Sunday, August 2, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
Seven Glorious Mysteries
Resurrection
A singularity of silence speaks
astonishing in strength, exuberant
and riant till the distant morning peaks
are smiling with a sudden joke; and buoyant
fiery clouds are cheery, cherry red.
They peel away the brooding mourning sky
to show the throne of majesty outspread,
nor do the waters of the rivers shy
to splash and spray their joy this festive day.
Beyond all hope, beyond our fantasies
beyond the fondest force that might display
some careless acts of generosity
the one who suffered death now lives again;
behold the empty tomb where he has been.
The Ascension
Behold the empty tomb where he has been,
and notice, if you will, the vacant sky;
you need not stand there looking up, for when
he comes again you’ll know it. By the by,
get moving now. Go up into the town
and breathe, just breathe. You understand
the dignity which wore a briar crown
now shepherds all the earth, and his command
is gentle. Do not be afraid. So good
is God. Retreat into the upper room,
your holy cenacle and wait. You should
prefer your ignorance, and not assume
you know what you must do. There’ll come a day
when -- unexpectedly -- you see your way.
Pentecost
When -- unexpectedly -- you see your way,
your heart has found its rhythm and your breath
can pause and linger with each moment of the day,
when life is neither long nor short, and death
no longer frightens or dismays, you find
an openness to whatever comes.
Still reeling at events, they could not pine
for yesterday, but gathered all the crumbs
of memories and miracles to save
them for they knew not what. The air
was still around them, silence reigned as waves
of longing ebbed and flowed; and then their prayer
became a Spirit filled with brilliant fire
enflaming all the earth with God’s desire.
The Assumption of
his mother spent her life in
receiving those who wanted to retire
in quiet for awhile. They had to be
alone with her whose early willingness
to hear the word of God and keep it safe
had borne such fruit. In
a spirit wild, whose searing often chafed
the human heart. She made him one of us,
and in her house the wildest spirits turned
to gentleness. The sacred woman’s just
reward would not await her son’s return;
for by the Lord’s command and saints’ advice
the angels raptured her to paradise.
The Coronation of
The angels rapture her to paradise,
and fire with air and watered earth atone;
the universe that saw her pay the price
now stands in awe before her starry throne.
God’s sacrifice of
a mortal human complement, someone
who was not God yet utterly inspired
to give herself and more, her first born son.
The shackled earth once deeply mired in sin
now echoes saints and angel harmony,
it sings of her whose role as heroine
gave comfort to divine nativity.
So her apotheosis now complete,
The winds shall separate the chaff from wheat.
Judgment
The winds shall separate the chaff from wheat
as trumpets sound the coming of the Day.
The meek and poor of earth will stand to greet
The victor with his crown of thorns. They’ll say
“We shared our gifts with him, the few we had,
our anxious faith, and soiled love, our tremb-
ing hope, the stored up wealth of sad
long years. We brought them all to
and
appearing to us now? The wealthy too
will hail his justice as his broken mace
adjudicates atoning peace. Renewed
in all her cycling seasons Earth shall kiss
in ecstasy the consort of her bliss.
Bliss
In ecstasy the consort of her bliss
delights to draw his love. Their plunging falls
abandoned into grace and deeper grace
as each surrenders all control. She calls
him to behold her blemished purity
and he bedazzles her with open wounds.
They gleam like jewels. An endless treasury
From insects small to galaxies festooned
with radiance astonishes the soul;
and then exhausted, she withdraws to find
her body’s natural rhythms healed and whole.
Her nights and days, her gifts of heart and mind
are all restored. And when for more she seeks
A singularity of silence speaks.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Seven Sorrowful Mysteries
A singularity of silence speaks
within the settled hush of graveside terror.
The earth, still thirsting Abel’s blood reeks
of chthonic crimes now closing round, and icy air
of evening grapples him in panic’s brace.
The man, the body’s man perspiring clings
to respiration, its strength and grace,
its confidence and hope that brings
tomorrow’s dawn. Tonight he gives his breath
to prayer in spastic confidence and bides
remaining hours. Before the certain death
arrives, the passion feeds and faith provides
assurance. Courage succors fainting flesh
as magistrates prepare their flailing thresh.
THE TRIALS OF JESUS
As magistrates prepare their flailing thresh
they must observe the niceties of law.
The man entangled deep in common mesh
of family, neighbors, friends must now withdraw
beyond all human ken. He should despise
and be despised, then hanged beyond the reach
of mortal sympathy, nor should the eyes
of God discover in his plight a breach
between his guilt and shame. His impotence,
bewilderment, and pain will disconnect
all ties to earth. His sentence represents
our innocence, his agony perfects
the letter and the spirit of our rule.
A cross will make a pendant for this jewel.
THE SCOURGING OF JESUS
“A cross will make a pendant for this jewel.”
Although the treatment of the man is rough --
their binding, shoving, slaps and kicks are cruel --
his mute devotion silently rebuffs
each insult as it lands. But iron chains
flay his flesh, exposing vital parts
to fecal waste and fetid city lanes.
