overweight and underfed

the unnamed

the average

the slandered

Blessed be the misunderstood

the latch key kids

the shy

the shunned, the uncool

the stone cold sober

the street sweepers

Blessed be the night shift

the unfriended

those who try

the drivers and delivery boys

the widows

the utterly forgiving

Blessed be the utterly forgiven

the bussers

the barren

the gunned down

the onlys and the singles

those who try again

Blessed be the addicts

the true believers

the doubters

the kind

the blue-sky dreamers

the down and outers

Blessed be the last leaf on the tree

the parched and hollow

the seed sowers

the ardent seekers

those in second place

the commuters on the city bus

Blessed be the here and now

Blessed be the there and then

Your kingdom come, O Lord. When?

Words Are Prone to Fail

Traces

We forget their names but not their faces.

You know, the coat-and-tied young man

who stopped to change your tire, and the nurse

who could lift your dying father. They leave their traces.

The weathered old man at the deli who

moved your table into shade. He didn’t

know your heart was bleeding out. The woman

wearing the tie-dyed scarf, ahead of you

in the drive-thru who bought your morning tea.

The runner on the trail who saw you trip

and stopped to check your scraped up knees and wrists.

The true-eyed listener who knew when not to speak.

Here and there, these remembered faces—

traces of God—inhabit earthly places.

The Messenger

1

This, she recalls. Mommy piles her

along with friends into the tan Dodge Dart,

the ride, smooth on asphalt, and the dust

the car stirs on the lane down to the farm.

It is her fifth birthday. Dark purple grapes

decorate the trellis. Old Shep’s growl

scares her slack-kneed, back among adults

circled up in lawn chairs in the shade.

Uncle Dale plants his boots on earth.

Aunt Emma and Mommy cross their slender legs

and swing their sandaled feet. You kids go play.

Ripened words and adult conversation

rise, diffusing into summer air.

Khrushchev, Kennedy, a pregnant mare.

2

Khrushchev, Kennedy, a pregnant mare.

Uncle Dale mumbles and adjusts the wad

of chew in his left cheek. You kids go play.

In pink seersucker shorts and new white Keds,

she scrambles down the lane, feeling the