Yesterday
The emails and the phone calls piled up
In metaphoric ridges
That recall these ivory embankments
That rise along the driveway
Back at home.

Inevitably
These new tasks demanded my attention
And the project at the top
Of my to-do list was the one
Hardly begun
At close of day.

Today, O God,
Let me tell the story of your grateful people
And watch the mounds
Of ivory distraction
Melt beneath the gleaming
Of your sun. 

I thank you, God, for giving me strong friends
Who’ll make me laugh and hold me while I cry, 
Who’ll honestly reveal to me the flaws
My character or personality
Display to all the world but hide from me:
My arrogance, my lack of self-esteem
(A curious conjunction though they be).

I thank you, God, for giving me strong friends
Who’ll lend to me forgiveness while they wait
For me to recognize when I offend
And render my abject apology.

I thank you, God, for giving me strong friends
Who do not fear to share their hopes and fears,
Their disappointments, longings, joys, and griefs,
Their questions and their answers, who’ll attend
To my importunate advice and give
It due consideration, whether it
Has merits, or confirms the arrogance
They note, reveal, and suffer graciously.

I thank you, friends, for all you are and see:
For you reveal the loving God to me.

Amen. 

They sought the vote,
The franchise of American democracy,
Denied them by oppressive law
Denied them by the mores of the time,
Denied them by the agents of the state,
Denied them by an education
Denied them by the state,
Denied them by a test of education
Denied them, which they could not pass.

And so they came unto the Edmund Pettus Bridge. 
A wall of officers,
The agents of the people,
Denied them passage.
On horses and on foot
The deputies and troopers charged.
They beat the marchers with their fists.
They beat the marchers with their clubs.
They beat the marchers’ lungs with gas.
They beat the marchers’ hope with violence.

They charged.
They beat.
They won the day.
They lost their goal.

Today, O God, the force of racism
Remains.
It’s subtler now, or tries to be.
Does anyone really believe
That laws requiring ID for a voter
Protect democracy?
Don’t they protect instead
The ones in power
From the ones, whose skin is dark,
Who otherwise would vote?
Does not the need
Which mothers, African-American, Hispanic,
Feel to give, “The Talk,”
Not regarding love and sex,
But how to encounter the police
And live,
Expose injustice that endures?

What bridges, God, remain for us to cross?

The blood that stained the Edmund Pettus Bridge
Reproaches us for half a century.
The blood that stains the streets of cities now
Repoaches us again.

How shall we cross the bridge of justice?
How shall we cross the bridge of peace?
How shall we cross the bridge of penitence? 

Do not forgive us, God,
Until the marchers cross the bridge
And we, repenting, join them. 

Dit dah dit dah dit dah dit dah dit dah.
Five “A’s” in Morse’s code, or in the ears
Of English speakers, rhythm natural
Of speech. Ten syllables upon the line
March easily together. Dante, though,
Composed his Tuscan grand Comedia
In lines eleven syllables in length,
Not ten. Its native tongue sounds quite as sweet.
How strange and wonderful that beats distinct
And various guide human languages
So differently, so gloriously! The Bard
Of Avon’s iambs dance upon the stage,
And il Poeta’s terza rima glides
Upon the page. We must confess, that were
Dear Nigel to confer the prize, he would
Accord it to the Tuscan, for his lines
Go to eleven. Well enough. But I
Am schooled in iambs, and their rhythm guides
These lines which dance, I fear, without the grace
Of Shakespeare’s, nor achieve felicity.

“Dit dah;” the iamb, echoing the speech
Of ordinary days, a word obtained
From Ancient Greek, inevitably calls
To mind (to mine, at least), a bush ablaze,
Where voice avows, “Ehyeh asher ehyeh!”
“And when they ask the Name of Who has sent
You, say, ‘I represent I Am.'”

Oh, You Who Are, the great I Am, accept
These humble iambs, and my gratitude
For wondrous words, for laughter’s grace, for friends
And family, for love beyond the reach
Of human understanding. God, I thank
You for the iamb. Dah, dit dah: Amen.

Where the rubber meets the road
A force exerted means
That motion rotary converts
To motion linear.
In other words:
The wheels turn;
The car moves.
A curious relationship!
Change the gripping force
Between the tire and the road;
Change the motion.
Too much friction
Glues the surfaces together.
Now they’re stuck!
Too little – like the snowfall –
And the tire spins.
I’m stuck again.
Friction makes me move.
Friction brings me gently to a stop.

There is an analogue
In human social interaction
(Imperfect, like all metaphors).
Some stickiness in my relationships
Helps them to move.
A little roughness, touch of grit,
Prompts conversation,
Spurs communion.
Lacking friction, a relationship
May glide like skates upon the ice
Until abrupt collision with a wall
Or languish, stuck, unmoving, dull.
Too much friction makes us motionless as well
No longer dull,
But joyless.

