Friday, March 15, 2024

Sometimes Awe

 








Sometimes Awe


A book of poetry gathered from a lifetime of wonder





© Copyright 2024


E. G. Happ

Commerce. Michigan


All Rights Reserved





__________________________________________________________________


Sometimes Awe

Contents

Introduction

1.  Children

As a Child

Christmas ‘92

Michelle

New Words

Green Fingers

Disconnecting the dots

A phone call with Holly before she turns four

Inchworm

Playing

A Child’s Table

An Evening Sonnet

2. Nature

Take a Hike

Divining

Seasons change without us

Morning Constitutional 22

Stopping where the path turns from the field

Taking out the trash

Turkey Brood

Fog

Flat rocks

Eclipse

Eclipse II

Great Blue

Revival

The Roar

Horseshoe Falls II

The Loons Call

3. Places

At Grace Cathedral

Giza

Sanctuary

Little Yosemite

Snoqualmie

Gruyere photos

Riding

Bamboo

On the Train to Genève

Green

Humming the Prepositions

The Big House

4. Saints

Mother Marie

Agnes

Richard

John

Joe

Alice

Ann

5. Passion

Passion

Passion: ending ii

The Edge

Communion

Sparks

Golden

6. Art

Trompe l'oeil

Peace

Rising Moon

Two Deer

Boy at the end of a string

A face on the wind

At the 60th Annual Meeting of the Parish

On the Ruelle

Two Chairs

7. Crisis

Crossroads

Contact

Towers

Advent

Listen

In the fullness of time

8. Epiphany

The Yes!

Paths

Blessings

Epiphany

Easter

Epiphany on a Treadmill

Luke

The Edge of Epiphany

Week after Ash Wednesday

Yearning

Epiphany II

Baptism

9. Wonder

Wondering

Nose to nose

Curiosity

Sounds that come and go

Sunday Poem

Sound bites

Wonder


__________________________________________________________________


Introduction


In the autumn 2023, our pastor announced he was going on sabbatical to New Zealand, to study their prayer book and the country that was its cradle.  His theme was awe.  He asked us to consider writing our own reflections on awe, perhaps something to be shared with fellow parishioners.  That is how this book was born.


Awe may be elusive to define, but we know when it happens.  It may be the mouse in Sharon Olds’ description of what the poet writes. She said, “Poetry, as in therapy, is about backing up the mouse that just ran into the hole in the wall.” [1]  


Stop!  What just happened?  Roll back the tape and do an instant replay in your mind.  Write down what you saw.  This is often my thought process in writing a poem.  The most important word in the sequence, however, is not “write” …it’s “stop!”  When we pause, focus, stop the chatter, we are open to listening, to asking “what just happened?”  The writing is then recording, like relating a dream after you wake up.  That’s a kind of paying attention in reverse to what has just become “past” and a new openness to what may be coming around the corner.[2]


When does that happen?  I think we know.  As I gathered the poems that I wrote over the past 43 years that mentioned awe, wonder, and epiphany, I was surprised at the number.[3]  There were dozens.  And what emerged from the gathering were the times when I was in awe: watching, hearing and connecting with people, especially children, who have a wellspring of wonder.  There were places I visited, art I saw or heard, an encounter with nature.  And then there were those times of worship when the little epiphanies fell in our midst.  These were all the times of awe, different in setting, but infused with wonder, nonetheless.


Barbara Brown Taylor writes “Beauty prompts a copy of itself … When you see something beautiful, it stops you in your tracks. It makes you want to replicate it somehow—draw it, write a song about it, tell someone about it.” [4] Over the years in my journey, I’ve written poems along the way, taking snapshots by “fooling around with words.” [5]


So, I invite you, dear reader, to take the journey with me through a lifetime of poems and bring your senses to bear, hanging out over my shoulder and imagining with me as I turn the pages.


