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.

When she looked at me

When she looked at me I thought she turned her head.
It was the slightest twist, a look of vague surprise.
She caught my eye, perhaps I caught her glance
At me. Another hour the moment would pass
As all moments pass into that River Lethe
As if they never happened.

Really nothing in that silent gym had happened.
I saw her slender form, her blue eyes, and flaxen head
Of hair. I noticed my pleasure in surprise
As if I might yet be worth a second glance.
It might be fun to talk with her, to pass
Some time by the River Lethe.

I wish I could drink from that River Lethe
And forget some things that happened
Long ago. I would turn my life and head
Another direction. I might surprise
Myself with contentment. There’d be no fiery glance
To throw me into confusion. I could pass

My life on quiet gentle trails, explore a safer pass
Through lower mountain gaps and sip from Lethe
Streams both up and down. Whatever happened
Would not be so important. I’d let a wiser head
Than mine deal with the occasional surprise.
I might pause only in the forest clearings to glance

With satisfaction on my life. Once a casual glance
Through a restaurant window – I often eat alone to pass
The time -- sent me plunging for the River Lethe.
A one-time lover, absently staring through the pane, happened
To walk by as I raised my head.
We shared a painful start, a shocked surprise.

In that brief moment of mutual, unwanted surprise
I saw her lovely, familiar face transformed from empty glance
To angry fear. In that same instant my quiet passing
of an evening meal, left me thirsty for the waters of the Lethe,
Suddenly deeply shaken and scared, as if it happened
Over and over again, a curse upon my head.

I’ll turn my head, I’ll be surprised;

I’ll steal a glance as you pass by,

And drown us both in Lethe’s stream, as if we never happened. 

No Man's Land

He’s lost to us he’ll not come home
The church your friends we’re here for you
His family prays in the waiting room.

We hear your cries they’re killing us
Death’s placid stare across the line
He’s lost to us he’ll not come home

Our trenches dug, our lines of prayer
We’ll not back off, our God is good
His family prays in the waiting room.

You’ve got the best care in the world
They won’t surrender you to death
He’s lost to us he’ll not come home

It’s all we do to stay this close
We sanitize each thing we touch
His family prays in the waiting room.

There is no life in the DMZ
And ICU survives on hope
He’s lost to us he’ll not come home
His family prays in the waiting room.

Paperweight Sonnets

1)
I walked along a northern shore and found
A pebble in my hands. This solid rock
Must weather waves and crushing ice that shock
Its razored unrelenting ridges round
Until uncalloused hands caress it. Worth
No more than sentiment, a paperweight,
It idles on my desk; it's likely fate,
To settle as my sediment to earth.
Once formed within a molten core, condensed,
And broken from nomadic mountain stone,
Its timeless, reckless tale it cannot own.
It knows no self. My sentience breaks against
Its surface, slaps and churns, but can’t displace
A bit of mica from its scabrous face.


2)
My desk without its usual piled debris
Reveals a wide expanse of wood, and one
Remaining paperweight. A falling ton
Of shattered granite, milled and ground-down
scree,
Has left this solitary boulder shard
Ensconced upon my desk, like Hector’s stalled
Attack upon Atrides’ naval wall.
Defying time or tempering; it’s hard
Resistance challenges the polished plane
Of lacquered wood. So easy to remove,
But grim, it glowers and would cut a groove
To anchor itself there. It threatens pain
Upon the flesh that one time felt its sting
In ancient battle from a rawhide sling.

3)
The diamond on her finger wakened hope
That slumbered in this paperweight of mine.
This mongrel rock has no distinction fine
But if there were a prospect, might elope
With solitaire of higher social caste.
It bears within its variegated line
Old veins of quartz and granite, flecks that shine
And gleam like stars. Although it has a past
Not lustrous, but of many shady years,
This paperweight forgets his former life,
And dreams of cultured days and pretty wife.
Alas, the lovely gem prefers her peers
Despite the stony heart so sorely smit.
By crystal purity he’s ground to grit.


4)
This ornamental basalt lightly weighs
The piled-up papers on my desk, as if
It never knew its gravity. Adrift
On seas of time, it floats through current days
Without a sigh. A thousand years are but
A moment to this rock; a day not worth
The mentioning. It’s font in fiery earth
And early years in earthen womb – deep shut
In stygian gloom a million years and more –
Are not a wretched memory; nor, carved
By raging storms, has this stone ever starved
For love. It only shudders at the roar
Of wind and rain and fire and quake and blast
That mean it must be shattered at the last.

