Foreshadowing

A poem for Ash Wednesday

forty-six sunsets before

Son's rising,

eyes see a foreshadowing

once Radiance beating down,

piercing Light,

now beams fade into darkness

all that brightness descending

below earth-edge,

trails of crimson in the wake

all the more breathtaking

do ash and dust make

Day's death

O God Eternal, O God of Mayflies

O God eternal, O God of mayflies,
Shepherd, Overseer of the long-dancing
     stars' lives
     and the fleeting flame of flowers,
King of the beats
     of hummingbird wings
     and mouse hearts,
Choreographer of continental drifts
     and Grower of bristlecone pines,
Lord of human breaths
     and comet revolutions,
Are not our times held in wise hands?
Ancient of Days,
Who but You has seen
     the rise and fall of seas and nations,
     the birth of the earth
     and all the life her womb has nourished?
Who but You is the Life-Singer?
Who but You, our Beginning and End?

The Last Word

 

Words shook me.

I felt the reality of death in them – 

        stark, unveiled,

        shimmering and pain-laced.

A brief utterance in time,

But the weight in its wake

        bends eternity.

O God of bodies,

Your presence feels our fear;

Our tears

        are Your heart language.

Fragility

        does not offend You.

O God Resurrector,

There’s Light

        coming out the edges

        of The Sentence,

Because You are present there,

        already, now.

It’s just the first clause;

The Word at the end is Yours,

        is You.

O Spirit

Descend and move us,
O uncontrollable Guide.
We cannot manipulate
     the Cloud and the Flame.
How foolish
     are our attempts -
Categorizing the unknown,
Forecasting God.
Do we only like You
     when Your form is small?
          comfortable?
          describable?
Is our allegiance conditional
     on agreement?
          familiarity?
          predictability?

O uncivilized Fountain,
Are we embarrassed
     by Your joy and grief?
Are we ashamed of Your tears,
Humiliated by Your dancing?
Do we laugh when You weep
     and weep when You laugh?

O unreasonable Wisdom,
Do we hush the children,
Do we silence the prophets -
     ignore those who speak from the margins?
Have we doused
     Your refining blaze
And built walls to block
     Your propelling wind?

O ancient Fire,
Thaw our frozen hearts!
O eternal Breath,
Fill our empty lungs!
Expose the limits of our logic,
     our fig leaves of comprehension.
Awake our imaginations
     and nourish us with mystery.

O untaintable Purifier,
Burn up our false power
     that we may know Love.
Blow away our counterfeit hope
     that we may see Resurrection.
Form dust into clay jars
     Holy to the Lord.
Come dwell,
O unparalleled Treasure,
     and flow from us
     as Life to all the world.

Ascension - 4.16,17,19.20

Sun blazes, beams down,
     nothing to hinder, to flicker
          its gaze.
Footstep crunches the glittering crust,
     crushes the gleaming crest,
Twelve points biting
     wind-sculpted white.

Lungs lunge,
     sparse oxygen seizing;
Heart thunders,
     lightning-laced and charged.
Ears catch the whistle -
     wind whipping rock rims,
     the cleft catching the call.

Pause.

     then
Climb.
What else
     can one do
In response to
     all this?

Among

You came and stood
    - among them -
Conqueror of the depths of the grave;

Invited them
     torushinclose
     and touch
     your hands and side.

You breathed
     into dust
     again -
Made them whole:
Peace
     be With you -
          Feel my pulse,
          Believe,
          Be alive.

You told someone like me,
Don't
     Hold me...
                       just yet.
I think maybe
      when she does
She will
     never
          let go.

Apart

I hated standing

Six            Feet            Away  -

The depth of a plague victim's grave.

My body ached
     torushinclose,
     hug and hold
     You
     for a long time.

My substance is disintegrating
     from the withholding:
To feel the pulse of an Other
With One's whole form
Is a holy need -
     We turn to dust without it.

My flesh is blowing away in the wind...
How long can One hold on
     to no one
          before

               f  a  l  l  i  n  g

                                   a      p      a      r      t      ?

12 West Monroe

I breathe
Between
The healing places.

Body of Christ
     to the north,
Right near Saint Francis -
House of prayer and
     house of healing
Always must go together.

Across the waterfall,
     under the Great Mountain,
Is the Saint's cathedral -
Pulsing green with a blue dome,
Teeming with his Sisters and Brothers,
     and it's a wonder
And no wonder
     the baptismal waters
Flow into the heart of the city.

That's my southern border -
The place I learn to die.
It's also where I rise from the River,
     and feed on the Body and Blood;
Where my blind eyes see
     and where I stretch out my withered hand
In the presence of the Body, the Saints, the Family.

North and east,
West and south -
There's restoration in this house
     and all around.
That is why I breathe here,
Invited to heal.

Confessional About Those Parts; or, Eve, What Have You Done?

I think they look odd -
     Those parts and the one down below
I'm not sure why they're there
I've never been sure if they fit the rest of me.

I don't think they look quite right
I don't know if God sewed them on
     As much as that they just
          grew like tumors and
               I'm not sure they're benign.

A little over half my life ago I changed from who I used to be
     ... I'm not sure about that.
But now they're always right there
     in front of me, yet
I'm not sure they're really part of Me -
     Maybe more like my shadow?

No one sees them but me -
     and that not very much; A few minutes
          or a few seconds
     And I hide them again
          after a double-take
     And I'm not sure how I feel about them.

They're for appreciating, I've heard
     But they must stay covered, I've heard
          So I think they will
               "exist" unappreciated; I'm only allowed
to share them with
     someone who doesn't exist
          So I think I will never be freed
               to like them.

I'm not sure how I can be
     So disconnected from something so connected
     But sometimes I wish I could get them off me.

They're not even like the ones on the others
     They're small like maybe they're not
          meant to be there
And they make the clothes not fit right
So I look like What is that supposed to be.

If she
     could see them and touch them
          and love them
Then I'm sure I could, too
     But right now they are strangers to me.

But maybe a few times a year I think maybe
     I like them, I'm not sure.