[1] Sharon Olds, “Going Public with Private Feelings,” Dodge Poetry Festival panel, Sept. 26, 2008

[2] From an Advent sermon, “Paying Attention,” November 30, 2008, http://www.fairfieldreview.org/fairfield/fairrevw.nsf/lnk/Advent08

[3] There are 86 poems in this collection. The Themes are: Children, Nature, Places, Saints, Passion, Art, Crisis, Epiphany, and Wonder

[4] Barbara Brown Taylor, “Always A Guest: Speaking of Faith Far From Home,”Westminster, 2020, p. 28

[5] Bill Moyers, “Fooling with Words: A Celebration of Poets and Their Craft,” William Morrow, 1999.



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1. Children


Children are the eyes of wonder in our midst.  They are astonished by the new, often pointing and with a gasp, saying “Look!”  Jesus said to “suffer the little children to come unto me.”  As so we were invited to follow them.




As a Child


If I

could capture

life as a child:

each moment,

an adventure,

a mystery,

a new wooded trail

 to explore,

a new sight

 to exclaim,

something

 to put together,

 connect the wires,

 press the buttons,

 and make it go;

with the wide-eyed

wonder,

awe,

astonishment...

it would be

the closest moment

to when I first

fell in love.


18 Sep 1988




Christmas ‘92


On the threshold

of wonder

and surprise,

what does 

the child see

hidden

from our eyes?

The joy

of gifts received,

the love

which speaks reprieve;

the child gives

to you and me

a way to see

beyond the tree


13 Dec 1992




Michelle 

(little creator, she)


She holds her tiny hand

out from her station

in a sea of toys,

arm extended to the point

of a finger not larger

than the barrel of a pencil.

it is her sign,

mostly of curiosity,

to know what it is,

she punctuates with

an emphatic "dat?"

but also a bond

and call

to her grandfather

who has paused 

and leaned over

from his cluttered desk

across the barrel ceiling

of space and time

from here to there

finger extended

to touch her outstretched

point of self.

glowing, connected

in a timeless portrait

of the moment,

grandpa, "dat."


27 Apr 1995



Child Time 

(an excerpt)


“It is by its content rather than its duration

that a child knows the time…” –F. Buechner [6]


Such a time

is seeing

my daughter

at three

twirl a yellow

dandelion

between her

fingers slowly

watching each

petal circle

left and right,

right and left,

hypnotically

transporting her

to the poppy

fields in Oz,

with home so

far, far away

in this land

at the end

of wonder

and longing.


8 Dec 1996


[6] Frederick Buechner, “The Sacred Journey,” republished in “Below a Time,”  Jul. 15, 2017, https://www.frederickbuechner.com/quote-of-the-day/2017/7/15/below-a-time




New Words


It is from

those wise ones

at the age of three

we hear

language

coming back

at us

as wonderful

as the first time

we learned its use—

a piece of paper,

a clip,

a pen

he describes 

triumphantly

as a “contraption”—

while she,

hovering over

pieces of a puzzle,

replies to a question

of what she is doing,

with:

“something very important”—

decorating a tree,

one says, is

“putting on instruments,”

and the other

reacts to “are you sure?”

with a booming and

confident:

“absolutely!”

such words

from little mouths

stir the wonder

in us older folk

as much as I imagine

the point 

of a finger

and shout of “look!”

arouses

younger hearts.


27 Dec 1997



Green Fingers


We are counting

Daffodil shoots

the last day of winter—

he is careful

not to step on them—

a struggle at the 

age of five—

I am reminded of the

horror films 

where the hand 

reaches up from the

soil

as we pleaded with 

the young actor to move

before it’s too late.

Here,

at the end of the driveway

the green fingers

seek the light,

reminding nostalgic

gardeners

that hope rises up

like the wonder

of a child

counting the tips

of spring.


20 Mar 1999




Disconnecting the dots


She called them blowers

with the wonder of a four year-old;

she held it by the stem

a tiny constellation

at the purse of her lips

and blew--

all the stars in this orb of spores

tailed off into the wind

its dots disconnecting

into the air,

scattered, random.


