Tithe Poem 3/29/26 draft no. 3

 “Donkey Sunday” sermon by Dan Jackson

By Jen Hunt

 

Secure in his man and Godhood

He rode into Jerusalem

A poetic and prophetic way,

On a tricycle, not a tank

 

He’s not hiding it any longer

He’s a king of a different sort

Some hitch their hopes to his title

Some reject the very thought

 

He entered humble, like a child,

But as he stepped into the ring

He sent Walmart tables flying

Proof that more than anything

 

God craved space for us

to talk with him

 

In the cleared courtyard

Will we kneel

Or thumb our noses

Becomes the choice

We’re now pos-ed

 

Secure in his God and manhood

He humbled himself on the cross

To show the way to God

To all of us who are lost.

Tithe Poem 3/22/26, draft no. 2, by Jen Hunt

What are you hiding from me, God?

Why the cleft rock? Why your backside only?

The trauma of the world leads me

To fear the hidden parts of you--

Fear that perhaps there’s a sliver of a cuff of you

That’s vile.

My guilt suspects you of evil,

Yet my guilt is the reason

I must be shielded from your glory,

Lest I perish.

I repent of my fear

And welcome your hand that covers me--

As Jesus’ death has done--

And sets me in this rock to see as much of your glory as I can take--

A glory that forgives my guilt and in forgiving becomes

More glorious still.

Basking in Your compassion and grace, 

I will live in your presence

Pardoned by Jesus’ death in my place

Now, from this crevice

Soon, face to face.

 

Based on Ligon Duncan’s sermon on Exodus 34:5-8

Prayer to the Just Judge, (Luke 18) by Jen Hunt, draft no. 2

Lord, I want to write a poem for my friend

Who lost her son this week

Where one grief has ended, another has

Begun. All the what ifs have turned to if onlys,

The knock of the sheriff, so often feared, came at last.

There will be no more wondering when

The knock will come--

There will be no more despair when

Relapse returns--

The beating on Your chest, feels just as strong,

If less desperate--

Prepare her for this unwanted space

From fearing one child’s death to losing another

With a beautiful trauma between--

Will the Lord’s waves keep crashing?

You appear to be sleeping--

Don’t you care?

Shout, “Peace be Still”! Send your angels!

Anything to lift her from this living hell

Or, at least, lengthen

Her rope so she can draw

from a deeper well.

Show up for her now like You do best,

Is my poem’s sole request.

On the loss of Ellen's adult son, Drew. (Ellen is my spiritual director).

For Dad and Jill (after dad’s ER visit 3.7.26)

 

Praying your recent scare

Gives way to days free of care

Gardening, strolls, chats on the porch

Sweet nothings and so forth.

Third of a Century poem, February 13, Princess Love Boat cruise, draft no. 1

by Jen Hunt

For Graham:

Sometimes you're too much in your head

And you hog too much of the bed

But I am grateful for your sense of direction. 

And that after 33 years

You can still keep an erection. 

We renewed our vows on Feb 14, 2026 during our first cruise, Sun Princess (Love Boat) 

Communion, draft no. 1

 by Jen Hunt

I pinch the cup to hold communion

The Most Holy God and I kiss

My pulse faint as a preborn's heartbeat

moving the crepe paper skin of my wrist

To think my Lord bled

For this

A Titus 3 Citizen, draft no. 2

 by Jen Hunt

Yes, we’re unhinged

Flag’s edges fringed

Fighting those with stars on thars

We’re angry and at war

 

Public enemy number one?

Index finger on my sternum

 

What’s in my heart?

Evil and sin

What’s in God’s heart?

Mercy outpouring

 

Submit to our leaders,

Give Ceasar his due--

But I don’t bleed red, white and blue

I bleed you, Christ

 

the lowly and meek

Christ, who turned the other cheek

Christ, who upturned poser’s tables

Christ, who’ll return to judge our fables

 

 Regenerate this heart of rust

Justify, renew this muss

Your image we have tarnished

Yet eternal hope you’ve lavished

If I’m an heir, the credit’s yours

God, I’m floored.

 

I noticed that this poem was written more with head than heart. I didn’t feel too deeply writing it, so the admission of sin feels somewhat hollow. It doesn’t incorporate the five senses. Oh, well. It’s a first draft. I’m interested to see how it comes into focus, with further contemplation. I'm willing to share with my church's writer's group, to encourage them not to get hung up by perfectionism. 

August in CT, 2025, draft no. 1

 Ancient Essex Weeder shifts

Main Street J Alden and Griswold trips

Mornings as if at a bird sanctuary

Lunches with gourmet BLTs

Lavender Pond and greenhouse shops

Westbrook beach and tag sale stops

River Museum entrance fees waived

(Proving being a docent pays)

Grillo's treat to lobster rolls

So many memories a Connecticut visit holds. 

Arrived, draft no. 2

 You really rolled the carpet out

We felt pampered from the get-go

Flying never felt so posh

From our premier first-class row

Nor could digs be finer

Master bedroom, rose trees, hot tub

Even a walking trail

To scope pinecones and deer hubs

Enjoying piano recitals

Bagpipe and Beach Club mores

Historic adobe house wanderings

Nutcracker shopping spree scores

Porcini and tri tip

Persimmons and Mirth

Creme Brule and Scotch

Lounge wear to before church

Nephews on gym mats

Nieces en pointe

Board Pres whip cracks

Barring nuts from checkpoints

How'd we swing this Pebble vacay

When loaded we're not?

When it comes to family

We hit the jackpot!

Too Tall Paul, draft no. 1

Too tall Paul

Is what he's called

Hangs near the bus stop

By the mall

Little, dark man

Not four feet tall

Sleeps at St. John's

Stands like a wall

I pass him on my way to work--

Sometimes Jesus' frame is small

The Pull, draft no. 2

 My wanter is tarnished

That is a fact

 Couldn't wait to thrift

To find the right strap

Yet shuffled to the Advent service

to honor my King

Lord, teach my heart

To worship greater things.