A Certain Faith
it does not yet appear
what we shall be
but there is yet time still
to reclaim what we have lost
and wake in the light between us
rise above the darkness
forgive what is past
so we may join
together again
in the creation
of the world
reflect for those
who are not us
what we are now become
reach beyond ourselves
unfold
and released from the spell
of what no longer marks the way
step with an unbending will
from our sacred rooms
into a new day
one in purpose
each to our part
diligent before the void
wondering what folly
madness or weariness of living
made us once hope
to be remembered
for what we have done
or for whom we have seen
The House of God
Then Jacob woke from his sleep and said, "Surely the Lord is in this place - and I did not know it!" And he was afraid, and said, "How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate to heaven." Genesis 28:16-17
i.
hot as hell
the last three weeks
of this century of global warming
last night at last it rained
a long slow rain
water caressing depleted soil
blessing august with a meaning
that in this drought of hope
appeared almost lost
cool morning air
wet grass
sweet resonance of relief
trees exhale
an exasperated breath
held for days
in sweltering heat
buried roots pause
their stretch
for water
a few blue flowers yawn
at the yellow sun
bees of myriad
shapes and colors
resume their labors
but with a louder buzz
the whirr of a hummingbird
interrupts your thoughts
she hovers
glances to see
in this moment
who you are
and then
without remembering
is gone
*
there are those days
when the interior of the house
you’ve worked so hard to keep
seems worn out and ugly
mindlessly wrought
by no one for nothing
where more is never enough
an unfunny joke
of object after object
arranged without meaning
from end to end
as when an old acquaintance
who does not share your taste
unexpectedly shows up for a visit
or when you travel
to a foreign place
and your eyes open
to a new sensibility
and you cannot remember
why you now want
what you once wanted
or from where you come
veneer peels
and the paint
fades in blotches
on the walls
dust collects
in luckless drifts
of hair and debris
the dog has shredded
some useless toy
on the carpet
and you slouched
in the faded cushions
of the couch
wait for the dog
to clean it up
*
sometimes
the simple gift
with morning tea
is opening a book
left forgotten
for a decade
on a shelf
you wipe dust
from the jacket
open musty pages
read words
written by someone
you do not know
penned maybe centuries ago
or maybe not
a man with a strong voice
a hesitating rhyme
a woman who speaks from a distant time
to a place long closed in your heart
in a way this time and place do not
ii
after a light breakfast
of toast and flakes
you wander with nothing in mind
to the end of the wet lawn to the spot
where the tall grass of the wild meadow
begins rolling up through wavering pastures
spreading over distant mountains
rising to gray clouds on the horizon
disappearing into forever
the front door shut
your iphone left on a small table
unseen words splashing across its screen
like ripples stirred by bored fingers
disturbing the shiny surface
of some unknowable deep
the alerts
the arguments
the vibrating pleas
replaced by pitched bird chatter
a mockingbird swoops low
lands
inquires
with her cocked head
why you are here
at the beginning of the edge
without your hand-held device
the summer fox
fills his nostrils
with your scent
deer glance up
dismiss the danger
of your presence
asclepias nurse
their moist seeds
in mottled pods
a few orange butterflies
(named for kings) return
all wings and purpose
to the sticky milk of birth
*
wind does not wait
for leaves to brown
to blow and cast them asunder
wind heaves its heavy gusts
from almost north in late spring
from the dome of sky
to test the mettle of trees
and regale tender buds
rain is not programmed
to fall by the timer on
the irrigation system
of god the farmer
the mirth and mischief of water
are not confined to untamed oceans
clouds let loose
their silver torrents
their soaking mist and fog
and unmoored worms
and other spineless creatures
drown and wash away
but the bounty
of this shapeless power
does not linger about
the surface of what matters
in august the parched clay
tightens about dry roots
creation continues
at her own uneven pace
with her own ideas
of what is fair
and what is not
one way or the other
telling us she will not be undone
by time or what we have become
magical beyond rationing
an affront to each ego
who wants for a certain order
where there is none
who lashes out when
another day is over
and the rain has yet to come
*
are there any who believe
we can pray to alter weather
for thunderclouds to flash
for hurricanes to blow upon us
are there still a fevered few
who pretend god zips
through tiny prayers
like ethereal tweets
clicking the hollow heart
on an upgraded tablet
only for those who check
the boxes on an eternal chart
isn’t it easier to imagine
she just laughs and says
get on with it
look around
wake up
abandon the furtive whispers
the center may be still
