God, be with me now.
But please don't frighten me.
Be here in this room
But don't shake my soul with terror.
Be a mild source of comfort,
A faint reassuring breeze,
Fill me with a sleepy peace,
Be a vague energy to pray to.
Gently stroke my cheek with a wispy hand,
But don't kiss it, or embrace me.
Don't wring my heart,
Don't change my mind.
Be here for me for now,
Be less than what you are.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Summer to Summer
We thought we were only pretending
To be children
When we drew ourselves in sidewalk chalk,
When we ate popsicles and you “shyly” handed me a flower.
But really we were always children
As we went to our jobs in the day
And put our feet up in the evening,
Napped under the ceiling fan in the afternoon.
Then came your birthday
That was my birthday too
With that first timid “I love you,”
Full of apprehension and giddiness.
Now we sing it full-throatedly
Though quietly, steady and assured,
Sometimes amid anger or tears,
Sometimes just to speak aloud.
Now we go to classes in the afternoon,
Our jobs in the morning or the evening,
We put our feet up and write papers on our laptops,
Stretched thin about to snap, awake long into the night.
Now we can’t live in the present
And we can’t leave the present;
The present is only our embrace
And the future is only a dream.
We look forward to an adventure
That might come in Fall, if we can make it work,
But what of the summer?
No more popsicles and sidewalk chalk.
Yet repetition always comes.
Last summer homeless,
This summer an overdue rent check.
And we’ll still sweat and cry under the ceiling fan.
This time more uncertain,
This time more assured,
This time pretending to be children,
In the late afternoon.
To be children
When we drew ourselves in sidewalk chalk,
When we ate popsicles and you “shyly” handed me a flower.
But really we were always children
As we went to our jobs in the day
And put our feet up in the evening,
Napped under the ceiling fan in the afternoon.
Then came your birthday
That was my birthday too
With that first timid “I love you,”
Full of apprehension and giddiness.
Now we sing it full-throatedly
Though quietly, steady and assured,
Sometimes amid anger or tears,
Sometimes just to speak aloud.
Now we go to classes in the afternoon,
Our jobs in the morning or the evening,
We put our feet up and write papers on our laptops,
Stretched thin about to snap, awake long into the night.
Now we can’t live in the present
And we can’t leave the present;
The present is only our embrace
And the future is only a dream.
We look forward to an adventure
That might come in Fall, if we can make it work,
But what of the summer?
No more popsicles and sidewalk chalk.
Yet repetition always comes.
Last summer homeless,
This summer an overdue rent check.
And we’ll still sweat and cry under the ceiling fan.
This time more uncertain,
This time more assured,
This time pretending to be children,
In the late afternoon.
Night
After Dark
Oppressive silence
draws the net
of thoughts and words
tighter, tighter
strangling, binding.
Fearsome whispers
of the steady ceiling fan,
God’s breath maybe
stirring papers on the wall,
making strange rustlings
that turn my head sharply,
that indicate a presence
so still, so terrifying.
So I turn on the TV,
sing songs to myself,
speak aloud,
play music,
seek company,
create noise
to drown out
...
God’s voice?
Demons?
My insanity?
Who knows.
I never will
as long as I can run,
hide,
pretend not to notice.
Alone
Left with only
myself,
whom I hate,
and God,
the Stranger I fear,
I sharpen my claws,
ready to tear
at my soul.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Beneath the Brim
A smile of sunbeams,
mine,
a face golden with
secret knowledge
so boldly displayed,
so shyly displayed.
Secret love
recalled by a secret song
heard in my ears only.
Can’t you see
that I am not alone?
Yet how dare I
flaunt my happiness?
But at the very least
I want you to see
that I hold something
deep and true.
Stranger in the next seat,
what do you see
beneath the brim of my grey hat?
mine,
a face golden with
secret knowledge
so boldly displayed,
so shyly displayed.
Secret love
recalled by a secret song
heard in my ears only.
Can’t you see
that I am not alone?
Yet how dare I
flaunt my happiness?
But at the very least
I want you to see
that I hold something
deep and true.
Stranger in the next seat,
what do you see
beneath the brim of my grey hat?
Monday, December 27, 2010
Flame Into Embers
Is this a season of waking or sleeping, of life or death? The sky glows radiant royal blue, health and energy, before it falls asleep in stillness, demure grey. The leaves flame in red and gold, crackling their song of a changed life. Later they will whisper of death, fall to the ground and lie in obscure brown on brown. The season flaunts itself in a last attempt to hold onto life and beauty, like the man with the fancy toupee and the dying woman who spends her lonely pension on beautifying creams and colored paints that stand out against the ghostly pallor of her face. Autumn, you are dying. Man, you are dying. Woman, you are dying.
And yet, the beauty in Fall is not unnatural, like the stiff, embalmed smile or the newly-painted nails on the well-dressed body in the velvet-cushioned coffin (the soft bed for rattling bones). Perhaps the last show of color is not a beautifying cream, but a final dance on rheumatic limbs that remember their youthful suppleness until their last energy is spent, and they lie down when no life is left, their last dance done. Perhaps Autumn is an old woman who throws away her carefully prescribed bottles, her monthly treatments, her stifling orders, and chases her grandchildren in circles, laughing, until her heart and breath give out and she falls at their feet, her joy spent in one last loving dance.
