Oasis Madrid

At Oasis Madrid we believe: “The arts are an essential component of our identity as the Body of Christ, not just an extra thing tacked on to our ministry to make us look cool. Artistic expression is, in this sense, our mandate. To the extent that we are expressing ourselves artistically, we are incarnating Christ.”

In this section you’ll find at least two types of writing: poetry and creative essays/stories.

Here is a list of poems you can read. Click on the links below…

* tomorrow morning (a poem by Troy Cady)
* The Tables (a poem by Troy Cady)
* the new year (a poem by Troy Cady)
* Holidays (a poem by Troy Cady)
* The Shepherd (an Elizabethan sonnet by Troy Cady)
* Leaving (an Italian sonnet by Troy Cady)
* Blue and Gold (a poem by Troy Cady)
* To Pray (a poem by Kelly Wills)
* The Slave (a poem by Kelly Wills)
* A Prayer for Madrid (a poem/prayer by Kelly Wills)

To squint into the sun
until the jagged black outlines of the mountains come into focus
To turn my eyes
from the intense light, only to see it reflected, golden warm,
on a thick bed of pine needles
To hear nothing
but the conversation of birds
the buzzzing of flies
the laughter of children, somewhere out of sight
To make a bed in those pine needles, lean against a tree
and listen…
to the wind
echoing from rock to rock
loud, then soft,
then loud again
To feel it move through my hair and my eyelashes,
over my face
Blending warm and sweet with the sun
and the fresh, earthy smell of the pine needles
To sing to God
and to hear HIM sing back
in color
in smell
in wind
in the conversation of birds
To pray
This is to pray.

I have been a slave.
To performance
To others
To food
To that never ending need for approval.
I have been a slave
But I am not a slave now.
Now, I look out at the desert
The forty years of wandering to cross
and slavery beckons
“Come, rest.
Come back, leave the desert
Your masters are waiting
Come, rest.”
My mouth waters
My head turns back to what was
To the call to rest.
But that rest is death.

In my exodus, God
You are the sea that let me pass
You are the finish line out of slavery
and the beginning of the journey
Cloud and fire
Water upon water
Point of no return.
You are the point of no return
and you are the promised land.
You are present in my exodus.

You are the God who brought me
over and over
out of my egypt
from my masters
I will open my mouth wide
and wait for you to fill it.

You are the sea that let me pass
You are the point of no return
You are the end in sight
You are the beginning of the journey
You are master of my exodus.

I was a slave
But I am not a slave

Make us a church, Jesus.
Build your church.
Your dream.
Your mission.
A church that loves You
passionately, ridiculously, fearlessly

a church that loves Madrid
passionately, ridiculously, fearlessly
a church that loves Madrid’s people

the raging, noisy, young wallking botellones
the ears above aching for quiet
the pushers, shovers, pickpockets
at the rastro
on the metro

the old ladies with fans
the moms pushing designer strollers
the moms carrying one, holding the hand of a string of 2 more

the tattoed, the pierced, the dyed
the stoned
the prostitutes and the men who pay
convinced they’re worth only what they charge, no more
the rest of us who choose not to see

the homeless in tunnels, on benches, on curbs
on stoops, under cardboard, under the free metro newspaper

the too young girls with too short skirts
the boys and men who follow behind
enjoying the view

the students
the parents
the kids

the sleepy club-goers crawling home at 7 a.m.
the goth community
the gay community
the church community
catholic and protestant
the muslims
the gypsies

the ones who throw trash down
the ones who pick it up

the often dirty, always hilly, winding streets
the graffiti artists
panaderias and perfumerias
plazas upon plazas
sangria
tortilla
olives
all on a terraza at 2 a.m.

friends
families
cien pesetas

The Madrid I see, I love
You love more
passionately, ridiculously, fearlessly.

Make us a church
Make us love Madrid.

tomorrow morning

You’ll breathe slowly
in hopes that the seconds
will shuffle

And I’ll pray
hopeful again
knowing that
Eternity is beyond time
and a minute is a year
and touching you is
like meeting God
and each second with you
is enough
is enough
is enough

You’ll lay shiftless
like a child
waiting soundless for birth
under the womb of covers
warm and home

and I imagine
I’ll be steady,
my heart sure,
my legs strong
my head high
all because of you
warm and home

my love

and the kids
will climb into bed
like rock climbers
and we are the boulders
and the safety rope
is his security blanket
unraveled yet trusty

and they will be
silent and half naked
and on vacation

and you’ll open your arms
wide
as if you’re God
embracing the stars

and I’ll shed a tear
because the ground’s throat
cracked
while you were gone
and my heart is in mine

and even though
we’ll be laying side by side
we’ll be one

tomorrow morning

The Tables
by Troy Cady

1. the dining table

In my house stands a table
whose wood bears the imprint
of children and parents;
here lies a fable
of all that is good,
honest,
heartbreaking,

and fine,
impressed on soft pale pine.

You can make out
the free squiggles,
whimsically drawn giggles,
spirals turning dervishly,
sticks dancing
and horses prancing
across the grain.
There is the sun (unclouded)
shining on the flower (never withered),
next to the house (well-weathered)
and soldier lines of grass (neatly trimmed).
And the word MOM or WOW
which mean the same thing
right side up or left end down.

At this table you’ll find,
indented forever,
the question
and quote.
Epiphanies are marked with a long exclamation,
though most phrases end with a full stop, somehow larger still.

At this table,
wishes of happiness
were written
and pencil nibs bit in
the wood,
blessings for father
from the hands of babies,
good health and spiritual wealth.