but the plasma and the ooze
are bubbling twirling about
the world moves
one moment is not the next
one second by any measure
arranges and rearranges
points of view
decomposing wooden stumps
recomposing them anew
into previously unheard symphonies
that are nothing less than beautiful
*
why do we settle
upon a competition of lies
for naming rights to a world
that inexorably removes
its hospitality for unkind men
why do we battle plants
and in our arrogant indifference
need to label every life we touch
these so-called weeds
staring back at us
have as much right
to be here as we have
to pull them up
and what are the odds
of our prevailing with
their million to our one
and what is the likelihood of success
with a billion redundant seeds
against days toiling in the sun
why do we continue to delay
the closing of this feckless age
devoid of common truth
rife with needless hate
sadistic in its manipulated anger
why do we abandon
who we are at heart
to follow salacious prophets
and unaccomplished crooks
who peddle their exalted place
at the center of each nation
in their retelling of the story
it’s divinely ordained for them
to be the privileged owners
of plantations surrounded by gardens
of country estates ripped from meadows
of white-columned mansions all wired and lit
at the top of appropriated hills
how is it that we’re free
to disregard rotting trusses
and spent joists framing god’s house
to overlook moldy rooms
where air is foul to breathe
pay no heed to damp foundations
crumbling under foot
free to ignore what becomes
when what’s inside walks out
*
where is faith in
what we are together
each moment
we have the power
to part anew
firmament from water
to ask ourselves
if our hearts will
more likely open up
will our tightened fists
better unclench
in fathomless depths
or rocky heights
do not be fooled
do not consent
choose your forty days
and forty nights
abandon the search for answers
and go forth and join arms
with the arms of others
iii
so with nothing in mind
you wander across
the face of cut lawns
and linger near the wild meadow
until the sun is high and gnats swirl
in an annoying swarm about your head
and what victory is to be won
arguing with gnats
what language do they grasp
what human reasoning
might coax them not to stick
or fly into every open spot
swats and slaps are pointless
and a chemical repellent
is poison for naught
they come and stay and stay
and then they come and stay again
until the logic of their argument
persuades you to leave
go back inside
*
it is not always clear
what's good
what can be done
the unbreakable gift
is that god leaves the work of creation
utterly incapable of completion
and those who hold otherwise are fools
these endless days
often devoid of meaning
where we must contend
exhausted from the journey
weary from the power
to make another person feel
tired of the futility
of trying to make it right
longing in the
nights that follow
so small beneath the stars
for an unexpected holiday
before another start
hoping for a day
like god’s seventh day
Your Favorite Flowers
this place
of hidden roots
cut lawns
long shadows
growing longer
with the slanting rays
this day of
ephemeral memorial
late that afternoon
the first one appears
alone in a summer dress
through the pollen haze
floating below the
old cemetery trees
her auburn hair tied back
she stops
stands for a moment
quietly with
her small bouquet
of three sunflowers
bends to pick
brown leaves
from off the grass
close to the ground
she whispers words
that fall among the green blades
like small flecks of glass
as in a ballet
or perhaps as in
a well-staged play
a second daughter steps
from behind trimmed boxwood
onto the crushed marble path
that draws its taut line
between these unforgiving
gardens named for saints
she’s fit
she wears her
shortest denim shorts
sandals painted toes
a summer tee
unannounced
a third
just off from
work all
stethoscope and scrubs
waves to greet the others
as she calls out
they laugh at happenstance
well-acquainted in
matters of reunited hearts
fleeting conversations
rise then fall
familiar rhythms
meander
this way and that
all meant to
catch you up
the small bouquet
adjusts to the vase
six feet above what’s left
inside the box
of muscle fiber bone
that nursed them each
when they were babes
and in their adolescent turmoil
held them tight
bottled water
summer heat
the inevitable
droop and wilt
and then as if on cue
each sister knows
the moment when
enough has been said
impromptu comes to its small end
silence settles in again
a last blessing for
the minutes spent
shadows extend
just a bit more across
the few carved words
that try to sum it up
but don’t
and then
as you would
want
as lovely
as they
first
appear
they go
Fox Hour
not the cable network
but something real
late afternoons
in january
for a few weeks she appears
at about the same time
each day
unannounced
presence
in the sloping meadow
weaving
between the gold tufts
that bend with the wind
hunger above the snow
one with the scent
of the gray
mouse and the
brown rabbit
Ghosts
A story of family, of ghosts, in three parts.
