Gloria

 

From behind a shed door came

the muffled sounds of nursing.

A brilliant slice of warm firelight

spilled across the darkness of

the yard. Fresh afterbirth steamed

in a corner. The mother’s eyes closed

in gratitude and relief. The father

kept watch as assigned, kissing his

tightly wrapped son into sleep.

 

It was the scene of every safe birth:

shrieks of labored breathing, blood

stains and wonder, hunger for milk

and sleep, new parents bursting with

pride to tell the whole world. But

the world already knew—the way

arid land knows quenching rain,

the way an eager river churns with

raucous delight, the way flocks of

tiny sparrows warm themselves

in the morning sun.

 

For a thousand years prophets

told this story to all who would

hear. Angels crowed. Workers

shivered in their fields. Even the

dark night bowed down, knowing

this new light would reign supreme.

This turning of the universe was

the fulfillment of a promise of

joyful shimmers in the darkest

deep sky. Even now ocean tides

swell. Sage clouds swirl at dusk.

Every mystery in the created

world wipes its eyes to cradle

the surprise. Every star in the

black sky chimes a little louder

and every child holds a piece

of this divine light shining

forevermore in the world.

 

 

                                  The Boys

        

        Look at them:

        breathless with

        playground conquest,

        flushed with energy and

        the aroma of mischief

        building at their hairlines. 

        Fire in their eyes blazes

        with vigor and glory. 

        Soon enough they will 

        fall still and sweeten as they

        sleep, lost as they are

        to the commotion of

        locker rooms and hallways.

        Bruises remind them

        who they are. Grass stains

        keep infallibilities in check.

        They come home later and

        more tired than they should 

        but return again and 

        again into the world

        until they grow older

        than moonrise, wiser

        than oak trees, more

        receptive than puddles

        and other sacred things.

                         

                        Candle Work

The soul grows by subtraction, not addition – Meister Eckhart

Look, I said, here

we are conducting

ourselves according to

the statutes, according

to nature’s prophecies,

the laws of stumps and

worms and seeds.

It’s the only way we 

can enter the vast array 

from birth to mystery.

We can’t engage what

we can’t breathe. 

We can’t notice more

than what we feel. 

We can’t take on what

has been made without 

first taking on ourselves. 

Still, we feast on 

newborn oxygen 

and daily bread. 

We labor in small 

towns. We fertilize 

faceless ideas no

bigger than weeds

to help us get by.

In these days of angels, 

we strive to go deeper

than we know how

to see. We change 

out of earthly clothes,

our voices turn silent

at last and we learn

from blank pages the

source of all beginning. 

 

Red Flannel Monk

                    I don’t speak  

                       monastic words,

or silence. I don’t

wake til nine. I

rarely make my bed.

Yes, I light fresh candles

to illuminate my

wonder. And cigars.

I worship best

in chapels made

of dirt and pines.

I like to eat three

meals a day. And

apple pie. Fasting

is how I drive. Yes,

I pull carrots from

holy ground. Yes,

I fix garden fences.

Yes, I feed the deer

in season. Also

I hunt. In all this,

God speaks my name

but not in holy ways.

God speaks to me in

earthen languages of

wilderness and weather,

autumn’s first few lines,

the murmur of a stream.   

Brief whispers I need

come from clouds

who help me breathe.

And comprehend.

And sing. 

                                        A Place of Too Many Wishes

                                                (after Anselm Kiefer)

                                        When we speak of ash

                                        and straw and lead,

                                        our voices must be

                                        made of healing. 

                                        We must speak 

                                        of earth and rubble and

                                        erosion in the same way  

                                        we break bread, thread

                                        our sewing needles,

                                        pedal our way forward

                                        into fields of golden air.

                                        A train can become a pencil.

                                        A sunken airship, a missive

                                        in time. Gravity comes to

                                        claim the force of darkness. 

                                        A sunflower is the way

                                        silence first breaks through,

                                        leans heavy with new seeds 

                                        and the weight of longing

                                        to meet its own forgiveness

                                        deep in the ground.

You, There

 

Wrap the bitter war

around your neck

like a proud bronze

reward. Hang it tall

to guide you. All

the dead forget

about snow and ink.

They forget geography.

They forget songbirds.

They forget their names.

Trolley me through

this rubble. Trundle

me across the blue

and yellow sky. Give me

more broth made of

nothing and bread

made of crumpled

ash. Cradle me

in a childhood

that is no more

and I will show you

my inner wings. This

is why we tell our

histories—the holes

where once a family

stood; the crush of

wind where once

a forest grew; a forced

embrace of now

that has lost the

tales of the dead

who have fallen

between the fingers of

our comfort and our time.