Opening the Gospel of Mark

Astonished, see this man who comes so free.
No fetters bind, no chains can hold him back.
He roars across the land and Herod's pack,
Confounded in their own hypocrisy,
Are driven with hyena Pharisee
Into bewilderment. These shepherds lack
The courage and the spirit to attack
A Lion’s liberating ministry.
His coming dooms their wretched tyranny,
And now their rigid discipline is slack;
Resorting without hope to whip and rack
They cannot keep the Cat from walking free.
For Jesus will be judge of all the earth,
And by his joy he calculates our worth.

Bartimaeus

How much to you was that gorgeous cloak
That lay abandoned as you rushed to him?
Did sighted strangers wonder that so trim
Adornment could be found on poorer folk?
“Take courage, Pal. He’s calling you.” They said
As if you suffered from their lack of nerve.
Your desperate need had taught you how to serve
Yourself, and toss aside the senseless dread
Of merchants, pushing crowds, and soldiers’ threats.
So hearing Jesus pass you came right out
And taught me how to pray with every lout
Who can’t afford the leisure of regrets:
Jesus, Son of David, look at me.
Jesus, Son of God, I want to see.

A Christmas Letter to an Irish Friend

Dear Maisie,
Your postcard came in May.
I knew the site at once --
the entrance stone, the roof-box, and gypsum face --
the passage-grave at Newgrange.
Without masonry, wheels, or shovels
your ancestors piled stone on stone
to welcome the frozen dawn of a new day,
the shortest day of the year.
They welcomed the sun of God
from a holy place.

In December
at sunrise,
I think of that marvelous hill.
I wonder at its antiquity -- some five thousand years!
With straw baskets and wooden sleds
they moved rocks into place.
They poured such energy into earth at the solstice --
how much more did they surely give to
eating, singing, dancing, dressing,
love-making, gift-giving, and worship
during that early Yuletide?
The angular, swirling lines of the entrance stone
describe a storm of festivity.
Even yet, those strands of memory
swirl around your churches and bind you to your past.

This postcard is an icon for me,
an entrance into earth.
The ghost of Christmas past
beckons from this tomb.
We will not comprehend the feast
nor save the world
until we follow her through that corridor
to those ancient times
to visit those who pray so earnestly.
She sings from that enchanted stone
as the sun mounts Earth’s eastern edge on Solstice Day.
Prostrate before his feeble strength,
Charming, seductive, passionate, and pious,
She lifts herself with intense human effort.
She welcomes his embrace with festive, religious effort.
His moist wanton eyes must worship her.
She pulls him down to her and into her,
Lest he forget her and her children.
He falls on that tumescent hill,
Covers, penetrates, and warms it now
with swelling strength.
Her people revel in their fond embrace
And in their bondage to sun and earth and seasons.
In spring she is pregnant
Thank God! – as you Irish would say --
And the sun is hot and whole and healed.

Our Santa Claus makes a sorry spook
of Christmas present.
Fixed on pleasure, besotted by greed,
Afflicted with futility,
With neither fear nor faith,
fertility nor fervor,
He has lost his memory -- poor soul --
and will pass by Easter.

I found the Ghost of Christmas Future
within the womb of Newgrange --
and I leapt for joy.
She said, “This is the only world
that you will ever see!”
Could we Christmas out there
without earth, without Solstice?
The future showed us Earth from outer space
whirling round her sun.
We saw his frank, admiring eye
inspiring her virginity,
filling her fecundity.
A child can spin a classroom globe
a thousand times a minute.
A thousand years are but a moment in his sight.
The future showed us that.

Christmas is as old as earth
And will last as long.
Before the first farmer
cried in panic at the cold distance of the sun,
before Africa ventured into northern lands,
before the first green slime of life appeared
she was whirling, twirling, dancing, swirling
around her lover-star.

