Advent

As the winter solstice settles,
A dark December's eventide,
The hopes and fears of all the years,
Are prayers breathed and denied.
Where the advent in times of war?
And the healing of what divides?

A candle lit upon a wreath,
A light burns still in places dark.
Which hints of perfect peace to come,
In cynic times a hope will spark.

Among the poorest of the poor,
The story goes something like this,
A nowhere place, when it was time,
A human cub chose to exist,
And God with us in times of woe,
A love story that does persist.

Another flame burns with the first,
A wreath half crowned in simple faith,
In pitch black incandescence seeps,
Life to them who walk as wraith.

And those who live outside the walls,
With sight suited to dark midnight,
Are first to see the seraph mirth,
Stars and sorrows eclipsed in light,
Sweet that succor will first comfort,
Those empty handed, and contrite.

The wreath now nearly all aglow,
A third wick lit, blackens and burns,
Still solace flames to souls beckon,
Joys will answer for which we yearn.

And all who live in places dark,
Seek the song of the Seraphim,
That Advent peace — and Advent love,
May fill the trunk and every limb,
That darkness will not overcome,
That earth will team in Holy hymn.

The candles burn, four then five,
Fear and trembling and quiet awe.
The center flame within the wreath,
Avows the end of tooth and claw.

Birth of peace,
In the Advent,
of the light,
of the Christ,
Child.

Crystals

In the briefest hours of day,
Feel the wintry zephyrs blow,
And crystalline waters sway,
Within the glacial air flow,
Dancing below clouds o' gray,
O'er boonies and boroughs grow,
Blanket.

Flakes of filament woven,
Some secret artisan craft,
Bond in some covert coven,
Defects on wings of a draft,
Tottering toss from heaven,
Riding a winding air shaft,
Alights.

Solstice moon — aloft the earth,
Beckons the diamonds to laud,
Stained glass illumined in worth,
Breathes awe in hymn and ballad,
A strange fear mingled with mirth,
Crystal chancel o'er the sod,
Reveals.

The quiet,
The flakes,
The presence.

Tide

In elan vital — a spark,
That flickers and ignites,
Cocooned within the dark,
A soul to cells alights,
Then flesh and blood embark,
On a road of endless sights.
Formation.

Mouth gapes in expectation,
Salve and sustenance abound,
Coddled at each sensation,
Every lulling soothing sound,
Are tenderness in relation,
As love swaddles and surrounds,
Protection.

Threshold the nubile and naive,
Leaving nest and kin behind,
Naught to worry, nor to grieve,
Strength in surety of mind,
Choices are the warp and weave,
Of the blind leading the blind.
Direction.

And dawdling, the waters ebb,
Revealing the detritus below,
The threads entangle as a web,
Tatters the cloth of life and woe,
A hard awakening — a common pleb!
A spirit sinks, and is brought low.
Disaffection.

The days and the years grow long,
Dreams wash away with the tide.
No longer to this time belong,
Mortals with a banished pride.
Ear inclined to hear the song,
The sea whispers as it subsides.
Resurrection.

Auras

Huddled beneath the stars,
Pockets of evolution,
A million photon fires,
Light circles of communion,
Where dreams or specters tide,
In a darkly dank reunion,
Resists.

And light to light will pool,
Against the pitch - auroral,
Within this fog of flickers,
Life-stories bind like coral,
Love babbles and love bonds,
In both revelry and quarrel,
Grapples.

Then in the deep midnight,
Wicks and lights expire,
And loves to bodies cleave,
In need and in desire,
'Til consciousness recedes,
As the embers that expire,
In whispers.

Gratitude

For every breath as every prayer,
The presence stubbornly is there,
For every light that cracks the dark,
And every time the hope does spark,
And for kin, and for friends,
The longing that never ends,
Bow in gratitude.

For every morsel that sustains,
For living through the daily pains,
Beginning with a burning breath,
Until we lose the race with death,
For every sound, and every word,
Confess the joy in the absurd,
Pray in gratitude.

For the mystery of divine love,
Sacrament Spirit, the burning dove,
Alights amid the killing fields,
Eucharist hope and faith that yields
A fruit of kindness and of charity,
In places dark, there comes a clarity,
Received in gratitude.

Ghost

Strange when eyes are stranger,
Reflected in the reflection,
Vacuous, bloodless, soulless,
Beyond the warm selection,
Of trust, of troth, of truth;
Consumed by the infection,
That pulses through every life,
Every pleasure, every affection,
Numbing the living from life,
Heart locked in hibernation.
Spectral connection.

Cold when the eyes of a beloved,
Glassily glare, abandon amore,
Numbness, nothing, no one,
Walking through that empty door.
Familiar chill to everyone,
Longing for that touch. Encore!
Loss is life, as life is loss,
This life on the mortal shore.
Until passing through the shadow,
To see what we were first made for.
Formed perfection.

Sons

Every day, these boyish grins,
And words bustling in banter,
Waiting in joys and chagrins,
Only for the right to enter,
And to play.

This young man will sit with me,
And share a place in his world,
Of starfields and places free,
A country where his flag unfurls,
In proud display.

