Accapella Poems

take a look at some renditions of poems that appear in A Capella.

#11 Hears my heart, Lord                                                                                                      By Natasha Weisenbeck

A change in carpet,

a change in canvas bound song

follow my change in hook to hang my coat.

Congregation, Arise.

Arise the hymnal,

Arise in song.

these rough hands with rougher voices to hold the tune,

I am immune.

But here I find no need to grit my ear; 

distance from droning, now I here.

Arise in blue hymnal

Arise in old song.

Tune my heart to sing thy grace.

Are these the hands meant to play the senses of those torn from home?

Let thy grace now, like a feather,

Lift my wondering heart to thee.

Across a campus of inky trees I hear two things:

Prone to wander, Lord I feel it,

I hear,

Let me go Home.

Have I come home to a place I never knew?

Am I prone to leave the God I love?

Prone to search through borrowed rooms and well-crafted doors

Made by the hands

Of Mennonites?

You are not here, Oh Lord;

not in the crevices I seek

for you are not hiding.

Love, Arise.

Arise in blue hymnal,

Arise in old song,

in hearts of Anabaptist

who only call you

Home.

#8 A day's work.                                                                                                                           By Natasha Weisenbeck

Though we are not farmers,
sawdust in our nostrils made our snot thick enough to blow.

The smell of those flecks—the smell of wood-- filled our lungs for work,

Hammering galvanized nails and thumbnails in one fell

just to rip and bend and hammer the same iron into other beams.

Our sweat was mother’s cool tea, trickling from our throats to our brows, to our backs.

There were generators coughing gas clouds to yell over

And ladders to wobble on

Before we could hop into the solid Ford to drink spaghetti pots full of mother’s life-giving liquid

again.                                                                                                                                                   

Not till there was enough plaster on my shoulders

Not till there were enough shavings on dad’s nose

Till there were enough mistakes made to make us think of giving up

Not till then would he awake the faithful truck with a gastric sneeze at the turn of the key

Not till then would he tell me to shift the old gears into drive.

The sun slants as we amble through the back door,

telling more stories of gore than glory,

learning to laugh at mishaps that chaffed

our knuckles and took our buckles

right off of our belts.

And mother would serve us --scraped arms and sweaty backs-- splattered, messy children and father–

she scooped nourishment

onto our plate.

It was those days of work

that truly brought

Rest.

#4 What I learned from my Moldavian after a poem by Julia Kasdorf               By Natasha Weisenbeck

I learned from “my Moldavian”

how to bike past buggies and Volkswagens on painted streets

to get to where you are going before November nights veil your way home.

I learned from her, “my Moldavian,”

how to romp through leaves with tiny shoes your mother bought,

manufactured in the color you hate,

wearing them anyways

the path tred by them closing distance of oceans between you and your provider.

I learned that photography is one part technique

one part talent

and three parts taking off the cap.

That cinnabon coffee erases the effect

of a night spent

glaring at the computer,

papers and SNL on the screen.

I learned that Americans are stupid because we think we have something to say

without thinking instead

that we should listen

and let God talk.

I learned from “my Moldavian,”

My beautiful Moldavian,

That watching your step keeps you from tripping backwards

and hiding

and lashing out

to push people away are even better means of protection.

I learned you don’t have to be happy with yourself

To clasp the tear dripped hands of a friend

In prayer

In encouragement.

I learned strength is the spiritual gift of necessity.

I learned being there

to laugh

about dark haired and blued men who don’t exist who you’ll marry in 15 years’ time

is the most important thing in friendship,

Listening second,

Offering help, third.

I learned waking up is harder when there’s no one to pull off the covers

so you can grab them and shout, “5 more minutes!”

I learned, “my Moldavian”

it is harder to concede to being loved

than to give love.