a story lived, now story told
we, early young, now later, old
see stranger things than daytime held
but not without our sorrows quelled
____________________________________
we fluff and tuck and yawn and brush
pray God remove all sinning blush
the air now cool in silver glow
what dreams may come we do not know
_____________________________________
divested now of time and chance
we bid adieu and leave the dance
till thricely woven round with grace
the nighttime songs our fears erase
Given the raw materials from which come my best advances
into grace-filled days and hope-tinted nights,
there remain the questions – the queries in restless sleep,
the mystifications of workday afternoons when
sorting through memories is more haunting than charming.
Exchanging token cautions smeared with crooked remembrances
that laugh their way to a poorer destiny,
the torn and sad reaches for glad that tips a hat to
the best of what’s behind but incomplete.
Shards of broken passage return their wounds,
still ripe and weeping, for any chance at a future,
not sequined, brash or over-confident but light, fresh and pale
with songs not new but revitalized, like Lazarus,
his face paler still but beautiful, because all that was barren or ugly
is forgotten in the grave.
In the right hands, days in a dank cell of nothing turn even the
deepest pain into something beautiful.
Painting: “The Raising of Lazarus” by Vincent Van Gogh
The light was thinner today, unplagued by summer arrogance.
The aging, iron-grey sky cooperates fully with the falling day,
pouring out one particle at a time onto the browning green.
I watched it pool in elegance, gathering
in the playful dance of moths and paupers.
Lower down, close to the roots of things,
my feet can touch the back of this place, falling simply
as eyes preparing for a blanched horizon are caressed
by the autumnal bounty of God’s spare time.
There was a light that burned,
a shifting, settled light – the kind
that changes the room from one
kind of good to a better one.
The moths played in the shade
like winged marionettes parading
their playful dance never far
from the light but choosing
to stay stuck where it only shines
to amuse and titillate, not
where it shines to tease out
shadows and contours of faces.
Above, on a hungry ceiling dwell
other specters, images drowning
in the goodness of this moment.
Seated apart but facing each other
are the comrades of long-lived kindness
still working through the politics of light.
I looked from the chair beside the window
where the night sky can taste the late hour.
Here the tally of joys and intentions
weigh themselves against the whimpering
sighs of another. Another whose chair
beside another window in another place
sees a night sky pillowed and smooth
and takes what few, rumpled clouds remain,
hiding from the dark, ready for the day.
And, in an eye-twinkle of quickening whimsy –
simply walks away.
When the reprisals of our souls,
too young to love, too small for pain,
repeat their mistaken ventures into
the uncolored light of mistaken journeys,
then it is that the walls whisper
their ghostlike songs of ever after –
sighs of the imperfect.
* * *
Here there are no endings,
only endings of old beginnings
that transform by a refusal
to submit to the indentured servitude
of the hollow and broken,
preferring instead the ancient newness
of Cistine handshakes.
* * *
In the cowls of earth, her ears of stone,
hear fathomless time, tonsured and teased
from her birthplace deep in
embowelled truth whose Name Is.
Encompass within yourself this
faceless sojourner only now
learning his name.
Photo courtesy of my friends and fellow monastic-creatives at Abbey of the Arts. Thanks Christine Valters-Paintner.
Here, in this place awash in daylight grace,
I live my entire life on the head of a pin
on which is inscribed a single word:
surrender.
When todays are saturated in
a low, crawling, redeeming sadness:
surrender.
When the all-pervasive pall of a greening grey
removes dead soul-skin and tastes
like eating raw sewage:
surrender.
When the bitter pill of leafless desire
gets stuck in my throat and
stops up anything nutritional:
surrender.
When the wafer thin moments
of happy times bought at another’s expense
rob me of me:
surrender.
When my lover who shares
my bed, my skin, my guts, my hopes,
becomes nothing more than a side dish:
surrender.
When, in convenience, I sidestep
responsibility to another
and choose the busy road of non-involvement:
surrender.
When I’ve surrendered all I am and have,
all I’ve been and will become,
all that was, all that is and all that is not:
surrender.
When I’ve surrendered all,
I gain the one thing,
the Pearl of Great Price,
the Lily of the Valley,
the One who is in all,
who is all
and who needs no introduction because…
my soul knows him.
I recognize this is not the first of its kind. Others have also shared just such things in the wake of the recent, horrific atrocities in Syria. I feel impotent to change much of this. But I can write. And I can pray. Here, I do both. Join me…please.
Lord, they did not ask for dusty feet
sandaled and sore
to walk over the flesh and bones
of neighbors and friends,
of brothers, sisters and parents.
They didn’t ask to be brought before
someone else’s tribunal on imagined
charges of being what they should not be,
what you created them to be.
They did not seek out this desperation
that found them huddled, fearful and crying.
To see the bloated bodies of fellow pilgrims
floating down the river, under bridges,
stuck and floating on rocks jutting out
and shaking bony fists at you for justice,
is to see a God too small to save.
Or am I missing something, Lord?
I am not smart enough to know
the fancy talk at long, important tables
where cigar-smoking men carve up
the world with a wink and a handshake.
I am not wise enough to understand
how to discern what most is needed.
I am not strong enough not to hate,
nor still enough not to stir up
my anger, my outrage.
Lord, if I am forced to sit and watch
what looks like the refuse of hate-filled politics
paraded before a God with weak arms,
and no stomach to move into the fray;
then, help me to forgive you, God,
if only long enough to dive in myself.
Who knows?
Perhaps we’ll meet each other there.
Picture: www.blogs.common.georgetown.edu
Anyone who seeks to express themselves through words knows the inherent challenges to such an undertaking. I, along with many others, consider ourselves good “armchair” writers. I work at my craft. I read much to see how the really good ones place just the right words after just right words to build just the right sentence within just the right essay or book or whatever. I have a few favorites, specifically as a blogger, who are inspiring to me. Holly Ordway (be sure to follow her on Twitter) is one of those.
Her desire is similar to my own in weaving together the intersections among arts, literature, beauty and truth. She just kinda, does it real good. Her blog, Hieropraxis, is one of the best out there. She has always inspired me. I know you will feel similarly. Kelly Belmonte is another wonderful monthly contributor to Holly’s site. You can read her latest post, “Why writing is not writing”, here.
Peace, R
Standing still to move forward
is like looking at someone
with your eyes closed.
Moving forward by standing still
is like closing your eyes
when another draws near.
Standing still with desire
of moving forward,
is like opening your eyes
to see someone, perhaps
for the first time.
To have moved forward enough
to stand still is to find yourself
once more looking at another –
and seeing.
If we are made in God’s image and God sings, then we should be singing, too.
Ancient Wisdom for Modern Seekers
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an anamcara exploring those close encounters of the liminal kind
Collaborating with the Muses to inspire, create, and illuminate
...in such kind ways...
"That I may publish with the voice of thanksgiving, and tell of all thy wondrous works." Psalm 26:7
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…in the thick of things
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