This boy talks a joyful prattle,
His presence, both tough and tender,
And fear and pride will do battle,
Yet beloved, they do surrender,
'Tis love's sway.

One solitary on the shore,
One loquacious stories on,
Both wilt at what's in store,
In the onset of the dawn,
And the day.

Yet fraternal bonds grow deep,
Blood, a link that will not fail,
When they laugh, when they weep,
In jubilee or in dark travail,
It will pay.

Every moment the child recedes,
And features of the man appear,
Dreams and dreads, fertile seeds,
That grow in time, year unto year.
Where they stray.

Jonathan,
Benjamin,
Days like sand,
Slipping.

Contrite

What is it to breathe the earth?
Curved spine, and hands in dirt,
Palms — muddy stigmata mess,
Sighs unveil a world of hurt.
The rift cuts within, without,
Thus all is broke and pervert.

Crumpled corpus in folded limbs,
Prayer bones seep in the earth,
In fetal frame, in broken breath,
Confession cries for the rebirth,
Of sacrament — that sacred spark,
Of solemn fear, of tender mirth.

And in the cleansing of the dew,
The earth exudes musty and sweet,
Smells of death and life from death,
Lift the head, the light to meet,
As the flower, as the chrysalis,
In newborn tremble from the peat,
Lifted.

Envy

In what are words of praise,
Are echoes of damnation,
As eyes in furtive glance,
Betray their own vocation.
And lizardly they dart,
Glare at each elation,
And loathsome is the life,
Crushed at its creation.
Like a vampire craves warmth,
Is cold to the reflection,
Of fellowship.


The wanting never slakes,
The thirst is never quenched,
Delight devolves to malice —
In bitterness is drenched
This life, in all its days,
In sour envy entrenched.
And passively aggressive,
Smiling jaws tightly clenched,
Conceal a shrinking soul,
The tomb is buffed and blanched,
Free of fellowship.


It's brother to brother,
It's lover to lover,
It's Isaac and Ishmael,
It's Psyche and sister,
It is you.
It is I.


And only perfect love,
The love that casts out fear,
Received as sacrament,
In dread and awe draws near,
And tears our dragon hide,
'Til naked and austere,
And free to walk in light,
Be content in gentle cheer,
Nor king, nor worm, just be,
Kind, loving, and sincere,
In fellowship.

This Space

Seen, in that furtive glimpse,
A bruised and fragile dove,
That hobbles and that limps,
As one abandoned by love.
What bridge?

And again that old recoil,
A knot writhes in the soul,
The threads ever embroil,
Neither pardon, nor parole.
What may?

These were the eyes that saw,
The contours of my shadow,
In sacred gaze, in Holy awe,
A troth, a trust, to bestow.
What now?

And again, I see her shine,
Through iron neural bars,
This sacrament, this sign,
This wishing on the stars,
This space.

And grief through life and love,
The wedding and the funeral,
The bruised and fragile dove,
Both Hades and auroral,
What now may bridge this space?

Pining angelic,
Staring,
Across this space.

Bread and Wine

At a time when the time,
Of all ages distills,
When all hopes and all fears,
Now chill and stand still,
And a meal, and a prayer,
And a clash of the wills,
Meal of wheat, fruit of vine,
Mark the end of all ills,
Bread and Wine.

A dark night garden prayer,
And the falseness of friends,
The holy and the strong,
With strong arms now descend,
Without word, without blame,
A man walks to his end.
Thorns and nails, spike the skin,
Blood with mud pool and blend,
Bread and Wine.

Cry of prayer of lament,
Body slumps, drooping head,
Sky blackens in mourning,
The Man hangs broke and dead.
Tomb — a slab, and a sheet,
A long rest, a stone bed,
No! Death will not hold love
Communion rises instead.
Bread and Wine.

And the days and years since,
All beloved come to Him,
And when darkness besets,
And His light may seem dim,
This time is still the time,
To be filled to the brim,
With the food and the cup,
The songs of Seraphim,
Bread and Wine.
Body and Blood.
Death and Life.
Amen.

Autumn

And lo the melancholy sky,
Mourns the sun in smokey gray,
And as light and warmth abate,
I walk in doubt and dismay,
Mindful that my seasons too,
Ghostly pale each passing day.
Equinox fades.

As trees will weep their leaves,
In earth or fire tones of red,
Preparing for the cold assault,
In this season of dark and dread,
I bend against the frigid breeze,
And pull against the stubborn thread.
Harvest reaper.

And the skeletons of forests,
Claw the gray and pallid sky,
Tearing at the ashen cotton,
Fissures of daylight in reply,
Softly bathe the dormant world,
A twilight hope opens my eye.
Autumnal baptism.

Standing in the fading light,
Adjusting rhythms to the dying,
As the trees pause every breath,
To tenebrous times complying,
So the cold and silver luster,
Rests my spirit from the trying,
Waning peaceful.

Night Sky

A night sky bleeds to darkness,
Like a sea with wounded prey,
Whose life force ebbs in distress,
Suffers half life and decay,
'Ere the pitch fully posses,
Polaris pulses and will allay,
Morose melancholy.