I was left 

with a stamen moist at the end

of a shoot that leaves stains

on my fingers.

It is gone;

or just becoming?

Is it is?


7 Mar 2008


The title of this poem is a chapter title in Dean Slutyer’s wonderful book “The Zen Commandments,” my Lenten reading for 2008.[7] Among other things, the book is about the opposite of the rational mind that ever seeks to connect the dots.  In the image of the ripe dandelion, I remember my daughter picking and blowing with glee, I saw that my reality of the Dandelion is my memory of it, my interpretation—and yet it isn’t so, it’s gone.  The rational mind asks, “is it becoming?”  The Zen master challenges us to see it as simply being. It is.



[7] Dean Sluyter, “The Zen Commandments: Ten Suggestions for a Life of Inner Freedom,” Kindle, March 19, 2001, “Ch. 9, “Disconnect the Dots,”  p. 146ff, https://www.amazon.com/Zen-Commandments-Suggestions-Inner-Freedom-ebook/dp/B0030MQJI2/



A phone call with Holly before she turns four


I tell her I went snowshoeing today,

and ask her if she knows what a snowshoe is.

"No," her tiny voice answers, clear as a single high-note bell

I search for the words to tell her.

"They're like really big shoes, but made of metal--

like clown shoes, and you can walk on top of the snow."

"Oh," she says.

"Does that sound like fun?"

"Yes."

I imagine her smiling,

thinking of round serving trays strapped to my feet.

Her mother reminds me that when the snow is crunchy,

she can walk on top with boots.

"Oh," I say, realizing that the wonder of walking on snow

is one of those things that a three-year-old just knows.


29 Mar 2008





Inchworm


She stops every twelve steps,

lets go of my finger 

and stoops to get another inchworm—

we have not missed one 

on this walk, 

each greeted with a gasp

and careful fingers;

even a cluster of leaves blown

from on high

is taken as manna and perch

for this growing colony of wonder;

though home calls over the rise,

she abandons all for this arch of green

thread that moves as if an inch

were gold


12 Jul 2008


Written after a walk with my granddaughter Holly who is amazed by all things crawling.  Seeing wonder through the eyes of a child is to rediscover it.  She was 4 at the time.




Playing


"...the playing is itself the first fruits of the Kingdom's coming..." --F. Buechner [8]


When I see that look of curiosity

in the tentative toddler's eyes,

nascent body turned into the familiar,

the safe,

holding tight with one hand,

the other pulling on curls

after a halfway point of thumb

and finger

as if to grasp,

at what the head has turned to look,

eyes widening to take in the strange

white bearded face;

I raise my eyebrows twice,

then twice more,

and she is captive to the wonder,

smiling in the delight of seeing

something new,

that just may be

something that happens 

once again.


30 Mar 2010


Continuing reading Frederick Buechner's "Listening to Your Life," the passage about play and the Kingdom of God resonated. [8]  I was also reminded of Michael Schrage's phrase "serious play." [9]  Imagine the play of a child growing up not into something beyond play, as if it's to be put aside, but play in all seriousness as the first fruit of heaven-- wide-eyed wonder may be the golden spectacles through which the hints of that broader reality in which we are held is glimpsed.


[8] Frederick Buechner, “Listening to Your Life,” Harper Collins, 1992, p. 44, https://www.amazon.com/Listening-Your-Life-Meditations-Frederick-ebook/dp/B000VYX9BC/ 
[9] Michael Schrage, “Serious Play: How the World's Best Companies Simulate to Innovate,” HBR Press, 1999, https://www.amazon.com/Serious-Play-Companies-Simulate-Innovate/dp/0875848141/  



A Child’s Table


I come to the children’s table,

the name I’ve given the stone slab

with the low benches,

so that sitting with an open book

upon its top,

my chin is inches from my pen.

And I wonder about the gardener

who placed these moss-stained planks

of gravel and cement—

what was he remembering?

did he have an extra child’s bench

that needed a table home?

