Pentecost

Like a bell it rings,
The hour has come.
We heard it first in Cana,
It might have been a distant knolling
But it sounded only once.
We hardly noticed its toll
Over the merriment of his prank.
“You numbskull!” the maitre d’ whispered,
“You served the rot gut first,
and saved the best for last!”
We might have laughed
But no one titters when the Gospels are read.
And was that a bell knelling in the distance,
As he said, “My hour has not yet come?”

No one laid a hand on him when
the soldiers came.
His hour had not yet come,
But the hour would come to pass
from this world to the Father
For he loved his own in the world
And he loved them to the end.

The hour sounds closer now,
Ominous, inexorable,
Ordained from olden time.
We know that sound
As if we’ve always known
The hour must come.
The hour has come
Give glory to your son.
Who would ask a friend
To greet such an hour?
Who would trust
A Deity who leads by tolling bells?

How sad its sounding in their ears –
To the Witness and the Mother --
As he takes her to his home.

But now the bells ring
As the hours sing
And we’re scandalously drunk.
He has made our bitter sweet,
Our joy complete;
And our tears are lovely drink.

Sestina for Low Sunday

Well, I’m sorry; it’s true. We took to our heels
and ran like scared rabbits. Rumors
said they were looking for us so we hid.
What would you do? We were scared stiff, frightened
half out of our wits. And he hadn’t a ghost
after his arrest. Enemies appeared

everywhere, it seemed to us. They appeared
as curious children or idle men. Heels
in the streets chased us like tormented ghosts,
like wind-blown scraps of paper to this room.
Remember the room; the Supper? Still frightened,
we trusted women to feed us. They could hide

in their veils but we could show neither hide
nor hair of ourselves. We heard of appearances
of dead people. The city was frightened.
What did it mean? There is no healing
From death. We sat and stared, ruminating
Until Sunday afternoon when a ghost --

what else could it be but a ghost?
-- jumped up before us; everyone shied
like caged birds to one corner of the room;
and he glowed with every appearance
of good health and happiness, his wounds healed
though they gaped like open mouths. “Frightening!”

that’s all I can say. And we were frightened.
And then he smiled and spoke to us, the ghost,
I mean, spoke to us and something like healing
came over us, and there was no need to hide
anymore. Just like that. And the room
with his breath smelled wholesome. Holy! He appeared --

It was Jesus, you see. He appeared,
and he wasn’t at all dead. “Don’t be frightened.”
(Easy for him to say.) Then the rumors
came back to us. The stories of ghosts
walking in daylight, the soldiers hiding
as the sun rose, and all the people healed

Trust me, the Man heals; the rumors are true;
No more hiding for me, nor being frightened;
Not since the ghost, the holy one, appeared.

Palm Sunday

Palm Sunday

Aloft in the blue sky morning a solitary crow
circled idly overhead on that March
day like a bewildered palmer.
The soft, spring weather lent
the Sabbath dawn expectancy. A gusty wind
beneath his soaring wings twisted

the arcs of his errant path. Beneath the bird’s twisted
meandering a raucous, belligerent cockcrow
sounded through the streets that wind
the city, itself a dreadful, long disputed march
of earth and sky, saints and sinners. The walls’ benevolent
mass greeted chanting palmers

who finished their pilgrimage and palmed
the ancient stones. Their twisted
braids blessed the holy ground. The raven, hanging indolent,
ignored below but eyed by circling crows
from Beersheba to Dan, heard a sudden marching
sound of drums and screeling winds

announce a coming day whose blasting winds
would shatter stony walls, yet leave the bruiséd palm
unharmed, fresh and green. An eager mob marched
from the city through the open gates, their twisted 
faces grinning. Despite the humble ass and foal they crowed
at Herod’s pikes and Roman spears, and lent

their coats and tunics to the dirty streets, for even laws relent
when a populace hears a divine renewing wind
driving under gates like a crowbar.
Maddened authorities emptied money bags in open palms.
Suddenly reborn as criminals they twisted
schemes, and called for protest marches

to halt the invader’s coming. But the ruthless march
persisted as hosannas sounded, crowds clamored and the silent  
mare and foal advanced. Dust devils danced and twisted
on dung-grimy streets, and tongues of stone sang as the wind
stirred the feathered ferns and spiny palms,
and overhead appeared a murder of crows. 

On this Palm Sunday the twisted crown
And black crows hail our solemn Lent,
as at our backs a mighty wind propels us into march.

Holy Week, 1993

I holy weeked in a hospital bed
And saw the services
From below the surface of my suffering
On a TV screen.
I wondered at those men
Who walked on the dry land of comfort,
Who sang songs
And read readings
And kissed crosses,
But could not speak to me
Beneath the surface of my suffering.
They seemed like men
On an island
-- or a continent –
in the middle of a continent --
far from the vast waters of pain
that gird our world – that washed over me.

Our Earth, they say, should be called Water
And our lives should be called Pain.
But we spend most of our lives
On the dry land of comfort
Hardly aware of those who
Lie beneath the surface of their suffering
And gaze on us with glassy eyes.

John 8: 58-59

You spoke a Name which no one dares to speak
And as we reached for stones, you vanished
Into the temple precincts; and I am banished
Now. What word, what sign ever so oblique
Enthuses men with blazing eyes and cheeks
To rise stupidly amazed before a feverish
Mob enthralled? They listen with intensely anguished
Pleasure, as if the arid sky should leak
And overflow with holy rain. In pain
I wonder what your disappearance means.
Have you, by God’s own kindness, broke the chain
Our father Cain imposed on us? The scenes
Of empty tombs and walking dead remain.
They say you've cancelled all the ancient liens.

