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.