Only moments ago,
as the ardent Earth embraced the sun at Newgrange,
Christmas welcomed her Lord --
“Fulfillment of the Feast!” --
she called him.
We were born neither to escape the earth,
nor to destroy her,
But to sing her songs, celebrate her seasons,
declare her thanks, and welcome her Savior.
When you and I, Maisie,
are nothing more than moldy dust,
waiting silent in some unremembered tomb
for a stirring breath of wind,
and the sounding of our names
in a dear familiar voice
she will yet be whirling, twirling, dancing, swirling around her lover-star.

The Syro-Phoenician Woman

The Syro-Phoenician Woman
Come gather round, and all sit down, I'll tell you a Jesus story!
It's grandiose; if you listen close, you'll know the road to glory.
It'll make you wonder, perhaps you'll ponder mysterious ways of grace;
You'll see more clear, and love more dear, the kindness of God's face.

He worked all day as he led the way, his disciples trailed along;
He'd sometimes sit, but he never quit, on his lips he carried a song.
At last one morn, he said, "Guys, I'm worn; for awhile let's change the pace."
So off they went, by the Spirit sent, to find a quiet place.
He left that land under God's command for the region of Sidon and Tyre,
He wanted to rest, take a break from his quest, to refuel, rekindle his fire.
But they met an old hag, a dreary old nag, who chased them down the road;
She begged him "Please, won't you hear my pleas, for I carry a weary load.
My daughter is sick, it's a terrible trick, and for me a bitter pill.
Your Jesus’ Name is always the same, please help me if you will,
I need that girl, she's the fairest pearl in the world; she's all I've got.
If she dies on me, oh, can't you see, I'll be in a terrible spot.
You have to heed, in my heart I bleed, I will not be deterred;
Show why your name has won such fame, just come and say the word.
My girl's possessed, she won't get dressed, she can't even say her name...."
But the Lord he walked and would not halt; he ignored the tiresome dame.
He said, "Gentile fools, they smell like mules; I don't have time for them.
To Judah I'm sent, for glory I'm bent, my grace is a priceless gem."
His disciples murmured "This woman's a bummer, of her we should be rid."
And Jesus replied, "We'll have to hide from the nanny and her kid."
They went ahead to a weathered shed, and then they stepped inside.
And Jesus said, "In this homestead is where we can abide,
A secret den for special men, our own exclusive club,
And we'll not suffer no female lover of old Beelzebub.
But she came right in, their heads did spin, she scorned their right and wrong,
With "Jesus-name is ever the same; I'll not quit singing that song."
She bent down low as her face would go, and she clasped him by the knee.
The men were shocked as her arms she locked and he cried, "Please set me free!
I will not go, nor stoop so low to throw my pearls to hogs;
God won't forgive if I should give the food of kids to dogs."
"It's true my Lord, I hear your word," the hag still claimed her cause,
"But the dogs still eat what the kids won't eat when to the floor it falls!"
Then The Man was stumped, to his feet he jumped, when he heard that woman's mot,
And he laughed out loud, and he whooped and howled, and his ruddy face did glow,
"Woman, I'm smote with a rueful note, your faith is plain to see;
You're sure not shy and that is why your girl's now sane and free."
So the woman went back, no faith she lacked, and found the girl just fine,
While Jesus sought and deeply thought to comprehend this sign.

Then he told this joke of the vicious bloke, a mean and venomous judge
Who did not care for God or prayer, who bragged he would not budge.
But a woman came, she caused him shame, harassed him night and day,
He was so distressed as her case she pressed that at last he did give way.
Then Jesus laughed at his unkind gaffe, of himself he told this jest,
For even the Lord, the Incarnate Word, was good, then better then best.

So remember this tale whenever you wail and your face is wearing a frown,
For Jesus' name is always the same, and him you can wear down.
He was born a Jew with a limited view, a child of Galilee,
As a boy he thought what his neighbors taught, he saw what they could see;
He was sometimes slow, 'cause he had to grow, but he learned at a faster pace;
He was sometimes blind but he did not mind when they stood up to his face.
His heart was good, not made of wood, then sorrow opened his eyes;
He suffered blows from dreadful foes, but them he'd not despise.
He drank the dregs, pain buckled his legs, it taught him how to care
For all the earth and each one's worth; our sadness he did share.
He's not mischievous so call on Jesus; he'll give you strength reborn.
He was given power in his final hour for those who are forlorn;
He knows your needs; your woe he heeds when you that name beseech;
So go out now, I’ve shown you how, cure one and all and each.