Shadows blend in firmament,
As Luna leaks morning star,
Endlessly, the dark is rent,
As worlds and orbs gleam afar,
And night gazers will invent,
A strange celestial bazaar,
Beaming bestiary.

Ursa Major and her minor,
Lumber into perception,
Near a beast of great honor,
Leo hunts stars in motion,
'Cross the dome graceful Cygnus,
Wings spread — divine deception,
Miraged mythology.

Stars story beasts and titans,
Such is Cassiopeia's tale,
Fair among the courtesans,
'Mid the stars her grace unveils.
Of stately and strong Orion,
The warrior of light will regale,
Dreaming divinity.

Centaur, bull, and scorpion,
Fully saturate starfields,
Myriad myths of imagination
Coerce crepuscule to yield,
From half-life to redemption,
Poets and seers are healed,
Singing serendipity.


Star light, star bright,
In the deep of the night,
A salve to lost sight,

Disenchanted,
Re-enchanting,
Muse!

Prints

As feet displace the grains,
A story do they tell,
Of sweetness, or of pains,
Of heaven or of hell.

Though our thunder rages,
The story is of chalk,
The stories, the places,
But traces whence we walk.

Our dreams, like specters fade,
With the chimes of the bells,
Grass blends where they have laid,
Our cold and empty shells.

And the marks we have set,
Amid the shifting sand,
A cold rush to forget,
Severs the silver strand.

Thus lost would be the prints,
And the trail would grow cold,
For what our lives have meant,
Would ever be untold.

But nothing that is loved,
Is lost to kin and place,
Naked, washed, and salved,
The ode retold in grace.

As feet displace the grains,
A story they do tell,
The echo does remain,
Beyond the last farewell.

Toad

With skin of sand,
Who hops on land,
And legs of spring,
A guttural sing,
And feet of web,
A hide to shed,
Below a rock,
You hear him talk,
About weather, or spring,
Or most anything!
When the rain will soak,
Hear his happy croak,
His tongue can steal,
A low flying meal,
Then he will sit...
Watch some TV...
Read the paper...
Play some cards...
Or simply unload,
Being a happy toad!

A poem commissioned by my soon to be ten year old Benjamin Thomson...this is for you.

Pine

Birdsong beckons as the world axes,
It's way into the prying light,
And as the aurora gives to rays,
That wrest open organs of sight,
Then the fog of dreams burns away,
Our senses kindle and ignite,
And presently regrets will stir,
In the soft ebbing of the night.
At day break,
Dreams slake.

And as the consciousness congeals,
Myriad thoughts freshly imprint,
Even as the windows of the soul,
Weakly resist in hapless squint,
As the cool dew burns away,
An early morning autumn glint,
Reveals the world freshly dying,
In seasons both velvet and flint.
Morning light,
Seems contrite.

Still, something in the morningtide,
That something in each new birth,
Wakens dormant Rip Van Winkles,
To breathe the beauty of the earth,
To find there still is a longing,
For love — where love is in dearth,
And even though the moment fleets,
The salve opens eyes to the worth.
Sunrise sign,
Bread and wine.

Breathe,
Stay,
Pine.

River

Attend the hypnotic babble soothing the air,
Calling to beasts, birds, bugs, and wanderers,
Finding fare and life on an ebbing shore,
Of grass and humus, a niche for wonderers.
Boundless creation finds an echo here,
In sounds, in smells, in all that stirs,
The water murmurs.

This trickster escapes 'ere it is seen,
Yet ever perceived though never still,
Kneel and kiss the cool fresh current,
Hold back the water's wandering will,
Savor the substance and the semblance,
In all things perhaps the greatest skill.
The water evades.

While this seducer captures the gaze,
The surface hides a million stories,
Death and detritus ever encased,
Below, nabbed in nooks and crannies,
Fish and fowl won't allow the waste,
Feeding in pursuit of their quarries.
The water conceals.

And as this moving canvas enchants,
The sky's light churns in reflection,
Sometimes hiding the water's secrets,
Sometimes clarifying in connection,
When muddy mocha to crystal clears,
In perfect beauty and affection,
The water shines.

Attend the parable of the river,
The visage conceals constant change,
Deeply buried in the human heart,
Are places dark, somber, and strange,
Yet the angels aspire to hymnody,
When mire for glimmer is exchanged.
The water reveals.

As I sit by the river.

Fear and Tremlin . . .

Quiet as the Buddha,
Silent as the grave,
Yet mischievous to the core,
As a dork noted of this knave!

Humility adorns him,
Like a bad hair day,
Canon of Eerdmans Publishing,
Where will his feet now stray?

His wit often hid under a bush,
For better or for worst?
Until the bastion of blurbs,
Would break out into verse!

His eye suspiciously tilted,
Toward a twisted fantasy,
A salesman imagined in speedo,
A horror none should ever fancy!!!

Often channeling his darker side,
In Olympian feats of feet,
Through exercise and lipo,
He remains among the svelte elite.

Eons of descriptive copy,
Made Todd pine for something regal,
Yet pink did his countenance shine,
In delivering Robert Siegal!

Superb! Unique? And, Groundbreaking!
His descriptive skills evocative.
A light under recognized among pee-ons!
Can wax eloquent and provocative!