But, at this table,
there are also The Numbers:
Math problems
whose answers were gained
in pain
(like tooth extractions)
among such distractions
as
singing brothers
and chatting mothers
and cutting, quizzing,
impatient fathers.
(Water bathed the surface
as warm as tears,
the slab now softer still
for sorrow’s sake).

At this table,
notes of forgiveness were penned,
sins confessed,
absolution conferred.
Such marks are fainter,
yet surely form
the varied, subtle contours
of the wood.

Reading these letters in the wood
proves difficult for the seeing.
But the blind understand
by touch.
The sightless
read history in Braille.
They decipher the code with sensitive fingers.
They are the interpreters of the invisible,
yet truly present.
2. The Dining Table

In my house sits a table,
low to the ground, stable,
at which a servant reclined,
to dine,
one last time.

Its wood bears the imprint
of all that is good
and honest
and heartbreaking

and fine, and crimes
impressed on soft pale pine.

At this table sits
God in flesh dancing and prancing
across the grain
while devils spiral, turning dervishes.

At this table sits
the sun (clouded),
its brilliance dimmed
to spare
the fair flower
(now most withered)

At this table you’ll find
the quote and the question.
And shock befriended silence,
as exclamations
became exhalations
and declarations
of sacrifice
became full stops.

Yet at this table,
there is yet wine,
blessings and bread from pierced hands
for the mouths of babes,
good health and spiritual wealth.

But, at this table,
there are also The Numbers:
thirty pieces and
twelve persons
that track sins
and stack faults

and I and he are numbered with the transgressors

(And water bathed my feet
as warm as tears,
my heart no softer still
for sorrow’s sake).

But
at this table,
a note of forgiveness was whispered,
and its sound
wound
its way around
the earth
and my heart
tethering mine to his in
chords of mercy,
forever bound.

And at this table, absolution
precedes confession,
for those who are yet to come
can ever sit and see the
nail bite in the wood
already present,
(Such marks form its
enduring contours)

Before a curse is on my lips
and lust is in my heart
grace adorns this feast
and I am hungry and blind.

But the sightless understand by touch.
They read his story with sensitive fingers.
They are the interpreters of the invisible,
yet truly present.

Reading the wood
proves difficult for the seeing and sated.

Make me hungry and blind.

the new year
by troy cady

the new year,
limpid and limping,
straggled in disheveled,
packing illness,
coughing like
only intermittent firecrackers
cast surreptitiously from the balcony

i saw the odd roman candle lit
on the smoky street,
(the city clouded in smog,
the ground more brown than green)
but only as if from a passing side view

and then friends came and went,
the girls recovered from sickness,
the little finn returned to her homeland
after solving one last puzzle

and my Friend,
our Friend,
suddenly passing by january six,
like an epiphany,

and beforeyouknowit we see,
and she sees,
like an epiphany

the coughing is gone now
and

she

can

breath

steady

enough

to swallow the air
and gasp—AHA!

all signs may point otherwise
but this is a year of hope

i can feel it

light a candle

Holidays
by Troy Cady

Yesterday
we painted
our textured wall
together
a stronger
color;
brighter blood,
carefully trimming
and boldly rolling.

And today
you and we are
unfaded
solid.

Yesterday was
Thanksgiving
and tomorrow comes Advent
and you are in between.

Yesterday I gave thanks for you,
and feasted on the passing of
a hard winter
and the coming of
a harvest singer.
And you have fed me.

And tomorrow I’ll remember once again
that you are God’s gift,
sent to save me;
a star to guide me;
and I am a shepherd,
leaping in fits
and singing off-key
at having found and first
caught sight of you.

And, yes,
this is why your birthday
falls on or between
thanks
and
giving.

Because, yes,
the day you came into this world
was a holiday.

In fact, you may have been
conceived
on Valentines Day,
about nine months earlier.

I would not doubt it,
since, in you,
I see love
and red
and heart.

And so it makes sense that
yesterday
we covered our
contoured life
fresher
with crimson
and today
we sit in front of
a mile wide smile.

I welcome
this new day,
this holiday,
this birth
day,
but I cannot give
anything,
because
you are the gift.

The Shepherd
by Troy Cady

He did not roam in pastures green, but brown
and burnt terrain. He slept with stones, alone
and dry; scarred head, blood drawn; eyes drown
for want of tears for which he would atone.

And shorn, cut cold, his clothes stripped off, apiece,
askew. The cursing wind clawed at his skin.
Once clean, now soiled, his faded, thick, grayed fleece,
divided thieves and greed. And bore their sin.

And yet his voice moans low, yet strong, and bleats
and pleads and calls, “Forgive!”. And feet, now hard,
tread soft on sharp, chipped rocks. His heart still beats
yet soon will cease. His soul—in hell—is charred.

Though I can see how God became a man,
I wonder why the shepherd was the lamb.

Leaving
by Troy Cady

And he recalls those days of limp wet leaves,
of walks in rain and talks beyond the why’s
of friends. She placed her small soft hand in lies
and stroked the pain enclosed and clenched; he grieved,
chest taut and tense till now, and found relief
in sobs. Her mouth kept still. And warm damp sighs,
pale skin, lithe heart, held gaze, brave soul, and time
had eased his fears to sleep with fresh wet heaves.

Ash trees let go of torn, spent leaves. They held
before through seasons that had always fall
or winter chill, but now astir, they blew
from wind that once was ire. Air cooled, they fell
by cloud and mist and droplets pure. Her call
he heard. Like limp wet leaves, he dropped, then flew.