Category Archives: Poems

Cathedral of Earth, Sea, and Sky

30 Monday Nov 2015

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Spooners Cove Thanksgiving 2015

Montaña de Oro State Park, CA

All that we see,
all that we breathe,
all the places we walk or swim or fly,
all that is distant,
all that is near,
all that is empty,
all that is full,
all that comforts us with familiarity,
all that invites us into newness,
all that opens us to challenges,
all that surprises us with wonder,
all that humbles us in awe,
all things now living,
all ancestors, loved ones, friends,
all whom we hold in our remembrance,
all ancient trees,
all tundras, savannas and prairies,
all deserts, everglades and forests,
all morning brightened mountains,
all shimmering vibrant seas,
all cloud dotted skies,
all of these sing of one source,
all of these move to one timeless rhythm,
in all ways that matter.

(c) Mark Lloyd Richardson, Thanksgiving 2015

Awakening

07 Wednesday Oct 2015

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Moonshot, Photo credit: Dallis Richardson

Moonshot, Photo credit: Dallis Richardson

Have you ever been awakened by moonlight
so brilliant and full
in its muted illumination
that a breathless hope overcame you
from head to toe?

Have you ever considered the immense secrets
these nocturnal skies hold
about how our lives merge
into one life
one presence
one mystery
when all is said and done?

Or have you given up on hope
as you would a failed wish upon a star?

Have you closed your eyes to divine surprise?

Does your mind topple any mystery that comes along?

Early in the morning
not long ago
the moon poured suddenly through a western window
sprinkling blue and white droplets
over my sleep-covered eyes
bathing me
for a time
in its timeless memory.

I have no explanation.

Only gratefulness.

Words (c) 2015 Mark Lloyd Richardson

From the rising of the sun to its setting

05 Wednesday Aug 2015

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Knapp's Castle, Santa Barbara, CA

Knapp’s Castle, Santa Barbara, CA

From the rising of the sun to its setting
the name of the Lord is to be praised.
~ Psalm 113:3

The posture of praise
begins with eyes turned toward the sun.

This glimmering star was there
the day the world was born.
It was there as our first parents walked in the garden
as creatures of all variety came into existence
as nations and peoples were formed.

This star warms us
guides us
keeps us
like the one who placed it there.

From the rising of the sun to its setting
the name of the Lord is to be praised.

Morning praise
awakens us to life’s sweetness
celebrates the gift of being
honors deep relationship.

Noontime praise
walks in the light of love
seeks justice
longs for peace.

Evening praise
gives thanks for a day made holy
surrenders to life’s brief tenderness
drinks from the wellspring of hope that never runs dry.

From the rising of the sun to its setting
the name of the Lord is to be praised.

Words (c) 2015 Mark Lloyd Richardson
Photo credit: Dallis Day Richardson

With Sighs Too Deep For Words

23 Saturday May 2015

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Pentecost Sky

Pentecost Sky

We do not know what we should rightly pray for,
but the spirit intercedes with groans that cannot be uttered,
and he searching our hearts perceives the mind of the spirit,
since as God commands the spirit intercedes to help the saints.
~ Romans 8:26-27

The spirit,
from your first breath,
breathes God’s loving intentions through you.

You,
in your weakness,
don’t know enough to welcome this silent grace.

Your days are littered
with numbed neglect of your soul
and unresponsiveness to the groans of creation.

When you pray
the noises of your mind clamor and disrupt
the stillness where you had hoped to find rest.

Yet below the words
in a deeper, mysterious consciousness
the divine within appeals to the divine above.

There your heart is laid bare,
and with sighs too deep for words
the spirit intercedes to help you find your way.

This day’s sorrow
takes the hand of your heart’s undying gladness
and crosses over into the mystery where hope resides.