How many professors will sigh relief?
Alas, so much fear and trembling,
From letters and emails requesting a word,
Postmarked and signed by Tremlin!
_________________________

This is another work poem, that won't make much sense to you if you didn't work at Eerdmans when a now Professor, Todd Tremlin worked there. He wrote copy and solicited endorsements (aka: blurbs) from authors for books and catalogs. He was very quiet in meetings...usually in deep and quiet tones would speak to usher a zinger. He also had a mean sense of humor that included teasing one editor for a self-effacing comment (he had called himself a "dork")...and tried to embarrass me when I was still in sales by trying to make others imagine what a guy like me would look like in a "Speedo"...I shiver still at that comic conversation. He was somewhat obsessed with fitness...He often used flash words like "groundbreaking" in his catalog copy. The piece de resistance came when he turned in a blurb he thought was from Robert Siegel of NPR...it turned out to be from a poet/friend of Luci Shaw. He had to write an apology to Robert Siegal...which was one of his most embarrassing moments. Anyhow...I ran across it in my archives...thought I'd post it to be silly.

Madman

Standing cold before the barren,
Landscape at dawn's first sliver,
Eye of mind and gelatin blues,
Closed, contemplate, and quiver,
What monsters rise with the wind,
What calls the spine to shiver,
Before the chasm.

Waiting for Jesus, or for Godot,
Doubting Thomas, or turncoat Judas,
Waiting with the holy or the derelict,
Confused in a tale without codas,
Wearied of certainties of the certain,
In endless chapters, verses, Suras,
Spoken to the chasm.

And as the stars race from the bang,
And over ages move into darkness,
The cold around and in us steels,
The truth in the love we profess,
As divinity dies don't our souls,
Now ragged wander in state of undress,
Reeling over the chasm.

The prophets, poets, see their bones,
The pilgrims gnaw and suck the marrow,
What breathed visions, words, warmth,
In their song, sweet as the sparrow's?
Where they now without flesh, or sinew,
Chant their dirge of deepest sorrow,
Across the chasm.

But now the night is lit with neon,
Toys, and sex, and glitter demons,
They numb memories of a greater lamp,
In pleasures urbane or abominations,
And the crowds, like rats to a piper,
Blowing in bones played to distraction,
Fall into the chasm.

I have come too early,
So few are capable,
To carry the weight,
of these times.

The lantern is out.

Carolyn Joy

The hope your brought, yet unborn,
In the joy of anticipation,
In that hidden place, being formed,
Bringing Joy of a new creation.

Oh Carolyn
Remind us again.
Carolyn,
Of the Joy of when,
We were made new,
Just like you.

Listen now to the voice that formed you,
Learn to recognize it well.
In this world of half-truths and lies
He whispers of the only love so real.

Oh Carolyn,
Listen to Him.
Carolyn,
Your Joy will shine when,
He makes you new again.
__________________

A poem from a much younger me...24 years ago, when my first niece was born. She is now a bit older than I was when I wrote this for her. It struck me as I reread the thing, how innocent, and wide eyed I was...not much less so than my new born niece.

Adrift

Ever the undertow has its sway,
And current pulls from the bay,
Features fade in the horizon,
As the sphere yet emblazons,
On scorched cataract corneas,
Above gurgling glossolalias,
It's seal.

Then tide takes from the tow,
The hapless pilgrim cargo,
Now lost to all stories,
And the daily banalities
And in the ebb and the flow,
Resigns 'ere the winds blow.
Lost steel.

And as the pitch and the roll,
Ever again take their toll,
Limbs surrender to the surf,
No longer dreaming of turf,
Scalded sight in empty stare,
A ghost for Davie Jone's lair.
End ordeal.

Storm

A night robbed of moon oppresses twilight,
Galaxies hid in vaporous thermals,
And infinite space compressed from the height,
Air bristling qualms, breathe sacramental,
The wind fulminant, that can but ignite
Seethes o'er all in a downpour torrential.
The vault enraged,
The vale savaged.

Then the pitch negates in a zealous flare,
Electrical tendrils root sky to loam,
And the firmament fractures in a tear,
Incandescence surges below the dome,
All that breathe, breathe in silent prayer,
As the sky cracks in noises so fearsome.
The heavens rent,
A strange portent.

Again and again, see the darkness slashed,
Like seeping magma cracks cooling rock,
Again and again, hear the silence crashed,
As zephyrs are madly scattered in shock,
Lo the darkness bleeds when it is lashed,
Fine filaments fall like teasing lovelocks.
The firmament fires,
Numinous inspires.

Fauna, flora, and folk curve their necks,
Have gods unbridled and kindled their wrath?
Some beings cower, while some genuflect
In awe, as if bolts could summon sabbath.
Then a precipitous quiet, the sky elects,
To whisper sweet peace in the aftermath.
The shadows retreat,
Amid dancing feet.

Tremble,
Joy,
Hush.

Pachyderm

Ancient tribes march across the plain,
Wise gray-ones in deliberate plod,
Mother and child in a land without rain,
Sisters and aunts thunder o'er the sod,
Masses of memory endure the pain,
Of endless miles in callouses shod.
Migration.