Their holocaust of violence resorts
to pranks, and every jape becomes a prayer
as majesty endures insult and rape --
humiliation finally must prepare
a man for death. His naked soul agape
before their vile abuse, bereft of God,
they lay upon his arm an iron rod.
JESUS IS CROWNED WITH THORNS
They lay upon his arm an iron rod
then fashion from a nearby tree a crown
of thorns. They roar approval at his nod
and bow their heads to hail their Jewish clown.
The soldiers place him like a king on Zion’s hill
with criminals for courtiers either side
and shouts of mocking ribaldry until
their eyes are streaming tears as if they cried.
A kind of bestial instinct worships him,
an irony beyond insane caprice,
that recognize in helplessness the grim
authority of beauty. At last their mocking ceased.
They stand him on his feet and lead him out
that he with cross and blood might blaze the route.
JESUS CARRIES HIS CROSS
That he with cross and blood might blaze a route
the son of Isaac goes to Calvary.
He can't afford the luxury of doubt
nor draw his eyes away from certainty.
He does not cringe before the crowded lanes
nor search for mercy where no mercy lies.
Abandoned by his own, his gaze remains
beyond that fatal place where goodness dies.
The sky that spoke so kindly gives no sign
of comfort, earth is silent, stolid, mute
as inbred madness growing still assigns
to him all wretchedness without refute.
Like Abram’s son ascending Mount Mariah,
he bears the wooden burden of pariah.
JESUS MEETS HIS SORROWING MOTHER
He bears with wood the burden of pariah,
a fearful gift received so long ago,
before his birth, a fated Jeremiah
called to expiate a history of woe.
So vindication scalds and frenzied temp-
est sweeps the same Jerusalem as mobs
exact again their angry punishment.
The frightened Maccabean widow sobs
and yet she won’t relent. Her son is not
the first to die for keeping faith nor will
he be the last. Her God has sought
her only child, a Christ of iron will,
a gift atoning sin and all its weight,
a gift within a holocaust of hate.
JESUS DIES ON THE CROSS
A gift within a holocaust of hate,
without connection to the earth but shoved
aloft until the city’s wrath abates;
of heavens too despised, a gift unloved,
alone, an offering of self, he will
remain in agony and silent calm.
His body's twisted dance goes on until
his every breath expels a tortured psalm,
an anguished prayer incarnate of his bowels.
And yet his life is not a broken pledge,
for by his shattered gift all sacred vows
are made complete; and through a sacrilege
of piety, insanity of Greeks,
A singularity of silence speaks.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Seven Luminous Mysteries
Seven Luminous Mysteries
A singularity of silence speaks
above complexity, a voice abrupt
startles locust eating crowds in muddy creeks.
It hails a man’s emergent birth, erupt-
ing suddenly from sin-drenched Jordan’s reek.
Who born was blameless now must be corrupt
with every guilt for he has come to seek
the damned. By guilelessness he will disrupt
deceiving systems; cleanse with his own blood
the face of earth, and lead by sweet allure
the lost to heaven’s bliss. Now from the flood
this baptized man is born, his mission sure:
that he should render from the worthless mud
the useful water, lowly, prized and pure.
The useful water, lowly, prized and pure
awaits a moment no one might suppose.
Neglected like a quivered bolt obscure,
it cleanses faces, hands, utensils, bowls
to keep the arcane rites. It must demur
address of treacherous or sinful woes
that desecrate, that blood alone can cure.
At last an unknown wedding guest bestows
upon the jars a word, a secret sign.
His mother sees but whispers nothing more
than “Listen closely, follow his design.”
“Draw some out. There’s plenty more in store,”
he says, “and all shall drink the finest wine.
Today’s the day for unsurpassed accord.”
Today’s the day for unsurpassed accord;
repent, believe the news, it starts today.
Disturbing people, occupied and bored
the shouting healer raced from burg to bay
he sang the news that thrilled the stricken horde.
They came because he brought a sudden ray
of hope where righteousness could not afford
assurance even for the dead. They laid
the sick and crippled, feeble, deaf and blind
beneath his voice, before his eyes, within
his reach; he cured them all. He’d come to find
the ones his father loved, and to begin
a new regime of mercy, to unbind
the shackled earth, so deeply mired in sin.
The shackled earth, so deeply mired in sin,
lay comatose and helpless before his sad-
dened eyes. Where does salvation start when
so little time remains? His early glad
beginnings paled before the demon’s win-
ning hand. The healed will die, the muddled mad
will slip into insanity again.
Were all his works, his signs and wonders, dead?
Then Silence whispered to his only son;
and gentle Moses spoke of God’s command;
Elijah stood beside him like the sun;
and beauty inundated all the land.
Redemption, mercy, healing would be won
with bayoneted heart and tortured hands.
…with bayoneted heart and tortured hands?
His body trembles as his spirit soars.
Whatever happens, fondness for his friends
will shape his prayer within his Father’s court.