Pentecost 2015
Words © 2015 Mark Lloyd Richardson

Ashes

18 Wednesday Feb 2015

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ash
Ashes
earthy gray
dry as parched wilderness
symbol that we too shall perish

Dust to dust
ashes to ashes
each of us makes our humble return
back to the habitat of our origins

All that is false is allowed to die –
misguided allegiances
harmful compulsions
lingering resentments
ego-driven agendas –
dead on the ash heap of confession

Only then is there a new beginning
a reconciling
a turning toward wholeness
a desiring for God

Finally in the fullness of time
the desert blooms again
salvation comes
life triumphing over death.

Words (c) Mark Lloyd Richardson, 2015

When I Die

04 Sunday Jan 2015

Posted by in Poems, Reflections, Running

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I wrote this poem several years ago as I reflected on the joy I have always felt from running, which has been for me a life-long endeavor. Running has taught me lessons about perseverance and potential I do not believe I could have learned any other way. So, with tongue firmly in cheek, I penned the following words to imagine a future where my running career would be admired and not forgotten. Besides, my wife Dallis just captured the perfect image during a recent race I entered on New Year’s Day 2015!

New Year's Resolution Day Run 2015

When I die

I’m thinking of donating my body
to medical research, though I haven’t signed
anything official yet. It’s not that I object to
the idea of decaying under a pile of dirt and leaves,
in fact it seems quite right—dust to dust,
ashes to ashes—the way it should be
if we are to give back to the material world
what it has given to us. But I figure that

if my body goes to science, then on some
perfect afternoon when the sun glimmers
through autumn leaves of red and gold,
pre-med students will huddle around
my cold preserved form with their sharp
utensils to explore what remains of me,
and one will say, “Look at this brain. He
clearly had an active mind.” Another will
comment, “See these shoulders. He must
have carried life’s burdens well.” Someone else
will observe, “His heart is quite big. Do you
suppose he felt compassion more than most?”
Another budding scholar will take the measure
of my arms and wonder, “Did he use these to
hold the ones he loved? Did he embrace life?”

Then someone will take one studied look
at my long sinewy legs
and remark in a way
that would make any cadaver smile,
“Damn! This guy was a runner!”

Words (c)2009 Mark Lloyd Richardson
Photo (c)2015 Dallis Day Richardson

This Preaching Life

30 Saturday Aug 2014

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Pulpit of First United Methodist Church, Santa Barbara (taken by Dallis Day Richardson)

Pulpit of First United Methodist Church, Santa Barbara (taken by Dallis Day Richardson)

Every week
week after week
I put words on a page
and I pray
as I write each one out
it is a word
that in combination with other words
will speak peace into the lives of hearers.

I am a preacher –
not a wild, untamed preacher like John the Baptizer,
whom one might be excused for judging as harsh
as he roared his message of repentance
at the righteous and unrighteous alike,
calling every soul out
to take a clear-eyed look at themselves
and finally grasp that something’s got to change!

I preach with trepidation,
aware that some may find my words inspired
while others seem to know better.

This preaching life does not get any easier.

The preacher stands in need of grace too.

I am a preacher.

Week after week,
the Word who took on flesh calls to all who have ears to hear,
“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you.
I do not give to you as the world gives.
Do not let your hearts be troubled,
and do not let them be afraid.”

Words (c) 2014 Mark Lloyd Richardson

Love Took My Hand

14 Friday Mar 2014

Posted by in Poems, Reflections, Worship Liturgy

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o-HOLDING-HANDS-facebookTwelve years ago, on the Second Sunday in Lent, at the church I was serving in Los Osos, California, I preached a sermon titled, “Love Took My Hand.” The sermon was based on the very familiar text of John 3:16, which reads, “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.” I have subsequently preached a revised edition of this sermon in my current church in Santa Maria, California, because so many people have responded positively to its underlying message of grace and hope!

The scripture text is almost too familiar. People of all stripes think they know clearly what it means. But my approach in the sermon was to make the words of John’s gospel very personal for myself and my listeners. I wanted us to consider how God searches for us throughout our life journeys and extends to us an inexhaustible and unconditional love. Eternal life is not some far-off, distant promise of a better future — it is the reality we know when we are embraced by our Creator and trust that we are loved, right now, right here!