Adam, Eve, and God

In the cool of the evening, I’ll visit those two.
They’re terribly young, their knowledge so new;
They’ll tell me about the plants they have sewn,
The fruit they have gathered, the wheat they have grown.
We’ll laugh at the wonderful ways of all life,
We’ll marvel to see with the eyes of the wife,
To touch with his hands, to dance with their feet;
We’ll drink of the goodness of earth as we meet.

But where are they now? Not milking a cow,
Not shepherding sheep; it’s too early for sleep.
Where are they hid? Has the goat with her kid
Taken them out? Are they roaming about?
I hope they’re not gone from this Eden so fair.
They’re still my young darlings, this beautiful pair.
Well – I’ll just sit down and wait for awhile;
I’ll neither worry nor fret; that’s never my style.

Has old cantankerous Mother Earth
swallowed them up? A reversal of birth?
Of course not! She loves them more dearly than light;
Than the sun in its warmth, or the stars in their height.
Has one of my foolish creations in flesh,
Eaten them live, or gobbled their fresh
Pretty faces and limbs. It can’t be;
They’re frightened of me,
And they see in this pair
My image so rare.
They’ll love and adore them as long as the rain
Sprinkles the earth and waters the main.
But where are they now?
I wonder somehow.
Has something befallen the work of my hand,
The beauty I molded from water and sand?

Great heavens above! They’re making love!
Of course! How foolish of me to fear something worse!
They’ll come out in a while,
Each of them wearing no more than a smile.
Eve, she’ll be giggling and blushing with pride,
Her man will be grinning from ear to ear wide.
The couple will glow with golden vitality,
Still weak in the knee and hot in the belly.
They’ll gambol around me like two silly foals,
And I’ll laugh with the pleasure of being so old.
There’s nothing to worry or be anxious about,
I’ll just wait here patient until they come out.

But now its getting too dark to stay,
I wanted to see them in clear light of day.
Adam, where are you?
Eve, my darling come out.
Ah here they come now.
But something’s wrong.
The man he is cowering, the woman is weeping,
And what on earth have they wrapped around their loins?
Fig leaves? But, but why?

Oh.
I see.
But who told you that you were naked?
You have eaten from the tree.
I’m so sorry.
Let me get you some clothes.
I’ll tear the skin off some animal and give it to you.
Yes, I suppose it will hurt, but I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.

The Nurse

Sometimes it’s better not to know.
But you know,
you think,
or you suspect
you’re caring for this patient
better than he ever cared for himself.
He never cared;
Daily he made war
killing himself.
You know it; you see it.
But you don’t know;
You don’t think;
You don’t let yourself think;
And you care for him
Not for the money
Nor the job.
He’s a human being
And you’re a human being.

Lavabo me -- A Chaplain's Prayer

Water from the side of Christ, wash me.
First check the counter-top for that clear film of water
That stains your pants and makes you look silly,
then lean forward, right foot on the pedal,
hands under the flood and begin with a preliminary rinse.
It used to be fun to play in water.
Lord wash away my iniquity,
and cleanse me of my sins.
Then push the lever that squirts soap somewhere,
on the wall, on the counter,
on your outstretched hand
-- and scrub --
for no less than fifteen seconds.
Palms smack broken suctions;
fingers knock joints,
slippery skin slides over
dry knuckles that enjoy for a moment
the oil of ease.
The right hand squeezes left
palm, thumb, and fingers;
left caressing in return.
Lord wash away my iniquity....
Don’t forget your wrists,
Then repeat several times
in oily soap kneading the fleshy palms
and bony fingers
And cleanse me of my sins.
Now rinse again;
(this is the fun part)
forming your hands
into a toilet bowl to catch the water
and flush several times,
over the fingers, palm, back-palm, and wrists.
Throw the excess into the sink,
try not to make a mess.
Lord wash away my iniquity....
Pull the first towel
which disintegrates leaving
but a scrap of paper;
then take one, two, three sheets,
spread each one out,
and wipe your hands,
the palms, the fingers, the sides of your hands.
Water from the side of Christ, wash me.
Look up for a moment,
and notice the passing scene.
A bed trundles down the hall,
-- stand aside --
with its retinue of nurses and assistants.
And cleanse me of my sins.
Offer a silent thought for the miserable.
Listen to the doctors;
You might learn something.
Admire the young professionals.
Lord, wash away my iniquity,
They are so beautiful.
And cleanse me of my sins.
Nod to anyone who looks your way.
The paper shreds,
and rolls into a ball.
Wipe down the counter,
Mashing it flat again,
And drop it in the trash,
Not the floor,
(with any luck at all.)
At last, the gloves.
Find a pair that fits,
extra-large.
Pull them on
and push the latex skin
down between each finger.
And don’t touch anything
-- unless its clean--
until you bless your patient.
From the side of Christ,
water,
my iniquity, wash away;
and cleanse me of my sins,
O Lord.