And that surpasses bounds as every man’s
concern impales his heart, a stabbing sword
of brotherly affection. When Martha sends
him news – the death of Lazarus -- the word
invites his final test. He must go down
to save a life by giving one. The hour
has come. His sullen enemies abound
in Bethany, already they have scoured
the neighborhood to run him to the ground
as silence beckons him to Zion's tower.
As silence beckons him to Zion’s tower
the masses find relief in something true;
they open wide the narrow gate to shower
hosannas down upon his head, and “You
are seated on Israel’s praise, your bower
is silver and the finest gold.” But few
can dare imagine that a final hour
of fearful blessing looms, for something new
will smash even mantic madman rants;
the wicked with the righteous will collude
inspiring deadly blooms where desert plants
have failed. They cease their prehistoric feud
with precious harmonies and soulful cants.
For peace must pitch his tent with Adam’s brood.
For Peace must pitch his tent with Adam’s brood
apparently to settle old accounts;
and some believe his pleasure will include
a pound of flesh for every precious ounce
of blood was spilt. God’s foolishness eludes
more clever schemes, they always pounce
on tenderness. Their vanities preclude
enormity that steps beyond all bounds.
So when he shares a meal of honest bread
and common wine, a homely rite of meek
simplicity, and comrades plunge ahead,
consuming unawares the flesh that seeks
atonement for the living and the dead,
A singularity of silence speaks.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Seven Joyful Mysteries
in emptiness of time, creates a void
of wholesome longing, a need which ever seeks
to know its source. It molds a gynaecoid
receptacle worthy of itself,
so deep as to unbearable, so kind
as to commodious, a deepless well
in which infinity of good can find
untainted welcome formed by human need.
Before her breathing or the beating of her heart,
before the history of sin can plant its seed
a silent movement flowing through unchart-
ed depths selects this girl to know and sing
of all the prayers of every living thing.
THE ANNUNCIATION
Of all the prayers of every living thing
from Adam’s sob to Zechariah’s song
the sighing of the breaking morning’s breeze
and midnight’s weeping of a murdered wrong,
alone upon the earth her prayer was heard.
For every other plea pled for itself
and begged of God a sympathetic word
a ransom, healing or sufficient wealth.
But she alone prayed thy kingdom come
and let my people go her daily prayer.
Her constant watch and heartbeat’s steady drum,
an irresistibly seductive peer-
ing to the reaches of infinity:
enticed thy grace to her fecundity.
Enticed, thy grace to her fecundity
discovered unexpected mother lodes
of courage in this woman-child. With glee
she braved the roads and disapproving scolds,
exploring fearlessly the angel’s bond.
She meant to witness in her cousin’s room
the wind-blown benefit so far beyond
ancestral hopes, now seen in barren womb.
As ancient Betty hailed the queen of light
beneath the searching eyes of Roman rod
and Mary sang the failure of the night,
the solstice child saluted solstice God.
No power of earth supposed what these four knew,
the Providence that loves the least is true.
The Providence that loves the least is true
especially to dwellers by the edge
where goods are scarce and services are few.
They wait upon the heads of state who pledge
to honor every sacrifice the poor
can make to keep the powerful in might;
but in their hearts they know they must endure
the claims of arrogance until the night
sky splits apart and angels sing of joy
beyond imagining. When heaven’s splend-
or floods the darkened plain and baby boy
lies swaddled in a cote they will attend
the one whose holy name, Messiah-Lord,
will calm discord and shatter every sword.
when forty days have passed, and Mary brings
her first-born to the temple? Will doddering hoard
of creeds dissolve and welcome infant things
to purify a world of stony hearts?
An ancient seer snatched the infant from
the maid amazed and wept, “My life departs,
O Holy God, and now I must succumb
before the one whose coming was foretold.”
The widowed prophet Anna came upon
the company and saw her life unfold.
They sang to Zion’s anawim this song,
As Eli welcomed Hannah’s Samuél,
We bless thee God and greet Emmanuél.
We bless thee God and greet Emmanuél
Mysterious strangers whisper to the child.
The evening gloom hears joyous sobs wel-
ling up, but now they speak of rumors wild
that sweep Jerusalem, and hearings with
the priests and Levites and King Herod's court,
how churlish mobs recall the ancient myth
of God's Messiah. Heeding their report,
and troubled by the fatal scent of myrrh
portending death to Rachel’s little ones,
Joseph startles up the night with her
his fainting wife and nursing babe; he runs
for Africa. But angels overhead
his every step protect where he is led.
His every step protect where he is led,
but even angels marvel at his ways.
The joy of social gathering, he’ll shed
companionship to walk off in a daze
of absent-minded thoughtfulness; and yet
attentive, often wrapped in wonder at
the flight of bugs, the squirm of worms, the fret
of neighbors for their kin. In awe he sat
with elders, asking of God’s word, as he
the Word Made Flesh, opened visions for
their eyes. This twelve-years boy can see
the deep dimensions of the law and soar
beyond the fated year of seventy weeks --
A singularity of silence speaks.
Friday, March 7, 2008
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.
