Whistleblowers in the Church

Visionaries,

prophets,

plain-speaking folks,

they are the “Whistle Blowers”

for the community of faith.

They shine

a light on us

and call us to face

our sins

as they shove

mirrors

close

so that the breath

of our hypocrisy

fogs

the reflection

while we seek

to hide

from the fearsome sight

and close our ears

to the shrill scream

of the whistles.

-Joy Stalvey Barefoot

Promise FulFillment

Leaves

unfurl in spring

to die in winter;

unfurl in spring.

Flowers

bloom in splendor,

wilt and wither,

seed and bloom.

God

shows Himself

in everything around us.

How can we,

made in His image,

not die and live,

born of new seed?

It is in living

that we lose our lives;

in losing our lives

that we live!

-Joy S. Barefoot

Falling Oak

Falling Oak

          -Joy S. Barefoot

I felt a sadness

at the falling

of the oak;

the persistent growling

of the saw;

hammer ringing

at the wedge;

wrench grinding

against

a great force.

I felt a sadness

at that creaking groan

ripping

at its fibers

and the trembling earth

beneath its fall.

I felt a sadness

at that fresh cut

ring of years,

left to grieve its loss;

a sort of euthenasia,

laying down

to still the worms

ingesting

red oak heart . . . .

Intermission

 Intermission

 

What better than a star,

a light to show the way

of lost and lonely,

a gathering of spirit into cluster,

a zenith of the very breath of life

while we are waiting

on that gathering of souls?

What better than a star,

to wait upon the family reunion;

wait with those who’ve gone beyond,

out there into the deepest blue

of God’s forever,

to keep a watchful eye

on us below

 . . . we, who wait to sparkle

in his love?

Could it be that stars

which can’t be numbered,

are watchmen, clad in luminous array;

that tonight a new star sparkles

in the vaporous Milky Way

with someone snatched

from terra firma glory

or freed

from all its terra firma pain?

Are constellations only families of spirit

in gowns that billow,

soft as cirrus clouds,

embroidered

with the rich brocade of gold;

fashioned by the archangels of heaven;

woven of each lightly wafting word

and garlanded with love we gave away?

What better than a star,

with imperfections,

during intermission of two lives?

Joy Stalvey Barefoot

 

 

 

 

(This was originally written when my Mother died but has been shared with others)

Happy New Year

 

                               

A new year comes, leaving us older,

with memories to ponder about.
There’s no turning back the hands of the clock
but that’s never reason to pout

for with each year that passes us over

a sprinkling of wisdom descends,
leaving us richer than ever before
as we reap all the year’s dividends,

New friends we’ve made, places we’ve seen,

new revelations of truth,
a knowledge of living, not known in the past
and not to be learned in our youth.

Yes, a new year comes, and an old one goes,

We bequeath to history, the past;
'though we can’t turn back the hands of the clock.
We can hold treasured memories fast.
                                            -Joy Stalvey Barefoot

Nursing Home Manners

 

(Example Two, from Miss Kathleen McNutt)

Finger foods have changed , she said.

Miss Post should be aware.

Mashed potatoes, macaroni,

are finger food affairs.

Manners at the nursing home

are different than I learned.

Forks and spoons and utensils;

quite often, there, are spurned.

So, if you come to visit me

just kindly call ahead

They’ll set a separate table for us.

We’ll dine alone, instead.

 

Joy S. Barefoot

Fisticuffs in the Nursing Home (News from Miss Kathleen McNutt)

 

There was an old lady

laid up in her bed;

annoyed by an old man,

not right in the head.

He came calling one night,

acting very ill-bred.

With an empty bottle

she cracked him on the head

 

Not easily dissuaded,

upon his first try

he returned again

with a gleam in his eye.

 

On this unlucky eve

as he climbed on her bed

a water-filled bottle

cracked him on the head.

 

"I've been in a fisticuffs!"

she blithely told me,

"with a feisty old man

who tried to bed me;

 

now when I see him,

'Don't hit me', he'll say.

He covers his head

and  gets out of my away."

 

(This was told to me, on a visit to the nursing home, by my "feisty" poetry writing friend in her ninety-fifth year.  She had an amazing mind and had self-published two poetry/prose books of her own collection.) 

Genealogy Madness

There once was an Edward Skinner

took Nancy and Anna to dinner.

The records are scant,

I often do rant.

