Tractor Tracks

~the closest I've come to a spoken word poem~

mmm…a good pen.

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A mile from home

and I need a pen

I’ve got the makings 

of a poem 

and I need a pen

(the earth is Yours and everything in it)—

can You please send me

a pen?

To whole-hearted

prayers You say No

I know, but a half-ass

prayer is still a prayer?

I need a pen Lord

because art matters

in this world of Yours 

where whole-hearted prayer

is sometimes answered

No— see me walking 

at a farm where surely 

a farmer at some point

dropped a pen, Lord

—here I am

walking past the goats 

whose smooth, dappled hides 

in late sunlight call 

for poems— a pencil 

will do, Lord, or just ink 

in this old pen

I brought with me 

forgetting it was dry—

miracle ink like water

from a rock, Lord, ink

like wine for a wedding feast

—there are so many ways 

for You to answer

this, my prayer, 

Lord! So many pens 

in the world that could 

appear—here —without 

too much interference

—rehearsing each line

of this poem a dozen times 

is absurd when all I need 

is a pen

to get it down, good 

lord not a tongue

of fire, not a flaming chariot—

I’m not expecting angels 

at the farm, I need a pen.

Mosquitos gather 

at my ear as I scour 

sandy tractor tracks. 

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NOTES

*This is quite a shift from last week's sonnet, in this Lenten run of sharing older poems of mine. This one's a little bit cheekier, though holds just as much honesty in expressing what my prayers (yours?) sound like. I remember the first time I read this aloud to a group of folks. It was at the Southborough L'Abri, and Mardi Keyes, one of the founders of that branch of L'Abri, laughed so hard all throughout my rhythmic reading, and came up to me afterwards and said, "Anna, I want to see your poems gathered in a book someday." Thank you, Mardi. Here it is.

*I wrote this poem back in 2018 or thereabouts. And here’s the best news— I actually found a pen on that farm that day. I’m not kidding. It had been trampled (by tractors? goats?), was mostly made up of barely-held-together-pen-shards, and worked for me only a little (enough to scribble this idea for a poem down) but it still works today, wrapped in Washi tape! (See below)

*If you were thinking at some point in this poem, Why doesn’t she just use her notes app on her phone?!, I want you to know I hadn’t yet joined the smartphone revolution. It was a sweet time. For years I took long walks without anyone being able to reach me (except the Lord). 

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