Mysterium, tremendum et fascinans

Three things are too wonderful for me; four I do not understand:
the way of an eagle in the sky, the way of a snake on a rock,
the way of a ship on the high seas,
and the way of a man with a woman.
Proverbs 30: 18-19

Come Ardent Love and tell us of the day
When he who is our Truth and Life and Way
Encountered on the road a mystery
So wide, so massive, strong that even he
Was smote with dread, appalled, yet tantalized;
He stood transfixed and frankly paralyzed.
He gazed in wonder, rapt in holy thrall;
His feet were anchored, trapped by what he saw.
Come Sacred Love and tell us with deep sighs
Of dialogue which thrills and satisfies.

She heard their chatter from her solitude,
Some wandering men had come to purchase food;
But one was left up there in thought alone.
Who was that fellow sitting on a stone
By Jacob’s well, as midday sunlight shone
Upon his tranquil face and handsome beard?
The woman saw his distant form and feared
He might pass through her neighborhood without
Her practiced glance at him. She had no doubt
He’d find her shapely form and deep brown eyes
Sufficient cause to pause and fraternize;
Perhaps to stay his travels and to spend
An afternoon with one he might befriend.
Samaritans would visit by the well
This woman known to all as Annabel.
They had their own opinions of the dame,
But owned that they admired her just the same.
She’d had a troubled life, she seemed unfit,
But Annabel would never yield or quit.
So now she took an empty jar in hand
And marshaled all her spirits to command
A first assault upon the stranger’s eyes.
His tactless order caught her by surprise,
“Woman, give me a drink.” This rude salute
Recalled another, now discarded, brute.
Unfeeling men expect her to obey.
They’re all the same. But first she’ll dally, play
With him. He’ll have to haggle for a drink.
He’ll notice her; she’ll give him time to think
And then he’ll recognize her subtle charm,
Perhaps he’ll contemplate caresses warm,
The joy he might discover in her arms.
And so she asked with smile and cunning wink,
“Can Jews ask foreign women for a drink?”
Surprised, abashed, reminded once again
Of woman’s urge to square herself with man,
And of that vital ache within his flesh
That bound him in our complicated mesh
He looked at her and saw inviting eyes,
That like his own, could never quite disguise
The deep desire to plunge headlong in love,
To coo and murmur like the turtledove.
The game was on! He met her daring, most
Suggestive challenge with another boast:
“If but you knew the awesome gift of grace
And who is resting in this quiet place
You might have asked him for a deeper draft
Of living water, by his sacred craft.”
She laughed inside her eyes; she knew the game;
She played it with her boys and feared no shame.
“Sir, you have no pail, this cistern’s deep,
Our Father Jacob came here with his sheep,
You’re greater than the one who dug this well?
You think you can our patriarch excel?
And can those lovely hands dig such a stream
To quench his daughter’s thirst? Your boast redeem!”
With shining eyes, the stranger quick replied,
“Who use this well are never satisfied.”
Harrumph, she thought, you surely got that right,
My neighbors live to carp about their plight.
“Now those who drink the water I shall give
Will never thirst, but rather they will live
By bubbling springs within their inner hearts.
They’ll know the joy of life, its secret arts!”
This bragging boy was making too much noise,
She’d have to call his bluff, disturb his poise.
“I’d like to taste this water, if you please,
So I can spend my life in pleasant ease.”
He did not hesitate or break the spell,
“Go home and bring your husband to the well.”
But she was loathe to end the game so soon,
“I have no man to call this afternoon” --
An open invitation he might catch
To ease and soothe that old delicious scratch.
The prophet Moses met his lady fair
While sitting at a well; they made a pair.
There Jacob too displayed his manly might,
As Rachel oohed and ahhed, thrilled by the sight.
But this one had some mischief up his sleeve,
And hidden plans he still had to achieve.
“You’re surely right to say you have no mate,
For you’ve had five so far, plus one of late
And he is not your spouse.” His charming guile
Enjoyed the shock that froze her winsome smile.
A silence flowed between them like a wave;
She felt an eerie terror of this knave.
There opened at her feet a canyon vast;
How could he know about her sordid past?
She changed her tack, she quit the merry chase.
There’s more to Annabel than pretty face!
You’ll soon find out that I’ve an angry bent,
And I will crush you in an argument.
The stranger seemed still willing to engage,
But he had touched upon a sullen rage
That scorned the petty masters of this earth
Because they would not hail her native worth.
“So now I see that you’re a Jewish seer!
Our parents worshiped on this mountain here,
But you insist our prayers are never heard.
Your Adonai considers us absurd;
While you from Zion call to God on High,
Who hears your pleas, obeys your every sigh.”
Astonished by her sudden shift of mood,