Was Anna or Nancy the winner!

 
                       -Joy Stalvey Barefoot

The Surviving Scarlett O'Hara (for Audrey)

dressed for the dance

in a brocade gown,

truly slashed and splashed

together by a penniless mother,

ripping the curtains

from the window

in a bold

fury.

Scarlett, tossed about by time and place

and laughing in the face

of disaster's winds,

counting her chickens

as she spreads her wings,

eyes alert for the one

who slipped

from her shelter.

Oh, how I love your spirit

that wanton, wild

and crazy spirit;

that spirit in "go go" boots,

flying fringe

and bold mascara

on gorgeous eyes,

tossing your head

in grand gesture;

laughing at the poet's

dramatic and sorrowful tales.

The poet has not lived.

Scarlett has.

-Joy S. Barefoot

(written for my "Scarlett" friend, Audrey Riedel, whose mother copied  Scarlett of Tara and sent her off to the prom)

To Everything

Spring awakened,

shyly unfurling

leaf upon tender leaf

as the early yellow-green

crept up the crest of the mountains.

Summer

grew ripe and full,

her maturing girth

swelling in the heat,

laden with fruit.

Autumn slipped in on a shivery breeze

shedding her rouged,

but dying, adornment

in a tempera spatter

across the earth’s brown belly.

Winter’s cold and bitter winds

came to a naked and lonely land

bringing the gentle snows,

covering the nakedness

of separation.

-Joy Stalvey Barefoot

(This is a poetry version of a piece of prose on life)

Devil’s Playmate

I am the devil’s playmate.

He’s always there for me.

He perches on my shoulder

and talks, convincingly.

We while away the hours

just goofing off, we two.

He makes me think I’m working;

brags on all I do.

When I put off the ironing

until another day;

or when I start to whine,

he tells me “It’s okay.

If I forget my prayers;

to seek God’s guiding hand,

he tells me not to worry;

God always understands.”

I am the devil’s playmate

and sorrowed, though I be,

I cannot seem to chase him off.

He likes hanging out with me.

So, if he knocks at your house,

“Don’t open!”, I implore,

like that old snake-oil salesman,

you can’t get him out the door.

-Joy S. Barefoot

The Colors of Hope

“God, help me to look for answers

and work at discerning Your call.

Help me to grasp, as Joseph did,

when feeling abandoned by all.”

As I prayed again for vision

for clarity to understand

I looked up to see a rainbow,

full palette, stretched out, in a band

of brightly arrayed perfection,

a ribbon rolled out, edge to edge

and in those colors, a promise

God’s signature signed with His pledge

that He is eternally with me

each step of this long weary way.

but there is one thing He asked of me;

that I must remember to pray.

-Joy S. Barefoot

God’s Fistful of Pennies

 
A fistful of pennies . . .

laid in my palm;

warm, moist pennies,

pennies

smelling of metal,

and ,shyly, passed

into my palm

from the tiny

warm, moist fist

of the little girl

in the pink flowered dress

sitting next to me.

What will God do

with her fistful of pennies?

-Joy S. Barefoot

The Turned Down Page

A page, turned down,
at “Intolerance and Forbearance” . . .

was it a struggle to the finish,

a challenge, abandoned?

Was the knowledge intolerable?

The book appears half finished;

it says the base of intolerance

is “stupefying ignorance”.*

It says one who does not know an insult

when he hears one

is an example of this.

Sometimes I think I’m hit

with stupefying ignorance

when

someone tells me

a thing I had no need to know

in some lewd, seductive and salacious way.

It’s clearly

a thing I should not tolerate!

I think about it . . .

with forbearance

but

that page is creased forever.

-Joy S. Barefoot

Tilling the Heart

You have tilled my heart this day, oh, Lord;

scratching out the corners, left to thrive

and nourish those most loved by you

the tender and fragile; hanging onto life.

My heart’s been tilled this day, oh, Lord

its soul has been watered with burning tears

for those most bent, down-trodden souls

who hold onto hope for Jubilee’s year.

Plant, in these tilled and turned-up places

seeds to sprout up, bold and strong,

thriving in the warm sun of my heart;

waiting for the harvester’s threshing throng.

Fill my soul with clean, flowing water

feeding the broken soil of my heart,

nourishing and fattening the seeds of summer.

The least I can give, is my tilled-up heart.