In shadows shifts the Savannah dust,
Noses nuzzle familiar faces feel,
Brays call strays against a sky of rust,
As kin collapse branches — the evening meal.
The mercy brings cool in a gentle gust,
Under dark cover hear a trumpet peel.
Communion.

First light unfurls both leaves and lids,
And a resolve for the miles ahead,
The caravan resumes the journey amid,
The dust and the soil and a sky of red,
The joyous thunder as Sol peeks at mid,
Mountainous splashes bath in a water bed.
Elation.

Yet compelled to move in ancestral paths,
Molded in humus, genes, neurons, soul,
The herd abandons edenic muddy baths,
Ever driven to their elusive goal,
Survive and thrive — resisting the wrath,
Elements and enemies that take a toll.
Compulsion.

And the fast-footed foals need hurry,
To keep apace the lumbering steps.
Young ones from old ones learn their story,
A gift to minds that will not forget.
And families and friends share this journey,
'Til meeting ancestors beyond the sunset.
Reunion.

3 Poems

Prelude: I posted on my Facebook a request for topics. I received 3--none of which the sort I hoped for, but for fun, I attempted short little poems just the same. Here they are:

The Weather

It's raining,
The days are long,
I'm feigning,
I'm ever strong,
When the storms,
Rage through days,
How to be warm,
Without warm rays,
How to speak,
of the storms,
of the rain,
of the cold,
Within.

Worm

Lowly worm,
See him squirm,
Slick as oil,
Eating soil,
Loves to call,
In a rainfall,
And in the sod,
A twist, a nod,
and gone,
Belowly.

IPOD

What a world within,
Seeping through buds,
Such a silly grin,
As he nods and scuds.
An electric haze,
Frayed nerve and bone,
An absent gaze,
'Til deaf as stone.
Thanks for sharing!

Plato's Cave Within A Cave

A world of rock weeping water,
Limited light glistens on stone,
Longings for that which is other,
Resonates through flesh and bone.
Yet here we stare,
Our lives threadbare.
Plato's cave.

Ever the fires in the equations,
Kindle in lives and galaxies,
Yet manikin-marketer's persuasions,
Ever beholden to the orthopraxy,
Words without sight,
The day is the night.
Plato's cave.

As the blind speak of elephants!
What is grass, what is green?
Frail knowledge never recants,
Wispy certainties never seen.
Life without form,
In fiction adorned,
Plato's cave.

And lo, the philosopher's quest,
A path oft hailed in hemlock,
Neither quite reaches the crest,
Nor finds the keys to unlock,
Souls in shackles,
Locked in manacles,
Plato's cave.

Seraphs, Saints bring a salve,
And shepherd into the real,
Of past darkness absolved,
Awakened walk free and feel,
Upon the grass,
A holy mass,
Outside,
Plato's cave.

Flourish

It was not the springtime of a life,
It was not yet the height of swelter,
The time blossoms broken in strife,
And a burgeoning helter skelter,
When angels light and dark were rife,
And the storms gathered without shelter,
We touched.

In the sacrament of married love,
A universe of dermis and follicle,
Germinates a gift ever to belove,
Compassions in a widening circle,
Travail, the time oft dreamed of,
In blood cries, the holiest shackles,
We birthed.

Tissues and limbs, unfold in a dance,
Even as the summer of life blusters,
And every celebrated moment we glance,
In the wounds are darkened and blistered,
As foals in freedom play and prance,
To years resigned, the future we inter,
We mourned.

And ere autumn with dwindling light,
Call our bodies to a season of wilt,
Even as cubs face their season of sprite,
Will the dreams remain buried in silt?
Or yet may we hope and reset our sight,
As creatures untouched by the guilt.
Heal,
Will we?

And as the garden grows in season,
The flower blossoms when it wills,
And the heart has its own reason,
Though the dark infects with chills,
Yet we breathe: Kyrie Eleison
And await the ending of all ills.
To see,
To live,
To flourish.

night

The orb will tilt in space,
The fire sinks o'er the line,
Now Lune begins her chase,
In hues of autumn wine,
The sky absorbs the taste,
Summons our souls to pine.

Sun blazes into night,
Shadows bleed 'ere they blend,
As endless specks of light,
Black sky in beauty rend,
With angel tones of white,
Heavens heal as they portend.

The darkness deepens still,
Beasts call as called by moon,
Some to flee, some to kill,
Some moan in midnight swoon,
And in the darkened chill,
Bug and bird, weep and croon.

And 'ere the watches fail,
With eastern skies aglow,
And as the darkness ails,
The morning will bestow,
Aurora soft and pale,
In healing, warming glow.

Terra

Blue-green ball of rock and water,
Cycles with kin a blazing light,
In milky spiral, in endless night,
Elliptical terrestrial totter.

Why this sphere of sundry elements,
In conjunction with love and war,
Both with devils and angels soars,
To threshold a moral firmament?

Mars tracks Terra, one orbit afar,
As Venus enchants in siren sway,
Crusty mantle, where billions stray,
Unawares how small is their star.

Alike to stars, so souls are born,
Nebula or womb encloses spark,
A fetus forms, starlings break dark,
And soon to shine and bring the morn.

