If you’re a communicator for Christ, as I am, you can find Writing Resources with Christian poets, writers, and pastors in mind on my website.
In addition, I hope you’ll follow these blogs, which I maintain as often as family, church, and book-writing commitments allow:
Mary Sayler (in lieu of this site)
Poetry Editor & Poetry
Praise Poems (many of which have been compiled in the book PRAISE! and the forthcoming chapbook, WE: the people under God.)
What the Bible Says About Love
May God bless you and your good work in Christ.
Mary Harwell Sayler, (c) 2017
And the LORD said to Cain, “Where is your brother Abel?”
“I do not know,” Cain said, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” Genesis 4:9
by Mary Harwell Sayler
Someone should discover flint
for striking fire to send signals
made of smoke or devise a drum
from thin skins of animals stroked
into softness then stretched into
roundness to be beaten into
an oddly hollow sound.
Someone should learn
to yodel in a range
of mountains or arrange
a system for sending sequential
codes on air with interceptive
devices everywhere a tribe or
person remains somewhat ready
to receive what’s being said.
Someone should take charcoal
and mark rolls of parchment with
characters aligning straight lines
of words into the pronouncing of
Someone should write a book,
a map, a mini-series for TV.
Someone should set hooks
and parallel wires on poles
to zigzag the horizon,
reconfiguring the sky in
a random maze that amazes
even the birds.
Someone should hollow out
a satellite dish that allows us
to fax, phone home, email, or
text message each other to keep
in touch with mothers, fathers,
sisters, brothers, neighbors,
and others known to need
©2013, Mary Harwell Sayler, all rights reserved. First published in a 2011 issue of Contemporary Literary Horizon, this poem later appears in the book of Bible-based poetry, Outside Eden, published in 2014 by Kelsay Books.
See, that’s why I don’t like to get close to you!
When least expected, your expression jades,
and your eyes reveal partially concealed blades
hinting a dagger glint. “So?” you say,
calling me out with unanswerable questions
about what I mean by this or that. If I don’t
defend myself, another point quickly comes
on which to gouge me like a pumpkin. If I
protest, a sudden scramble of barbed wire
covers you like your very best shawl. But that’s
not all! I feel as though you want to see me
squirm – or kept in line with what you find
to be true or good or right for you – and yet,
ironically, I want that too. So I concede:
a trick to treat myself with cooling
quiet – a way to conserve my energy
for when we meet again on All Saints Day.
by Mary Harwell Sayler, © 2012, all rights reserved.
The poem, used by permission of the author, was originally published in the autumn 1997 issue of Writer’s Gazette and also in the chapbook, Saint Alive, Now and Then, both of which are now out of print.