[Untitled 4]

At church, in stained glass:
white and gray clouds, blue sky,
an orange-brown butterfly
with perfect veins.

The pastor approaches the
inevitable subject. "Shit,"
mutters my neighbor,
stereotypical in her polyester
pants, her orange-white old lady hair.

I feel the ember dread of hell
upon me, of late --
the objective horror of it,
the hot breath like the sulfur's
last sensation before the mower's
searing of tattered wings,
smashing of gently fuzzed body.

These are things we try
not to think about -- like butterflies,
symbols of new life which never live
for long, like all the little frogs
we unwittingly squeezed to death
as small children at the water's edge.

Are You cruel? I ask. Well, are You?
Are You? the scales loosening
from wings of faith, the wings wilting
in gray gravel and dust.

But somewhere, still, I trust.
I am following the monarch memory
through generations of my own faith.

[Untitled 3]

Rain falls in the wee hours . . .
a drumming in the gutters,
a splattering on the ground,
a song on the shingles,
a hiss in the wake
of the few passing cars.

I've been at odds--
ears muffled, mind hid
within my faux refuge
of artificial noise.
Give sanctuary, Lord.
Release me to whisper-rhythms,
to long, slow soakings
of mercies renewed.

Reply to a Poet

[My friend and fellow poet, Thomas D, wrote a poem "Tenth Letter to a Poet"  which touched me, and inspired the following reply.]


Your sunburst description
brings me at once
to bulletin inserts
in a little country church.
How the skies were torn
over fields of corn and soybeans,
over pastures and orb-eyed cows,
over dips of timber . . .
over land given, long ago,
in a dead daughter's name--
Estella, who wanted to be a missionary.

Ours was just one more tale
of frailty and faithfulness
as we left those white walls
and led the somber line
behind my father's hearse.
The gray October sky
cried light through thin places
of cloud. My mother took it
as a sign of God's presence.

Today, the children and I
read Jonah's story--
how God finds us,
how even a runaway and fish
may prefigure resurrection.
I am glad of your reminder
that God can find us even in
our weakest words.

Tombs

Absences eat words.
We can write and talk
about what's been removed,
measure the cavity--
an inch for every
thing we miss--
but the nothing
left behind
still dries our tongues.

Merciful Savior,
what must Your followers,
Your loved ones, have felt
when all that they had left
was the terrible yawn
of Your body
emptied of You.

You, Who felt what it is
to be forsaken, fill
these, our absences, with
Your most tender light.
Through emptiness spill
astonishing resurrections.

Psalm 33:22

"Let your steadfast love, O Lord, be upon us, even as we hope in you."

 ~ Psalm 33:22

Word Picture: Receive

Word for 2015

A Song and Prayer for Tonight

These lyrics by James Quinn were adapted from Saint Patrick's Breastplate. My dad particularly liked this song's meaningful simplicity.

How To Do The Impossible

Let your bare feet be a prayer--
the patter of sole against linoleum,
even the little grit of elderly crums.
Let the jet of water in the silver sink be a prayer,
 and the warm white suds rising.
Let extracting hair strands
from the dish cloth mesh be a prayer,
and the milk ring scrubbed
from the bottom of the glass.
Let each long last fork and knife,
gathered from the dregs, be a prayer,
and the everlasting pans.
Let your prune fingers pray
across counter tops, soothing
away chaos for this one moment.

Anglican Prayer

A prayer from the Christmas Eve service tonight:

Father, in this holy night your Son our Saviour was born in human flesh.
Renew your Church as the Body of Christ.
Holy God,
hear our prayer.

In this holy night there was no room for your Son in the inn.
Protect with your love those who have no home and all who live in poverty.
Holy God,
hear our prayer.

In this holy night Mary, in the pain of labour, brought your Son to birth.
Hold in your hand all who are in pain or distress.
Holy God,
hear our prayer.

In this holy night your Christ came as a light shining in the darkness.
Bring comfort to all who suffer in the sadness of our world.
Holy God,
hear our prayer.

In this holy night the angels sang, 'Peace to God's people on earth.'
Strengthen those who work for peace and justice in all the world.
Holy God,
hear our prayer.

In this holy night shepherds in the field heard good tidings of joy.
Give us grace to preach the gospel of Christ's redemption.
Holy God,
hear our prayer.

In this holy night strangers found the Holy Family, and saw the baby lying in the manger.
Bless our homes and all whom we love.
Holy God,
hear our prayer.

In this holy night Christians the world over celebrate Christ's birth.
Open our hearts that he may be born in us today.
Holy God,
hear our prayer.

You told me
to cast all my cares
on You.

I did not know
that meant surrendering
the tension in my neck.

In most of my remembering,
I've carried knots
above my shoulder blades.

I cried, as a child, with cramps
between my knees
and ankles.

Today, in cold Chicago rain,
I lost my perfect
driving record.

Brought home:
the ticket, the fine, the report--
and I am remembering

that You
loved me before I loved You,
that nothing will change Your love,

and that it is not I,
after all, holding myself
in the world,

but You, holding both,
and filling up
the fearful, empty places.

I need not clutch
the guard rail quite so closely--
when I accept that You hold me.