Finger prints



You were imprinted on my fingertips

written as dim memory

in line and skin


I kept your image at arms length

or balled it into a fist

A turning away

from the violence

As if there is no real death in ascending?


As a child

it is true

I was taught to expect some relationship

while being impressed into the feverish tribe

of Jesus watching


Before me

pale lipped men

created tension

bells ringing


with a tiny chaste taste


Who clothed me

in this rag tag skin of living words?

Held hostage



I fall pummeled and wading

in the waves of this unexpected birthing

Free now to love you simply as a man


A man of flesh and bread and wine

who once lived to turn the world.



Artist: Caravaggio


19 responses

  1. It feels like a bit of a dialogue between our childhoods these past weeks or days. I’m eleven years old sitting on the steps of the altar at Avila Centre. On weekends a few of us would go to the convent with our 60’s spirited Sister Sharon… trying to get to the bottom of things.

    Liked by 3 people

  2. You take me on a rich caravan with each poem Jana. Thank you. No fast food versifying from your pen! There’s several days of eating here, a feast of unfurling. Following the warp and woof of your delicious words I stumble and trip over my own mixed metaphors…Well, what would JC do? Him not me 😉

    Liked by 1 person

    • Good morning Paul. What a wonderful question! Thank you. The distillation of childhood experience into maturity covers such a broad plane of discovery and renewal, your question is enticing to the poet in me but daunting otherwise. I attended ten years of Catholic school so this imprint is indelible and has given me a wide window into exploring both the directives of collective culture and how I am informed by my own personal spirituality. But just for the fun of it, let’s see what first comes to mind….

      St Francis
      being transported by ceremony
      daily devotion

      I think these must be the highlights….!

      Liked by 1 person

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