-Joy S. Barefoot

Preacher Man

Oh, Preacher Man,

sweeping across the dais

with your billowing black robe.

You tell me of a hell

awaiting me

for lack of response

to “Just As I Am”.

My God,

who made me

“just as I am”,

he, who thought me

and I was;

he, who loved me

from my Mother’s womb;

he, who loved you; made you

just as you are,

did he say this?

How did you become

my pathway to salvation,

you, who were thought to be and was,

just like me?

Oh, Preacher Man, tell me, how?

-Joy S. Barefoot

In God’s Eyes (Balcony View)

It’s 11:55

on Sunday morning.

Where is your child?

Offering is piled

into the brass plates,

freshly polished;

now gleaming in the morning sun.

The last hymn is beginning

as a rustle of gathering

ripples through the sanctuary.

Ladies collect their purses,

some folks pick up bulletins

while others gather

children’s drawings,

or graffiti.

Oh, yes,

your child

is on the back row

doing the Macarena,

with a little extra jive,

to the strains of

“Praise My Soul,

the King of Heaven”!

-Joy S. Barefoot

(View from the balcony, Bedford Presbyterian Church

at the time of the popular "Macarena" dance )

Game of No Guarantees

Life guarantees us

nothing;

only life, itself.

It guarantees

no possessions;

guarantees no wealth.

It guarantees only

a journey;

not one day of good health.

Life guarantees

this moment;

we live with the hand we are dealt.

-Joy S. Barefoot

Nothing is Lost

 The baby plays upon the vision

layered in the mirror of time.

The crepe-lined old woman sprays

and varnishes the prints upon its face.

In the cloudy, lying mirror,

is the youth of all her years

gathered up in lines and wrinkles

in time’s unfair and sure reflection.

-Joy S. Barefoot

Life is like a ball of yarn . . .

Life is Like a Ball of Yarn



 . . . it usually starts out nice and neat;

with strands in their proper places

but tucked inside it’s fat little belly

are beginnings of intricate laces.

Hold on to the ball's big round belly,

as you carefully work to unwind it

for once you let that little ball go

you might have to search to find it.

Now make the length, only what you need;

. . . no more than you can handle.

That ball’s like other things in life

. . . it can get you in a crazy tangle.

The outside face must hold together

as you work with anticipation

for these will be the finishing threads

for the last of your inspiration.

There’s a lot to learn from those woven threads,

and when they're all in place,

you may look back with admiration

at the pattern of your lacings.

 

-Joy Stalvey Barefoot (2010)

Long Shadows (death of a day)

Late in the day

just before the sun

moves into it’s hiding

place, a long shadow,

a very long shadow,

strikes a fleeting pose

on all of what I know

as today.

It seems as if the covers

are slowly being closed

on the final chapter

of some mysterious novel,

bearing the nostalgic,

but faint, scent,

of carnations.

-Joy S. Barefoot

(Inspired by a very dear friend, who, in a short period of time,

taught me much about living. Thanks, Jeanne.)

Forever On the wind

A father leans to listen

to secrets on the sand.

Against the roaring ocean

he reaches for her hand.

Sea winds catch the secret

skipping on the sand;

steals her whispered words

as head to head they stand

and angel wings now carry it

across the singing sands.

Nags Head Beach, June 1995

Thunderstorm

The storm came

sounding like tangled horns,

like the tangled horns of sheep;

wrapped in a struggle of resounding booms

on a craggy mountain steep.

Force against force, they confronted each other,

rattling and clanging in wrath

‘til the stronger ones got the best of it

and the weak

murmured off down the path.

                                                 -Joy S. Barefoot

Like a Dream

Sometimes

I think

I dreamed it all

when asparagus grew wild;

lady slippers

peeped at me

from the woods path’s crooked mile.

Sometimes

I think

a world of fairies

slipped down from the hills

and laid

the pretty things about

where moss

grew damp and still

with glint of sun

like diamonds

on rain-teared

holly leaves.

Sometimes

I think

I dreamed it all.

What a tale

do fairies weave!

-Joy S. Barefoot

After the Storm

Purple iris bow

in exhaustion

and absolute submission.

Morning sun glistens

on deciduous leaves

of low-growing underbrush.

Twisted Pin Oak leaves

hang heavy

in the wake.

The heavy Hostas cannot lift

a heavenward leaf.