A Moment Passes by with Every Breath

A moment passes by with every breath
And the future, channeled through this gap of now
Gives way to a backlog of opportunities
Lost, never reclaimed or rediscovered
Even as an infinity of futurities unimaginable
Eagerly pile up behind this narrow strait.

Dear Aging Heart, we have walked an older street
With anguished time forgot and labored breath
Navigating cycles of years with imagined
Pleasures that seemed so real then, but now
They reel like errant importunities.
Can memories unlimited discover

In rude stories unrued, undiscovered
Airs or gusts of goodness? The straight
Path on which I set out despite the portents
Was fair enough, I think; and yet I breathe
Worrisome belabored stories and I know
That no one – or few – can imagine

The troubles I have caused. But doesn’t Imagination
Work with Grace and Bliss to cover
The past in future glory? And the now
Has a mystic, magic madness that straightens
Twisted, tortured traumas until their breath
Comes easily and their importance

Resounds like blessed opportunities.
No one on this side of the grave imagines
The endless openings that curl and wreath
Even yet around each unrecovered
Moment of the past. An amazing now,
Bending under futures’ pressures straightens

And heals even that most regretted traitor’s
Kiss. It harrows hell and finds unfortunates
Who could not imagine or dream a knowing
Happiness. Their lives lost and unmanaged,
Unremembered shall be recovered
And they will rise up breathing.

Laboratory Rats

These little guys are born to search about
In affluent mansions and filthy shacks
As bitter thoughts rehearsed shut blessings out.
They breed and thrive in crevices and cracks

From affluent mansions to filthy shacks
Their feverish claws and black snouts fierce
They breed and thrive in crevices and cracks,
Through cement walls and wooden floors they pierce

Their feverish claws and black snouts fierce
As angry notions set afire the past
Through cement walls and wooden floors they pierce,
These sordid thoughts that leave my soul aghast

As angry notions set afire the past
The rats they run these mazes in their dreams
Like sordid thoughts that leave my soul aghast
They ruminate on narrow, tortured seams

The rats they run these mazes in their dreams
Commit to memory the twisted scene
And ruminate on narrow, tortured seams
Of lessons hard, resentful, bitter, mean

Commit to memory the twisted scene
Resuming days with angers freshly armed
Of lessons hard, resentful, bitter, mean
And slights, insults, and tender feelings harmed

Resuming days with angers freshly armed
Like rats who memorize in sleep the torrid
Slights, insults, and tender feelings harmed
And Satan from his tortured Sheol is horrid

Like rats I memorize in sleep the torrid
Bitter cup spills through my blood and speech
And Satan from his tortured Sheol is horrid
While human pleasures fading out of reach

The bitter cup flows through my blood and speech
Its stench like putrid odors endless reek
And human pleasures fading out of reach
Until the madness reaches such a peak

Its stench like putrid odors endless reek
And something breaks, a snap within unheard
The gnawing madness reaches such a peak
Their midnight scuffling speaks a two-edged word

And something breaks, a snap within now heard
That even rats can find a better path
Their midnight scuffling speaks a two-edged word
“Let not the sun go down upon your wrath”

And even rats have found a better path
As ancient lessons echo from the deep
“Let not the sun go down upon your wrath”
For dreaming animals relearn in sleep

As ancient lessons echo from the deep
Synapses firing softly through the night
For dreaming animals relearn in sleep
And morning finds them racing with delight

Synapses firing softly through the night
Beloved dark and labyrinthine lanes
And morning finds them racing with delight
Where sunless dark and brilliance never wane

They love the dark and labyrinthine lanes
And lead me from the world of my disgrace –
Where sunless dark and brilliance never wane
In knowledge of their simple earth-bound place.

They lead me from the world of my disgrace –
My unforgotten misbegotten feuds --
By knowledge of their simpler, earth bound grace
I’ve settled down where gentle kindness broods

Dismissing all my misbegotten feuds
For bitter thoughts rehearsed shut blessings out
And loveliness with gentle kindness broods.
These little guys were born to search this out.

Pantoum

I’ll always take delight
In staying one place not saying goodbye
The cords of my heart are tight
You see, when I go I leave with a sigh

In leaving a place and saying goodbye
A harvest of anger insults
You see, when I go I leave with a sigh
With a scathing list of faults

A harvest of anger insults
The green reminiscence of long ago
With a scathing list of faults
Like bluebottle flies in garbage grow

The green reminiscence of long ago
Somewhere fresh with life
Like bluebottle flies in garbage grow
On the sickly edge of strife

Somewhere fresh with life
Simmers a world of homely dreams
On the prickly edge of strife
A promised land of honeyed streams

Simmers a world of homely dreams
The chords of my heart are light
A promised land of honeyed streams
I’ll always take delight

A Wreath Poem

The leafless black bole oak trees standing mute
Their stand before the winter blast defiant done,
Await the blast of new spring life from chthonic roots
That spring from carboned, billion-layered life.
Their layered leaves have fed the hungry earth
As earthworms plowed the humus underground
And now the ground is rising up in wonder
To wonder-strike the eye and air with leaf.