Blue-green ball, theater of life,
Nestled among the sands of stars,
Through pages of endless calendars,
In boundless love and joy and strife.

Aunt Lois

A whistle, a smile, a line of care,
Longsuffering as a guardian angel,
A face that shone a soul so fair,
Fondly remembering a lovely soul.

Mothering children, and visitors alike.
Faith, hope, and love so freely given.
Partaking daily in her eternal life.
Sweet Jesus carry her until all are risen

So unhindered was grace poured out
Between tears, smiles, worries and cares.
All her own — by grace are found out,
Tears of hope inhabit sorrowing stares.

Angels speed thee on thy way,
Higher up and farther in,
May our hope come without delay,
May all our memories only begin
Our fellowship.
_______________________

A poem I wrote when my aunt Lois died a few years ago now. Never posted it, so why not.

The Man Who Is Eerdmans

The root of the name pertains to the brave,(1)
To the hearty adventurer in life, not a knave.
In numberless books sought the who and the why,
So very spotten (2) seeking to “get” the “Big Guy.”

Dutch farmers reveled in ten cent sales,
[Clearly a different era in publishing]
Rooted tulips brewed Calvino ale,
And books flowed in the merry-making.

Soon to abandon the reformed stronghold,
Hob-nob among the tribe of the Rat-Man,(3)
His kingdom’s room’s multiplied sevenfold,
Yeah, charismaniacs were brought to Jen-Jen.(4)

Never timid, singularly mounting the Russian front,
Awhile sipping vodka with Pitstick-A-Rebapo, (5)
Ne’er a worry about the Zwinglians he may affront,
Dogmatically would bury himself in Bartho.

An ecumenical army now putting on the ritz,
Lawrence of Hurtado(6) his Christological knight,
Klaus von Bulow" aka von Clauselschitz (7)
Bravely typesetting in the dark of night.

A gourmet savoring, Potje bij de Sluys,(8)
Among his coterie of gov’nurs and pookies,(9)
Along with a mud-slide sampled once or twice,
Theologos-sprite occasionally playing hookie.

Assembled the learned of every creed, and race,
Humbly being the Academy’s handmaiden,
And though living in a spirit of generous grace,
Leaving his minions encumbered with Festschriften.

Though befriended by Italian scholars and gentlefolk,
To the Italian Riviera to retire would make him wary,
He’d much sooner publish yet another fine book,
From Edmundo Bada Boom Bade Bing Loop De Loop De-eri.(10)

Yet fondness fills the hearts of all who know him,
As boss, colleague, president, friend, or publisher,
‘Tis a sweetness his cup is still full to the brim,
Bill Eerdmans lover of authors from Calvin to Chittister.
____________________________________________________________

--> This poem was commissioned for Bill's 85th birthday and is loaded with puns only an Eerdmans Publishing employee would understand. For what its worth, here it is.

Explanatory Notes:

1. Eerdmans as a name has a German root meaning brave man.
2. Dutch for mildly irreverent.
3. Bill’s term of endearment for Joseph Ratzinger.
4. Jenny Hoffman, assistant managing editor.
5. Bill’s nickname for author Alyssa Lyra Pitstick.
6. Author Larry Hurtado’s fond appelation.
7. Two nicknames for Klaas Wolterstorff, who oversees typesetting and production at Eerdmans.
8. Bill’s nickname for editor in chief, Jon Pott.
9. More common Bill nicknames for a number of people who work for him.
10. Edmundo Lupieri’s nickname.

We

In service of a higher cause,
To please-appease a lesser god,
Employ the bullet or the cross,
A stream of blood upon the sod.
His hands were bolted together.

And lo the apex of creation,
Tortures, kills in endless need,
Lo the height of evolution,
Cold-cruel craving ever to feed.
His hands were bolted together.

This lad of raven curly locks,
Hoped to marry the girl next door.
Seized at three or four o'clock,
And by evening, he was no more.
His hands were bolted together.

Now his tresses matted crimson,
Broken limbs in stigmata steel,
His eyes shut to his grisly end,
A hell from those who cannot feel.
His hands were bolted together.

A son of Sunni, or of Sufi?
A Jewish lad? Or a Christian?
A bloody, rent, slender body,
An innocent-not yet a man.
His hands were bolted together.

Tarry still a moment longer.
Don't shut out this nightmare yet.
It is we who are the monster,
If pained we do not feel regret.
His hands were bolted together.

Bolted together.

Mourn for he.
Mourn for we.

Tear

Into the numinous, where tender heart strings,
So painfully plucked — as life's fragile thread,
Will unravel in pain, in tatters and shreds,
Soul naked and beggarly begging for gleanings,
Pained, the tear.

The loss and the ache and the mucous membrane,
Call moisture and minerals to daub the mask,
As if despair desired in dampness to bask,
And shame wipes the flow — with added disdain,
Soppy, the tear.

Yet this anointing of the eyes and face,
As the body weeps in moistened melancholy,
Though presenting us bedraggled and motley,
Releases rue in healing graces, and embraces,
Soothing, the tear.

And every single tear embodies the stories,
And every single tear a touch of holy water,
Though born in chapters of ache and of bitter,
Each sprinkles the sorrows and gently appeases.
Holy, the tear.