He wondered Where’s those fellows with the food?
I’ve got myself into a narrow scrape,
Entangled here with no way to escape.
And so he stood his ground, esteemed her thought,
Revered her wrath, Samaria distraught.
“Hear me, Woman, the day is coming when
No one will think that God belongs to men.
You will not worship here upon this hill,
Nor think that God resides in Judah still.
You worship what you do not understand;
But we know our salvation is at hand.
The hour is coming and is almost here,
When worshipers who pray with holy fear
Will honor God in spirit and in truth.
Tranquility will renovate their youth.
For God is Zeal and those who worship God,
In Zeal and Truth will suffer not his rod.”
An unfamiliar hope in her arose,
She dropped her wrath, let fall the angry pose.
No man had ever listened to her mind,
They’d always had contempt for womankind.
A private person deep inside she kept,
Who for Messiah longed, but now she wept,
“I know that on some distant day he’ll come
And introduce a new millennium,
The Christ-Anointed, whom the angels sing,
And he will tell us everything.”
Old Jacob’s well stood open like a pit,
A gaping hole that said, “You must commit.”
He stared into its depths; the smell of moss
Distressed his senses, reeked to him of loss,
A pungent premonition of the cross.
The crisis hour has come at last, he thought
The awful truth, her probity has bought.
“Dear Annabel,” his voice was soft and meek,
“Now I am he, the one of whom you speak!”
They sat awhile in fear and trembling caught,
And felt a surge of peace, a swift onslaught
Of limpid, perfect beauty in one soul;
Two sep’rate people, joined, entirely whole.
How long they sat enrapt, they could not say,
A moment or an hour, perhaps the day.
Abiding in that place, they passed the time.
Old Jacob’s well became a paradigm
Of Paradise, and they the happy pair
In peaceful solitude beyond compare.
With this encounter Jesus filled her thirst,
Displaced the other six, became her first.
Messiah was that seventh chosen man,
Revealing to her heaven’s holy plan.
She felt within her heart a growing swell,
From unexpected source, a living well
Of courage, confidence and trust.
To friends and neighbors, now the word she must
Announce and sing and dance, for heaven’s sake!
The woman they had known was just a fake;
Her truer self he had set free at last;
Disciple now, the wretched days were past!
Just then the Lord’s disciples came with bread,
And found this noted woman in their stead.
Iscariot complained, “She’ll want her pay.”
And Thomas moaned, “O Lord, that’s not the way.”
But no one spoke a word to them;
They lacked the strength, his customs to contemn.
Beside the musty well she left her jar,
On living water now she would go far.
Back to the town she went as courtesan,
Proclaiming to the world her Seventh Man.
“Come, see a man who showed me my whole life,
A story sad and full of endless strife;
But now I’ve seen myself as God sees me,
A complex dame of deep simplicity;
A thoughtful person, stupidly behaved,
I’m gen’rous, selfish, lying, honest, saved!
I cannot change the way I’ve lived before,
But I’ll abide with it, despair no more.
I’ve peered into a living well of bliss
And seen a startling truth, I will confess:
That I don’t have to be here in this world,
But holy grace and kindness simply hurled
Me into life with basic innocence;
Two gifts restored, despite my negligence.
I found him by the well; I played the flirt.
He teased me too; it’s fun, no one gets hurt.
He’s int’rested in me; we pass the time;
And then like lovers fight, is that a crime?
When all at once the conversation turned
To things sublime, and both our faces burned.
To love this man’s like playing in a fire;
He wants my all; he thirsts for my desire.
And yet I saw him stricken, terrified,
Enchanted with me, smitten, gratified;
He stood transfixed, bewildered, frightened too.
Delighted with me, rapt, without a clue;
And even then he had authority!
Do you suppose he can Messiah be?
Please come and tell me what you think of him.
Is he of men or fallen seraphim?”
So with that news the folks set out from town
To meet this Jesus, look him up and down.
Meanwhile, the Lord’s disciples made appeal
To eyes and nose and tongue -- a pleasant meal.
They said to Jesus, “Come, let’s pray and eat,
We’ve bought some bread and wine and sav’ry meat;
But he had lost his appetite for food,
While chatting with his friend in solitude.
He said to them, “I’ve eaten food supreme
Delightful fare, beyond your wildest dream.
I find my satisfaction in God’s work,
T’is labor that I would not care to shirk.”
Samaritans were streaming up the lane,
They hoped this living water to obtain;
They’d ask the stranger if he would abide;
Some thought that Annabel could be his bride.
And Jesus said, “The fields are ready now,
The harvester is passing up the plow!”
In two days time they told their Annabel,
“This man you met while drinking at the well,
He spoke to us and now we’ve seen enough,
Your “seventh man” is true, he is no bluff.
He knows our sinful ways have been perverse;
But to ourselves he’s friendly, not averse,
He must be Savior of the Universe.”