SOME QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS ABOUT GHOSTS
(PART ONE)
alone some night
you might worry
you might ask
if ghosts see other ghosts
if they wait for us
if they watch for us
or poke at only those of us
who stumble
into the fog of their familiar
are they frightening
because we are afraid
are they here only
because we are here
are they the dead or
what’s left of the dead or
entirely something else
do they linger longer than we linger
dwell perhaps on some greater purpose
bound by some unspoken oath
loyal to some unknown god
do we startle them from sleep
or are they forever awake
(and if they sleep
you might wonder
what fills the nightmares
and the dreams of ghosts)
do they harbor a malice
after being tormented by evil
or are they nothing
but tiny beacons of hope
hinting to us
to unfold from our smallness
are they aware of their ghostly clarity
their ephemeral white
their trailing gowns
or do they see themselves
only when they stare into our eyes
and become what we imagine
are there some who are only mist
never born to a name
do some linger in the past
or foretell a future falling
do they haunt
the old places of the world
until we
in our blundering
come calling
*
i bought a tree
a copper beech
and planted it
in my arrogance
in this spot on the hill
behind the garden
i have no shame as i whisper to the tree as i dig
that we are both temporary things
here for a spell and then gone
i have no shame or remorse
when i say to the tree
that you will live longer than i
that i am more temporary than you
and in my dream
i am here
in a hundred years
finding shelter from the sun
beneath its bronze canopy
and in my dream
in my world
i am here through the seasons
feeding the birds that stop in its branches
bringing water in the dry summers
before its roots have gone deep
protecting it from winter storms
and cold winds and the bite of deer
me and the tree
reciting a short prayer together
tree that i have planted
suffer not my arrogance
or the carving knife of lovers
suffer neither my hope nor my ignorance
and grow strong
*
my grandchildren are playing
in the shade of the tree on the hill
behind the garden
the girl in a blue sundress
has a handful of daisies and is singing
the boy with no shoes
who is older
has a rusty hoe from the shed
and is scraping at the earth
i look on as they play
watch unseen as they pretend
laugh as they slip so easily between
what appears to be here
and what they imagine
the rays of the afternoon sun
are pouring through its branches
like a million blinking eyes
a squirrel watches
drops a twig a jay
turns it head
squawks at the circling hawk
a sudden wind
rustles the leaves
pulls at the branches
tugs at the hem of her dress
threads quickly through the grass
like the fingers of a ghost
MORE SPECULATION ABOUT GHOSTS
(PART TWO)
what is that
*
the wind pulls at the branches
and the branches crack
snap
insects chew
in the rent spaces
squirrels and woodpeckers
carve holes in the wood
like sculptors of god
until the bark begins to curl around the wounds
and faces emerge from the furrowed trunks
some tortured some tormented
some clean
holy
some so complete as to be
haunting
*
and sometimes when the rain slants
when the late snow melts
from the bark and the burls
sometimes as the dew settles
through the night
cold drops
of water
fall from
the eyes of the tree
like tears
*
who is that in the fog
why always the muffled voices
of the watchmen in the distance
comforting each other with their familiar stories
as they search with their raised lanterns
for something lost
was it
a stray dog perhaps
howling in the dark
or a child perhaps
weeping at the ebb
or a lonely soul perhaps
who whispered
a last goodbye
before she fell
silently
from the pier
A FINAL MUSING ON GHOSTS
(PART THREE)
you were
an only child an only
child so
you could not have known what it was like
to grow up in a house
where your father was raping your sisters
but your cousins knew
some dead
some not
knew what it was like
to grow up like that
sired in a half-built house
in massachusetts chasing work
with their half-wit father
through florida in a rusty trailer
listening to christian radio during the day
smothering in christian virtue during the night
later as the pieces come together
you imagine the kind of brother
you might have been
to the sisters you never had
in the house of the rapist
complicit and quiet
or steadfast and murderous
always wondering where the knife would cut
and as more of the story falls into place you begin to question what your parents
knew how they drew the lines they drew what they were willing to see not see what atrocities
they tolerated ignored smiled past for the family’s sake wondering how you share a