A few weeks after delivering that sermon twelve years ago, one of my parishioners offered the most sincere praise one can offer. He wrote a beautiful song based on his reflections on the sermon, and sang it in his rich tenor voice for our church family. He even ended up taking the song on the road. So I offer his lyrics to you for your enjoyment and blessing!

Love Took My Hand by John Kelly

Love took my hand, and led me through my childhood,
Love held me close, and calmed my childish fears.
I felt Love in my mother’s warm caresses,
And when, with love, she wiped away my tears.
I found in Love a friend who would not leave me,
Who’d stand by me whenever I might stray.
I never knew why Love was so forgiving,
I only knew that Love would find a way.

But as I grew, I thought Love was unneeded,
I felt no need for Love to lean upon,
I turned away from all that Love could give me,
I turned away, and thought that Love had gone.
But then I found that without Love I’m nothing,
I needed Love to face a world of care,
I looked for Love, and Love had never left me,
I reached for Love, and Love was always there.

Love walked with me among the sick, the homeless,
Love walked with me when pain was everywhere,
Love said to me, “Love even these, the love-less,”
Love walked with me, and taught me how to care.
And now I know that Love will never leave me,
And now I know that Love comes from above.
And I will go wherever Love may lead me,
Because I know, I know that God is Love.

Thank you, John, for these beautiful words affirming the deep and abiding love of God for us!

God bless you, my friends, with the knowledge that God is for you and with you, and that indeed God is Love!

Grace and peace, Mark

Small Town Boy

22 Friday Nov 2013

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scrapbookSmall Town Boy

Life in a small town in the Pacific Northwest was grand
for a boy, playing outdoor games with neighbor children,
climbing fir trees, riding a blue Schwinn bike with pedals
I could barely reach, throwing balls over the pitched roof
of the corner house as friends waited on the other side,
hiding and seeking in our tidy little alley cul-de-sac.

My cousins lived on a nearby farm
where the barnyard was a world of fascination
complete with milking cows and squawking chickens.

I was a first grader in Miss Iva McGillivray’s class
at the Everson-Nooksack Elementary School.
I was so proud of the first and third place ribbons I won
during the fall running races on the school lawn.

Then one terrible November day,
clouds solemnly assembled on distant hills,
children scattered across school playgrounds.

President Kennedy was shot.

Later in our living room at home,
the television showed footage of the Dallas motorcade—
the commotion and screaming,
a car rushing away from the grievous scene,
faces in the crowd marked by tears, wounded by worry.
The strange firecracker sounds kept ringing in my ears,
making me dizzy and uncertain, shattering my innocence.

My mother cried, my father held a troubled look,
a pall settled over my tender years.

Words (c) 2013 Mark Lloyd Richardson

A Room Remembered

01 Friday Nov 2013

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Nooksack, Washington parsonage

Nooksack, Washington parsonage

A Room Remembered

Granddad’s study
is a modest room
off the living room
in the two-story Nooksack parsonage,
a half block from the wooden country church
where he preaches every Sunday morning.

Its scents fill the air
and remain with me to this day —
wood paneling,
serious books,
mimeograph ink and paper.

In this room every Saturday my granddad copies bulletins
on an aging mimeograph for the next day’s worship service.

At the tender age of five
I am his able assistant.

We watch as sheets of paper fly rhythmically through the machine
and are caught in a tray on the other side.
Then he and I fold the bulletins,
careful to find the middle of each one,
and I am again swept up
in my imaginings of being him.

I imagine standing before a congregation someday,
with a stain-glassed Jesus holding a lamb tenderly in his arms
on the wall behind the pulpit,
and daring to tell the truth about God’s ways in the world.

I am no mere admirer gazing upon my granddad’s noble calling.
No, I love him with eager childlike devotion –
my heart full of wanting to be like him.

Words (c) 2004 Mark Lloyd Richardson

My Granddad, the Rev. Norval Sweet Richardson

My Granddad, the Rev. Norval Sweet Richardson