Water

Apollo's paces conjures the mists,
Upon the breeze these vapors blow,
A light dusting in the sky persists,
And travels to where wild things grow.

And droplets tear within the curtain,
Sprinkling baptism at gates of dawn,
Countless cells and souls are yearning,
To sip the grace of the hydrogen bond.

As moisture pulses through the crust,
The earth springs and pools the brew,
And seeping through paths of wanderlust,
To gush in springs or stretch in sinews.

Just so, the river roams along its way,
Tributaries nurse its seeping needs,
The waters pour life within the bay,
Fount of the flora and fauna it feeds.

And this flow, soothing as a caress,
Scuplts the scenery into softer forms,
This sacred allurement in edenic undress,
Of strength that granite or ground conform.

As shades lengthen and Zephyr's breathe,
The sky mists congeal o'er the vale,
Waters to waters as the vault seethes,
Pouring misery upon the darkened dale.

This the journey of the rain,
This the washing of our pain,
This the elixir of our life,
This the father of our strife,
Water.

Air

Feel the endless light of stars,
Pause, gazing into infinity,
From light years away it pours,
Into the unquiet parts of me.

Standing in fields of wild grass,
Stalks breathing a skyward climb,
As endless rays perform the mass,
And endless breeze the sacred chimes.

The clouds daily weep their joy,
At beauty their vantage beholds,
Warm earth currents, the gentle ploy,
That coaxes rainwaters to unfold,

And air like grace is all about,
Bending soft to enfold my frame,
The substance of every song and shout,
It carries the calling of my name.

Seligman's Dog

Eyes fixed on the closing light,
Not a breath betrays this fright,
I dreamt once of safe and warm,
And felt safety from all harm,
Now I lay me down,
Like Seligman's dog.

Now locked at neck in guillotine,
The universe turns cruel and mean,
I dreamt once, the trust of love,
Felt the touch like a velvet glove,
Now I lay me down,
Like Seligman's dog.

And every tick upon the wrist,
A new ache scratched on the list,
I dreamt once of the hope of morn,
It seemed not a curse to be born,
Now I lay me down,
Like Seligman's dog.

Somewhere a fissure in the clouds,
Somewhere faith, hope, love sing loud,
My eyes closed tight to the angels,
With keys to the locks and manicles,
I need be led and freed,
Like Segligman's dog.

____________

Martin Seligman did experiments on dogs to demonstrate a concept called "learned helplessness" where dogs were given electric shock through the floor with no way out of the room. Eventually the dogs would lay down and whine. Then after restoring a way out, the dog would still not chose escape. The dog would have to be led out of the painful circumstance by hand. It seems to me it is a fit analogy for some of life's experiences and conditioning.

Clouds

A dizzy dance of vapor mists,
And my heart sinks, painted grey,
Even as droplets off wind-gusts play,
In rain sprinkled grass I rest.

What calls this surge to leave the beds,
Of pools, ponds, lakes, and oceans,
Cumulus over sky in endless motion,
And weep o'er faraway lands instead.

In nimbus Rorschach forms of white,
Or in streaming cirrus vapor currents,
Like a living tapestry of firmament,
Plays imaginings and fools my sight.

Then waters reclaim what they have lent,
Drawing mists, drops, snow, and hail,
Even as clouds toward horizon sail,
Their very selves condense, are rent.

Clouds, like stories, like life and death,
Lovely in time, but the moment fleets,
Winds blow clouds, like backyard sheets,
The stuff of dreams, or ghosts, or breath.

Beautiful Boy

Of pain and blood — first cries,
And breath and open eyes,
The womb's safe walls now breached,
As pixie hands, upward reach,
Beautiful boy.

And endless nights of endless wake,
Love's sweet specters never slake,
They cradle pup from every fear,
New breath puffs in parent's ear,
Beautiful boy.

Limbs so slight of bone and skin,
Scarecrow cub — free as the wind,
Yet time will grow sinews and size,
'Til a young man one day does rise,
Beautiful boy.

As his character and stature grow,
Then a father will come to know,
The infant-man dons uniform,
With proud heart, and tresses shorn,
Beautiful boy.

And every ring, and every knock,
Brings every fear, and every shock,
For the one once weak and frail,
Now blazes the most deathly trails,
Beautiful boy.

The day violence breaks this boy,
This beautiful, beautiful, boy,
Now lays crumpled upon the ground,
His fractured frame makes no sound.
Beautiful broken boy.

Of pain and blood, last cries,
Without breath but opened eyes,
Kin and loved ones mourn and weep,
And walk in grief and valleys deep,
Oh beautiful, beautiful boy.

Oh beautiful, broken boy.

The Rose

Silky huddle teams the stem,
Seeping drift of sweet pollen,
Fist-tight greed in morning light,
Allures in hues of lovely sight.

Orb rises o'er horizon's curl,
Rose fair plumage gently unfurls,
Now wafts fine nectar on the breeze,
It beckons beasts, birds, and bees.

Wantonly sprawled in heat of noon,
The flower flirts in a midday swoon.
Like a girl grows to womanly charm,
Finds suitors circle in avid swarm.