christmas dinner with a criminal chewing past the horror swallowing the poison
what tasteless wad of gum did they wrap in the used wrapper of silence a
nd discard so efficiently so discretely in a single sweep from mouth to hand
to trash after the sweetness was gone and the juice sucked out
some nights you wake
in the middle of the old conversation
a man any man your father standing there
a woman any woman your mother
turning away just before
you stutter and the words won’t come
why i mean how i mean why did you not do
something anything nothing
*
the most frightening ghosts
return to the attics of old houses
drawn by the objects
the living forget
you don’t have to pull the string
or flip a switch to make
them appear or disappear
changing their ghost clothes
next to cedar chests
reaching for a broken toy
a doll with no arms
a soldier with no gun
turning the moldy pages
of old paperbacks
gnawing at tangled wires
until lights flicker
staring from yellowing pages
of folded newspapers
with their gray eyes
buzzing like wasps in high gables
and under eaves
always ready to sting
*
the tethered soul
of your untethered uncle comes
like uninvited sorrow
to each reunion
laughs
and pokes and
prods at his daughters
now grown
until they are drunk
spills wine
stirs old resentments
teases the dog until she barks
at what seems like nothing
through the black window
finally his gaze falls upon you mocking you
for your hatred for your self-righteous indignation
mocking you asking you what does it matter
every daughter needs a father needs to love a father
a father challenging almost pleading asking
what are you going to do now with all the anger
now that i am dead
Creed
i
the last of the disciples
has stepped from the midnight church
onto the snow that covers the ground
without falling
*
the women who have found
the folds of their bodies
flow with the endless wave
and never speak of what they know
*
the spirit penetrates
those who pretend to forgive sins
in the world where only men
wear the masks of apostles
*
the smallest child
waits for the lights of the tree
in the cold in the dark in the place
where the earth is hollow beneath
*
the crows gather in branches
each time you pray
in the garden
burning the hyssop and sage
*
the black night drips into the cup
of the crescent moon
and spills across the sky
and covers the stars
*
alone you grow to love
those who have gazed
upon heaven and earth
and all that is seen and obscene
*
and the crows gather again
on the lawn that sweeps down
from the fountain where the leaves
collect beneath the water
*
you spread the crumbs of bread
daily for the birds just the birds
that are everywhere
in your dreams
*
and you have no choice
but to believe and forget
and remember what you have learned
without feeling for the words
*
and the crows watch
the old priest pass through the iron gate
like one of the resurrected dead
waiting for the world
ii
the three fathers are there
but a day will arrive
and it will not be long
when they will be gone
*
the day has come and we are here
and the holy fathers in their robes
have gone and we are left
with the immensity of the altar
*
you climb the mountain
to steal an eagle’s feather
from the empty nest of an eagle
who has never climbed the mountain
*
and you slip farther from yourself
your soul curling about your body
like the high snows curling
about the face of the mountain
*
a shot rifling from the distance
scatters the blackbirds over the field
blots the sun and
brings on the night
*
you dream of the memories of childhood
filling the body of a child
giving shape to the blood and water
casting a long shadow on the ground
*
and you are carving a poem in the stone
to the stone challenging the wind
to lift it away
and it is your last thought
iii
i believe in one god
eternally silent beyond silent and watching
with no words for that which is unseen
i believe in the end as in the beginning
that we may know only god
nothing more
i believe that all of this will disappear
with the dust without love
i believe that with love all of this will disappear
with the dust and the memory of the love
that was before the dust
i believe that we are made
in our own image that we spring
from the same place again and again
and that we are sprinkled among the stars
i believe that we have no choice but to believe
that we are the act of believing
born from one being
giving of itself to itself
i believe in the one journey
from the place where the self waits
to the place where the self sits
among the feathers waiting
i believe that in time all the separate lights
will go dark and fall into the center
and the center will long again for creation
and the world will be without end