A wounded Jesus staggered out of town
Feeling less a savior than a clown.
He’d never meant to go into that place,
His mission was for members of his race,
But then this woman came and spoke to him.
What started as a lark, a moment’s whim
Had opened new dimensions of his task.
He could not disregard all those who ask
To know his name and search within his eyes.
The world was wider than his Jewish ties.
But open-hearted love cut like a knife --
He ached for Annabel to be his wife!
He could not greet the day with easy smile
For his chance meeting with a woman’s style
Of feeling, touching, knowing human fire
Had kindled in his heart a fierce desire.
He had to go, he knew he’d have no rest
Unless he followed at his God’s behest,
But now integrity would cost far more
Because he’d stumbled on a deeper core
Of every human longing for embrace,
The wrenching pleasures of a carnal race.
He had to turn from her to God above,
But could not think of life without her love.
The ice pick stab of longing in his chest
Attended every step and stalked his quest.
Would sacred love this stinging passion quell?
Perhaps he dared too much for Annabel.
Too oft-divorced, a fallen, wayward girl;
Would Abba lift her up, a precious pearl?
And yet he had been sent to folks like her,
And while they parleyed, felt affection’s stir!
He heard their names were mentioned in one breath.
He shuddered -- yet he loved her unto death.
How could a moment’s conversation cause
Such grief? A restful break, a simple pause?
Awhile that ancient itch had been relieved
But now his troubled brain was sorely grieved.

Meanwhile the woman followed close behind;
She joined his troupe, she thought she’d always find
A place where she could serve him from afar,
So long as his disciples did not bar
Her constant love of his divinity.
Jerusalem became her destiny.
“Forget your people and your father’s house”
The scriptures said as she became his spouse
In spirit – though she never touched his hand.
She lodged within their hidden God’s command.

At last there came a day when aching ceased,
Their restless, urgent hunger was appeased.
His mission focused in the dead of night.
Jerusalem the city hove in sight.
Intensely Jesus loved its stones and mud;
But he had come to purge it with his blood.
They called to mind the anguish they had known;
Never could their passion be disowned.
He would not hate a member of her race;
Her gentle features shown in every face.
He prayed serenely as his mortal foes
Beset his calm with fearsome blows.
She stood with other women as he turned
His pain to prayer, and yet his Father spurned
His cry for help. He searched the empty skies;
“I thirst” he said; she stepped before his eyes.
His dying gaze fell on his Annabel,
And as he stared again into her well
Of love, old Jacob’s pit abruptly streamed.
It surged within his heart – his boast redeemed.
The taunting mob he blessed and then he died.
His longing and her thirst were satisfied.