'Til hapless lover seizes stem,
To be sole owner of floral gem,
A piercing pain retracts from thorns,
Love and grace are in pain adorned.

As days bleed night and back to day,
Thus softly petals wilt, then lay,
Like an offering at the feet of God,
This — rose's dying act of laud.

Tremble

Silver follicles thinly combed,
Over speckled brow kindly wrinkled ,
His eyes ever inward honed,
Looking for memories long addled,
I remember.

And Pop loved all within his sphere,
Beloved and loving with every breath,
His eyes paled, but showed no fear,
That he was losing the race with death,
I remember.

A gentleman managing his broken world,
Always glad to see someone he ought to know,
Speak a prayer and his brow would unfurl,
And his countenance betrays a warm glow,
I remember.

Lost were places, people, dreams, words,
Barely a shadow of the man beloved of kin,
Mostly he had made the journey heavenwards,
With but a breath hanging on to his skin,
I remember.

The Lord is my Shepherd;
I Shall Not Want,
Pop's eyes clear in connection...
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
A vague look of recognition...
He restoreth my soul:
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
He quiets his search for lost speech...
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil: for thou art with me;
Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
His inward gaze in upward reach...
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:
Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
And contentment imbues his gaze...
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
And Pop sees beyond his mindless maze...

And Pop shortly breathes his last,
Now his tears, memories restored anew,
His sweet Savior now holds him fast.
In that place, he believed was true.

Breathe,
Pray,
Tremble.

Embers

Once crackling and consuming,
Sweetness, light, mirth of mind,
Curtains of carbon enveloping,
Beloved and loved intertwined,
Their bodies and spirits burning
Euphoria so willingly made blind,
And open.

Soon crackles quiet in warm whispers,
And warm safety soothes the bones,
The blazing calms to soft dangers,
All aglow in warmth and earth-tones,
Deepening bonds unite the dancers,
Swaying in warm breezes unknown,
Now deepen.

The crackles diminish into a hiss,
A coldness impinges past the flame,
Limbs fold away from tender kiss,
Each in t'ward solitary frames,
Warmth — a tide — recedes the bliss,
That was once sweetly proclaimed,
Now cheapened,

As embers bleed their heat and light,
L'amour recedes to places far,
Death dying death — day and night,
Once aflame, now cooled to char,
Crimson coals crumble ashen white,
And drift on morning breeze afar,
Unshapen.

Thirsty

When the desert claims the garden
And rivers cannibalize their flow
Thistles consume without pardon
None can either reap or sow,

When skin and mucous membranes
Parch to taut leathery hide
Crusted joints and walking canes
Make for jaunty, broken stride,

When the horizon's broiling haze,
Scorch all stirring in daylight's wake,
Lithesome air sets beasts ablaze,
A lifelessness that will not slake,

'Tis then flash floods raid the sands,
Cooling muddy silt wraps the crust,
And seeds dying within the lands,
Cramped casings give to floral burst,

And crawlers, slithers, walkers, play,
In new grass dew by fragile ponds,
Jubilee that ends the curse of day,
An oasis covenant renews the bonds,

Of living to water, breath, and Spirit,
Of Spirit to dead zones made alive,
Seasonal baptism be the Holy Writ,
Story of each creature born to thrive,

Yet waiting.

A Grace Prayer

Chasms open before your feet,
Offering odds you dare not meet,
Cold your breath in whispered prayer,
And old the faith which gets you there,
It will get you there.

And many beloved, and many friends,
Hearts well up as prayers ascend,
To warm the chill within your spine,
In hopes to share, the bread, the wine,
Broken bread, poured wine.

These prayers flow in a holy tide,
With you our friends they will abide,
That sweet healing be upon the wind,
That Ann's sweet families will mend,
That you all will mend.

And though parted with long goodbyes,
The gleam of tears within our eyes,
We grieve in hope but grieve we do,
And love, and walk, and pain with you,
Our beloved friends.

The broken bread, the poured wine,
And a Grace-Prayer be the signs,
To Adam, to Ingrid, and to you,
Of the fellowship that's ever new,
And renewed.

Amen.

____

Written for my friends, when I learned she was in a bad accident. Written primarily for him, who sat by her bed upheld by the prayers of many. I updated this once she had passed away some weeks later.

New Year in Old Times

Some years seem like death come slow,
A lovely bleeding anoints the grass,
The litany of woes that times bestow,
Each year feels dimmer than the last.
Though in pain lovely selves do grow,
All pray the coming year will surpass,
In sweet solaces.

In the mirth of December's eventide,
Are fragile crusty painted faces,
In prayer or drink, the year has died,
Bittersweet the cheers and embraces,
As the merriment's fateful subside,
All remain with the gifts and graces,
Of lonely places.

The Year's new hope waxes eloquent,
Sweetly the heart — full of resolve,
Soon the coals now burning ardent,
Cool as our lofty goals dissolve,
Hapless in fashioning an atonement,
Shadows of utopias again devolve,
To cadaverous cadences.

Some years seem like death come slow,
Yet grass grows through the fissures,
Regardless what the times may bestow,
There is love and healing that endures,
Though no shortage of pain nor of woe —
Will come a day of justice and closures,
And secure embraces.