Tuesday, July 1, 2014
...In the stirring of the night,
... Part joy, part ethereal fright,
... Wakened awash, in moonlit rite,
... In the stirring of my limbs,
... Part ache, part unconscious whims,
... Brush of skin, summons sacral hymns,
... In the stirring of my heart,
... Part reverie, part piercing dart,
... Sometimes few words are the art,
... In the stirring of the whole,
... Part piety, part dancing on coals,
... Gaily laughing like a new born soul,
Saturday, June 7, 2014
Like any morn, the choirs of first light mustered,
The miracle so plain that but a few tender souls,
Eyes water as they revere the sacrament of dawn.
On this ordinary day, I stand before the powers,
With my best friend, her eyes are flaming coals.
A tremble on my lip; inwardly, outwardly stirred,
Once a stranger that my furtive glance did trespass,
On this day, all of the woes in all of the wide world,
Like any day, where sounds of broken heart howls,
The ache so common, that but a few tender souls,
In pangs of empathy engage the sacrament of pain.
On this ordinary day, I stand in the wind of the Spirit,
With my dearest, her soul – burns like embered coals,
And shoulders the weight, teeth set, cheek to jowl,
Once afar her country, now holding flag unfurled,
On our wedding, all of the joys in all of the heavens,
Like any day where beings lost in beatific visions,
The ecstasy so rare, that but a few chosen seraphs,
Crystal wings hover and cover both face and feet,
Aflame in love’s adoration of the most beautiful lover.
Etched in my soul this sacral time, like photographs,
Recall the communion poets and seers envision,
A gift to this world, the ingredient that leavens,
You are flesh and yet luminous,
Your kiss, a transport numinous,
You are such evidence of grace,
Your eyes, your smile, your face,
My cup, my bread.
My blood, my body,
In our life, all the mundane curses and graces,
Can but enweave into the fabric of our days,
The ordinary so plain, that every breathing soul,
At risk of blending their covenants with contempt.
Deny and decry this travesty of our love and vows.
The purest diamonds are forged from common coal,
Sweet that passion flows through the common ways,
We speak love, love, love, in all our common places.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
A world caught in orbital planes will tilt,
And circles the burning sun in elliptical arc,
The cosmos awash in a symmetry of gravity,
Matter, dark matter or spirit haunts the galaxy,
Bends dimensions in forces fearful, yet lovely,
Expanding in blossom or contracting in wilt,
By the powers.
An awesome ballet of quasars and clusters,
Somewhere a small bead of green and blue,
In a small graceful spin around a small star,
By the measure of worlds, not even on par,
Yet a Spirit breathed there, o'er the horizon,
Ex nihilo evolved -- as the creation musters,
To the song.
One man, one night, walks below a satellite,
All aglow in the light of the seraphims' wings,
He sees whom he cannot with eyes of a soul,
Breathes like a newborn, content and whole,
Though he prints the sand on a distant shore,
Swearing love and fealty, a young acolyte,
To a Saint.
Wandering below such skies -- ambering dawn,
The expanse of the cosmos pales as his eyes,
Burn a hole in the canvass and plead to the God,
To bridge the distance of miles of sea and of sod,
To the one, that in all the heavens and all the earths,
Is she, the one that his heart is hopelessly drawn,
Oh, how I miss her eyes,
Oh, how I miss her touch,
Oh, how I miss her smile,
Oh, how I miss her soul.
Beloved, beloved, beloved,
Friday, January 24, 2014
And as the horizon bends the sky,
My gaze reaches 'round the globe,
Unfurl oh wings--let spirits soar,
Surely must be more and more,
Of sweet days where you are near,
And your smile to paint mine eye.
As the horizon bleeds red to black,
My soul is mourning the dying day,
As arms and fingers comb the air,
And love is lifted in skyward stare,
"Alas, alas, frail frame of clay,"
Bound in space be such a lack.
As your horizon and mine are wed,
My love, voice and touch now one,
Embraced, enfolded in angel wings,
And now wordless as spirit sings,
Praise--Beloved! We are undone,
And remade, sharing this Holy bread.
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
In my living years, there came a new time,
Where winter's cold sloughs off as a dream,
And buds and blossoms from an old branch,
When leaves unfurl, in warm light unfurl,
And the steeple bells sweetly ring their chime.
One day, a cool breeze waters my eyes pining,
A whispering air—'tis love's sweetest song —
A solemn hymn: "the spirit and the gifts are ours." (1)
Relearning to love as if nothing were my own,
Awakening the will, to Easter's life aligning.
Luminous days swallow this seedling soul,
And as the hours gyre the paths that I will take,
Shadows ebb and flow about my wicker frame,
Skin and breath — compass every pain and grace,
The cloth where lament and love make up the whole.
And awakening in love I see the gift of days,
Days where love and grace heal a fitful soul,
Life — where love is given and love is given back.
A dying unto living, a journey to places never seen,
'Til broken hearts be overtaken in psalms of praise.
And though new days and years in time will fade,
This love speaks so loudly of the love of God,
And seen, and being seen, and beloved even still,
Renita, a sacrament that baptizes one life in grace,
Her holy love outshines the many years of shade.
1. From the Hymn of Martin Luther: "A Mighty Fortress is Our God."
The ages have seen the sorrows,
Sorrows of all who draw breath,
Hours, to days, the years, to ages,
The birth-cord entangles with death.
Patriarch, heroines, prophets of old,
Promise in story; world without end.
Every denouement always unravels,
Every last breath will always portend.
'Til Christ is born, in Bethlehem town,
Seraph singers, shepherd supplicants,
Indigent cries echoed in Gloria choirs,
Foreshadow fulfillment of the covenant.
Our sacrament brother the story's end,
Hands and feet, our bread and our wine.
As Mary's suckles the Lord of creation,
Our stories and woes with His intertwine.
"Through him, and with him, and in him. . .
World without end, Amen." (1)
1. Adapted from the Eucharistic doxology.
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
There are times,
Weary of the wear,
The mileage of the soul,
Hollow is the stare,
There are days,
The unraveling of spirit,
Mounds of malaise.
There is one,
Who is of our own,
The fullness of all beauty,
The dark we have sown,
Pierced and undone.
There is a love,
Mends a bruised reed,
The ending of our endings,
This succor and feed,
We in such need of.
There is salvation,
Smoking wick attended,
The truth of what we long for,
Pain and joys ascended,
A beautiful translation.
"A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out." Matthew 12:20.