A season that lives until its death. May I live through my dying until at least I lie down quietly, clasp my hands, and say, with one last spark in my eye, “Now… that is done. The flame is past, into Thy hands I commend these dying embers.”
The gardener rakes the dead leaves into a pile and sets them aflame one last time. The smoke, smelling of color, rises toward heaven, lending all who pass by a strange vibrant tingle of their past life.
Even embers warm cold hands.
And yet, the beauty in Fall is not unnatural, like the stiff, embalmed smile or the newly-painted nails on the well-dressed body in the velvet-cushioned coffin (the soft bed for rattling bones). Perhaps the last show of color is not a beautifying cream, but a final dance on rheumatic limbs that remember their youthful suppleness until their last energy is spent, and they lie down when no life is left, their last dance done. Perhaps Autumn is an old woman who throws away her carefully prescribed bottles, her monthly treatments, her stifling orders, and chases her grandchildren in circles, laughing, until her heart and breath give out and she falls at their feet, her joy spent in one last loving dance.
A season that lives until its death. May I live through my dying until at least I lie down quietly, clasp my hands, and say, with one last spark in my eye, “Now… that is done. The flame is past, into Thy hands I commend these dying embers.”
The gardener rakes the dead leaves into a pile and sets them aflame one last time. The smoke, smelling of color, rises toward heaven, lending all who pass by a strange vibrant tingle of their past life.
Even embers warm cold hands.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
The True Event of Christmas Eve, Anno Domini 2010
In reverential steps,
the peace of the Christmas liturgy
spreads to all.
Heart full of adoration,
I chant the offertory.
As the warden collects the generous gifts,
the choir clears throats, turns pages.
BANG!
Someone screams, many duck.
Hearts race, the world seems to stop.
Silence.
It came from his pocket! a man shouts.
Was it a cell phone?
No, no! a woman cries.
It was a gun!
The warden limps to the back.
There in his knee, two bleeding holes.
The choir clears their throats of panic.
Rejoice and be merry, we sing,
as children cry and red and blue lights flash.
Gradually all is made clear.
A man with fear for his life
reached in his pocket to give the warden a check
and gave him a bullet instead.
A tragic accident, but only a small wound.
Yet the church remains paralyzed in shock
through the motions of worship.
As respectful cops silently investigate
the splintered wood, our shattered peace,
I wonder. Has it come to this?
Has our fear
come to this?
That a man would carry death in his pocket
to a place of prayer
on the eve of peace?
Only one figure in the church
did not start at the deafening crack.
Only one remained still
at the frightful disruption.
Still in the knowledge that He is God.
From the crèche, his small voice speaks to me,
the one we’ve come to adore speaks:
I am of greatest import, I am of highest transcendence.
I am the One who is relevant.
Lying here most vulnerable, I have overcome all.
Do not fear this world
I am come to redeem.
.
the peace of the Christmas liturgy
spreads to all.
Heart full of adoration,
I chant the offertory.
As the warden collects the generous gifts,
the choir clears throats, turns pages.
BANG!
Someone screams, many duck.
Hearts race, the world seems to stop.
Silence.
It came from his pocket! a man shouts.
Was it a cell phone?
No, no! a woman cries.
It was a gun!
The warden limps to the back.
There in his knee, two bleeding holes.
The choir clears their throats of panic.
Rejoice and be merry, we sing,
as children cry and red and blue lights flash.
Gradually all is made clear.
A man with fear for his life
reached in his pocket to give the warden a check
and gave him a bullet instead.
A tragic accident, but only a small wound.
Yet the church remains paralyzed in shock
through the motions of worship.
As respectful cops silently investigate
the splintered wood, our shattered peace,
I wonder. Has it come to this?
Has our fear
come to this?
That a man would carry death in his pocket
to a place of prayer
on the eve of peace?
Only one figure in the church
did not start at the deafening crack.
Only one remained still
at the frightful disruption.
Still in the knowledge that He is God.
From the crèche, his small voice speaks to me,
the one we’ve come to adore speaks:
I am of greatest import, I am of highest transcendence.
I am the One who is relevant.
Lying here most vulnerable, I have overcome all.
Do not fear this world
I am come to redeem.
.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
The Passing
I met Eternity this afternoon.
He was dressed in a Bach Prelude,
An old and weary, melancholy figure,
So I thought.
But in a flash of time I realized
I was the old one, with my long twenty-one years.
I am bent over with burden,
Longing for an ageless song,
A never-ending prelude to nothing,
A swelling current of timeless reality.
O Eternity take me, too.
Do not pass me on the street.
He was dressed in a Bach Prelude,
An old and weary, melancholy figure,
So I thought.
But in a flash of time I realized
I was the old one, with my long twenty-one years.
I am bent over with burden,
Longing for an ageless song,
A never-ending prelude to nothing,
A swelling current of timeless reality.
O Eternity take me, too.
Do not pass me on the street.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)