Beholding

 

Trudging

I raise my eyes

from the pavement

To a sudden presence

From behind a house to

The edge of the sidewalk

A doe

Staring downhill at the

Terrifying concrete river.

She ignores me, concentrating

On the serpentine road . . .

I  breathe, Look both ways!

She decides to cross, her legs

Opening gracefully across the alien flat rock

 in a sudden second to the other  side

Quickly one, two more chasing her

without the slightest glance down the street,

Fording the perilous river

Gone through the opposite yard

Into the woods.

Could I behold her world

With my dull eyes

So suddenly?

Sunrise

 The naked sun rises stark

 striking in singularity

 sharp circumference

commanding presence

red rubber ball.

 

The refracted sun rises

 glorifying clouds

                                                             Overtoning pastel, flamingo

                                                                    Rose, coral pink

                                                                Glowing, illuminating.

 

                                                                    Humankind

                                                           striking in singularity

                                                        lovely in gathered refraction.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some are Scapegoats

Approaching this Holy Week, may we meditate on heroes. . . .

We are all victims

A few are scapegoats

Scapegoats challenge our beliefs, victims reinforce our prejudices;

Scapegoats attract followers, victims attract more victims;

Scapegoats ask questions, victims demand answers;

Scapegoats absorb  abuse, victims broadcast it;

Scapegoats deflect attacks, victims retaliate;

Scapegoats sacrifice egos, victims feed egos;

Scapegoats inspire hope, victims inspire desolation;

Scapegoats have biographers, victims have lawyers.

Scapegoats promise forgiveness, victims promise retribution;

Thanks for Our New Electronic Angel

Which from the street looks like four white-hot appendages growing out of a bell-shaped skirt, a few blinking intermittently like something at the airport and strung together with silvery reflecting ribbons, but up close looks like the inside of a six-foot tall LED network and you can clearly make out the outstretched robed arms and giant wings like an eagle just setting down on its perch and there are some dark red circles that resemble a sash and the sleeve cuffs of a robe. Like a compressed constellation.

And if it is a little electronic and spidery it does suggest how the night sky could produce these flashes of light, portraying an angel choir, just before it broke into neighborhood-alarming hymns of praise, “Glory to the new-born king,” which I would not simulate in this neighborhood more suited to “Silent Night.” Angels have been known to disturb the sleep of human beings, but their announcements always broke forth in the country, where there are no “Disturbing the peace” laws that would slap a fine on your humble abode.  So our electric vision sings silently.

Suddenly it seemed appropriate to spring for a $100 Electronic Angel after spending excessively to overhaul the landscaping in front of our house this fall, a wondrous improvement, but hardly visible in the night, where our dark house lies calmly on a street with intermittent Christmas decorations. We do not go in for the spectacular, our plantings stooped dark evergreens bordered by coppery, grayish boulders, but we wear winter fashion well.

Overnight the flashing white LED’s have awakened our yard and the gloomy end of our street, reminding us of a miraculous story in the lightly trafficked darkness.  Most of all the story is about light shining in the uncomprehending night after night for two thousand years and if the Electronic Angel gives it a tacky spin, it is ok with me if only it reminds me that heaven has come and keeps coming into our most darkening moments.  For the intrusive glow illuminating our dining room window with mute alleluia, thank you, Holy Light.

I Give Myself to This

Carrie asks:

What do you see yourself embracing with all your heart in the coming days and years?

I Give Myself to This
Song by Carrie Newcomer

Memorable

Teachers make students memorable.

The first and only teacher

To give me a nickname: Tiger.

Laughable, I was all of 5 foot two,

Cowering in the back of his class.

 

He said when I had an idea I would  hold

Onto it, chew it to pieces.

That was bullshit.

He just made that up, because he wanted me

To have a name I could grow into.

 

The rest of the class felt the irony.

Someone said, “I agree with what Tiger– I mean Bill– said,”

and then looked a little sheepish, as if it was derogatory         .

Mr. Davis meant it to make me feel more powerful.

 

No teacher made me feel like what I thought was pure gold,

made me look back on my early drafts wondering

what was so magnificent

made me want to do what he did some day,

Made me memorable.

 

He was long retired when I wrote to him

Jogging his memory hopefully,

“The moment your name was mentioned to me,

I saw you, wavy hair, glasses, wry smile

glide into our classroom for the day’s fun.”

 

What more could a student ask

Than to be memorable?

The Draft

Found Poem

Tonight at the Caesars Forum Conference Center

near Las Vegas,

thousands of people will gather for

an annual demonstration of human overconfidence.

The official name of the gathering is

the N.F.L. draft.

There, with millions of Americans watching on television,

executives of the N.F.L.’s 32 teams will choose

which college players to add to their rosters.

And the executives will

almost certainly

make a lot of decisions that they later regret.

[David Leonhardt, The New York Times]

Spring: April 23

 The Actual Trumpets of Spring

 

Sauntering through the Botanical Gardens

Spied hardly an azalea opening.

My mood descended

With  their mute display.

 

 

Today they fanfared

The glory of God

 In my front yard,

   A magenta choir singing skyward

Actual trumpets of spring.

                           I remember my first glimpse

Of rainbows of azaleas

In the Boston Flower Show

Outperforming every glorious display

And on me imprinting the season.

Now the fanfare of azaleas

Turns the magnificent season

Into my Ode to Joy.

My apologies to daffodils and phlox

The early chorus chanting bravely

But leaving me wanting more.

 

Deer Dream

Noiseless, revealed out of covering

Of leaves and trunks,

A browning deer from camouflage into sight.

Now two, then four

Tails flicking, noses twitching,

Barely rustling the air

Or severing sunlight, they are here,

Unaware invaders.

 

Sharing property in our hearts,

They awake us to airy dimension,

Presence of God.

The vision calls for a motionless gasp;

Frozen lest the spectacle bolts,

Shattering the moment,

Suddenly bereft.

 

Unaware they lightly possess

The clearing, once thought to be our yard.

Unapologetically they graze

Then raise their heads searching the breeze

For unfriendly scents and sounds.

Behind our glass door

We make ourselves smaller.

 

The deer enlarge, a troupe of three does

And a spotted fawn

Eying the bird feeder

But settling for seeds scattered below.

They sample the sweetest

Sprouts our spring flower beds offer;

We yield the field

To conquering gourmets.

 

After timeless interval

They get distracted, one by one,

Their heads lifted, their tails restless,

Harkening to an inaudible command

To  move on.

Momentarily confused, they wander.

One finally captures the moment

And trots ahead out of our vision.

 

Suddenly they are a troop,

Marching in a line past our side window.

A perilous moment, they stumble before the street

By our front yard.

Slowly building confidence,

They abruptly throw themselves across to safety.

The walls of our vision are closing in,

Our hearts smaller, somehow

Our lives larger.

Radical Rehab

Disturbed by legal debates

Radically Jesus changed them:

Reborn of Spirit, everywhere

Not in holy confines.

Radical living water outflowing

Unbounded, total, dangerous.

Healing found at the radical base

Grafting, fertilizing radically.

Change half the oil in the crankcase?

Change one tire out of four?

Lincoln’s head radicalized

The failing tread.

Tinkering with the tax code?

Or radical change! 

The inspired, radical leap

We should have taken

Into the deep

Decades ago.

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