So God, may there be friction
Between us, you and I,
Sufficient to propel us
From the place we are
To where we ought to be,
From tedious stability
Or furious contention,
To ministry in motion.

How can I kill thee? Let me count the ways.
With firearm, with sniper’s aim, with gun
Close laid to hand when my quick temper frays,
Laid low by aircraft on a bombing run,
By majesty of justice bent to end
A life, by lethal intervenous dose
Or hangman’s noose, or an envenomed blend
Within a glass which brings the a dios.
So many ways! By implement, by hand,
With social sanction or with criminal
Intent. Such vast destruction we have planned
That we abide in a condition liminal.
Too many and too easy for my will
To take a life, despite, “Thou shalt not kill.” 

Kyrie eleison.

There was a time, they said, to wash disease
Away. “When angels’ wings disturb the pool,
Its waters ruffled, seize your moment! Step
Into the roiling basin, then its power
Will heal your body, mind, and soul.” Alas,
For years which mounted up to thirty-eight
The man lay, watching, struggling, straining to
Attain the waters as they stirred, alone
With none to carry him, too slow to seize
His time before another stepped into
The pool and won its healing. Thirty-eight
Frustrating, painful years, until the day
A stranger said, “Pick up your mat and walk,”
And walk with wonder and with joy he did.

One mystery of healing, so it seems
To me, is finding my due role and place
In treating my own wounds, in easing my
Own pain. For some, my body’s own resource
Suffices. Bruises on the knee, scraped skin,
Small insults I can brush aside. But when
Is my own agency required, and when
(and where) should I inquire for a pool
Like Beth-Zatha and its five porticoes?
When should I gaze for sign of angels’ wings
And strain to place my injured body in
The place where healing dwells? What hurts or pains
Surpass my power to recover? When
Must I seek aid to take the trembling steps
Into the pool? Or when must I await
The stranger’s visit, and the words, “Arise
And walk,” for even helping hands can not
Assist me to the pool in time to touch
The troubled waters and receive their balm.

O Holy One, you know the pains I bear.
You know which hurts persist, which injuries
Endure. You know where I have trusted in
My own resources foolishly. You know
Where i have sought (and missed) a fountain of
Invigorating agency. You know
Where I have lain and gazed despairing on
The troubled waters, wondering when I
Might find my turn to bathe and heal. You know
When even tender human hands will not
Avail to bring me consolation. So
Tell me, for I confess my wisdom fails.
Tell me to wait, for time will heal this hurt.
Tell me to seek for water’s ruffled power.
Tell me to strain and claim resuscitation.
Tell me to walk and bear my mat away.

O Holy One, you know. Tell me, I pray.
Amen. 

The drive is cleared of snow
To a standard that I would have judged
Inadequate
Not quite two months ago
But now I find miraculous.
I lift my thanks
For big kid boots
And even better, for
A young adult who’s home for break
(one which we’ll have to name as “winter,”since it clearly isn’t spring).

Enter cravings.
I want bacon. I want eggs.
I want sausage, fried potatoes, ham.
I want cheese and corned beef hash.
I want hollandaise
And bacon rounds
And English muffins
And a barrel full of coffee.
I want carbs and fat and salt
And I won’t tolerate a glimpse
Of greens.

Not good for me, you say?
What matter?
All I ask is that this diet kill me
Before the dread arrival
Of another winter storm.

This poem is not, technically, part of my Lenten poem-prayer project, but I suppose it could be labeled a heart-felt lament.

The street and drive outside
Are once again adorned
With argent splendor.
Overnight the overhanging clouds
Discharged their crystal burden
To blanket and bedeck
The sleeping world
Now rising to remove
Its hazardous allure
From thoroughfare and walkway. 
I, however, choose to heed
The siren song of inspiration
(And of Lenten obligation)
Which calls me to create,
Craft words, assemble syllables
Into a poem-prayer.
Come, heavenly and Holy One!
And fill me with a long and lengthy lay
That begs to pour itself
Onto this odd and insubstantial page.
Come, Spirit, come!

 

 

Come, Spirit, come!

 

 

I don’t want to shovel any more.

 

 

Really?

 

 

 

Sigh. 

One well establshed view of Lent exempts
Its fasts from Sundays. I suppose that means
I could relax a little more these morns
(Although I note, amused, that Sundays spur
Me from my bed and on the road to church
Before I must bestir myself for work
On Monday; ’tis the choir singer’s lot),
Leave for tomorrow poem-prayers, relieve
The mind of searching for a word that suits.

Today is Resurrection Day. They asked
Of Jesus, whose disciples failed to share
The common fast, why they would celebrate
And eat? “But who could fast,” he said, “Who are
Companions with the Son of Man?” So who
Could turn aside from joy the day that marks
His resurrection? Who – not I – could miss
The opportunity to praise the One
Who gifts us life, and life eternally?
And who, despite long custom, can restrain
The inner song abjured in Lent, and with
A softly joyful voice, murmur in
The heart its “Hallelujah!”?