One lone bird

sends forth

a hesitant chirp;

then another,

and once more

the woods come alive

with morning song.

-Joy S. Barefoot

Southern Dog Days

Southern Dog Days

               -Joy S. Barefoot

Sun, almost set,

a fireball of brilliant tangerine
dipping behind the pines
beyond the old rail fence;
framed by the knobby limbs
of the aging apple tree.
Cricket screams crescendo; die away.
Lawn mowers make final paths
over dry and brittle grass.
A distant train
whistles a lonesome sound.
I can hear, and almost feel,
the wheels, battering the tracks.
One lone bird sings a twilight song
and the air lays hot and humid.
An old man, in a red cap,
goes to his garden
with his gathering bucket.
Red geraniums droop in thirst.
Coral spreads across the sky,
slowly spilling its heart.
Tree limbs blacken
against approaching darkness
as lights begin to appear in houses.
A door slams.
Another bird calls.
Restless leaves whisper,
signaling a fast approaching storm.
A low rumble
and the earthy smell of rain.

The House Not Yet Cold

House hunting in a small town is never easy.  The selection is always limited and when you’ve lived in the town before, you usually have an idea where you want to live and what you need, in a house. 

 

 four years before we had moved to Mississippi and now, with plans changed once more, we were back in town searching for another home.  It didn't take long for the search to begin trying my limited patience.  I wanted my "stuff".  If you've ever moved and had things in storage, you know what I mean.

One humorous friend suggested that we name our abode "Snowstorm" and pretend we were just vacationing, caught up in a snowstorm.

As fall seemed to fade with each painted leaf and the winds of winter whistled across the door of the northeast basement apartment we were renting I began to feel as if we might be there through the long dark, and cold, winter.  

Perhaps my friend was right, so I got out my calligraphy pen, leftover from yet another attempt to learn something new, and wrote the name on a piece of white cardboard, from the laundry, which had been folded up in my husband's white shirt.  I dutifully taped the newly made sign onto the door, knowing it would delight my clever friend, and resigned myself to the long cold winter at Snowstorm apartment.

 

Each time an acquaintance or friend learned of something available we would be informed that it was on the market. We settled in and things looked more and more like we would be waiting until spring time when children would be finishing up their school years and folks might be planning moves. 

 

One of my very dearest friends who was on into her eighties, and well-connected in our  town, belonging to almost every notable organization, had continued to be very diligent about keeping up with availabilities, always on the alert to find a house for us not too far from her. 

Then early one morning, just as I poured my first cup of coffee, the wall phone  by the pantry in the kitchen jangled me to attention

Known for her direct and somewhat curt, greetings, she did not disappoint me that morning with her familiar straightforward approach, as she launched right into her reason for calling. 

She excitedly proclaimed "Joy, Mary Lee just called.  The hearse just came for Miriam. I know you will like her house.    You should get over there and see it!"

-Joy S. Barefoot

Wayfare Church (The Hole in the Stone)

Old southern tree moss

swayed gently, high above me.

The buff colored dirt

was pounded

around the worn stones.

There were names,

not unlike my own,

barely visible,

as the whole of the stones

seemed to fall away,

grain by gravelly grain.

My eyes traced the edge

of the stone,

hypnotized

by the hole in its edge.

Twins laid buried here

sharing a coffin.

Twins whose love for each other

robbed me of uncles

in that dark and

swampy river.

“My grandfather

made the double coffin.”

Pointing again,

she said “Your grandfather is here.”,

I knew the story.

That dark and swampy lake

had, again, robbed me,

swallowing up my grandfather

but there was no stone,

not even one with a hole in it.

Joy Stalvey Barefoot

June 4, 1990

Hull Street House

An old house on Hull Street

still holds the singing

of my birth,

hidden away

in cracks and crannies

of aging boards

and fresh paint,

where the cries

of agony and anguish,

in the process of my birthing,

lie buried beneath thick layers

of things like Sherwin Williams

or Dutch Girl Paint.

-Joy Stalvey Barefoot

Mortar and Pedestal

 

Life
can be like a mortar and pestal,
grinding at the smallest grains

making them ever smaller.

Little lumps pop up

out of the congregation

only to be hammered

harder with the pestal;

ground ever smaller

against the walls

of the mortar bowl,

into powdery dust;

indistinguishable

one from the other;

just a gray mass

of lifeless powder.
               -Joy S. Barefoot