Or was this an invitation

to return to early years

when a sense of play and wonder

tumbled in the fresh cut grass,

imagining a tractor tilling

as it rode up and down

the rise and fall

of this verdant knoll

that looks upon the lake below,

toy boats leaving dazzling wakes

in the late day sun,

and if you make the sound

of engines whirling

with an avid brmmmm,

they skip along the top

of barely ripples

and fly to ports in foreign lands.


1 Oct 2011




An Evening Sonnet


She is tugging at her Dad's hand,

impatient to go nowhere in particular,

but somewhere;

she stops and points

exclaiming in a language I

do not know,

but with every gesture I remember. 

then she does that little skip and dance

to the joy of walking 

and making noise on the pavement

as if this was a canvas snare drum

and the curtain is about to rise;

"if you become as a little child",

my tired feet implore,

heaven may be the first act

     when we move from standing up 

     to stumbling with a hand held high.


14 Apr 2016

From train platform 5, Gare Cornavin, Geneva


Perhaps there was a sonnet echoing here, with the turn in the road for the last few lines.  There was a beginning-ending-beginning thread here.  The sheer joy of the toddler, and sense of wonder and exploration that is, I believe, a prerequisite of seeing heaven (not the child-like faith so often the interpretation) –and those glimpses are in the here and now, both remembered and anticipated.  I was reminded of Barbara Crafton's metaphor of the two woven baskets holding us, and finding in the end that when the inner basket falls away it becomes apparent that the outer basket was there all along.[10]



[10] Barbara Crafton’s story of the life in the two baskets: See [9:30] is this video presentation:

 https://vimeo.com/123207844 


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2. Nature


Perhaps this next poem says best what I want to say. To regain your wonder, enter nature, follow a path, climb to a ridge, take a hike.



Take a Hike


When the mind 

stagnates

and clogs with ice

as a winter stream

you have to move,

push back from

the cave of hibernation

and stomp the cobwebs

in your head,

move until the blood

pumps and washes out

the crust

that settles in

around the eyes on

a long January night,

move so the vibration

of your gait

pushes out the wax

from your ears,

jump to the bark

of the dog

that rushes to the boundary

of the property line --

it gets the adrenaline up

with a gasp.

when you move

for a bit,

you hear things

that weren't there before,

your breathing takes on

the soft clean flow

of a spring breeze,

like the shoots

of flowering shrubs in May

you can push out new growth.

move, get up

and walk from here to there.


8 May 1995




Divining


I always wondered

what the man

with the y-shaped

stick

was hearing

through his

fingertips

as he walked

across the

swell of earth

somewhere in

an open field 

that had gone 

to weed.

Was it the hum 

of electric

conduits,

a tremor

of the shifting

plates of

planetary skull,

the drums of a

swollen river

over rapids,

the hiss of

steam from

drawing close

to molten rock,

the slippery

snake of

oil oozing

in the cracks?

This geologist

without the maps,

soil samples,

lab results,

computer models

of resonant images— 

this crusty farmer

of Sicilian descent

knows in the

rattle of his ribs:

there’s something 

down there 

like a tenement 

dweller knows 

the old subway cars

running through

the basement

and the tall walls

shimmering.

There’s something

down there,

and here is

where we dig.


14 Mar 1997




Seasons change without us


I saw violet crocuses

while driving on route thirty-three

yesterday.

They were carpeting 

a still brown-green lawn

like bees on spilled beer--

and I wonder about the gardeners

who come in spring 

with their galloping lawn mowers

and wailing sirens of two-cycle Briggs & Stratton engines,

and the homeowner running from the house

arms waving, shouting

no!

not yet.


11 Mar 2006




Morning Constitutional 


The old white roan 

lifts her head 

and watches me 

on this curve of road

that leads to her pasture. 

Dogwoods sentinel in whites and pinks 

a large sun does pull-ups 

at the cloud line.

I pace to the weathered fence;

she leans out to me 

sad poet eyes so large 

I'm lost 

Pulsing nostrils

draw me in;

I hold my hand out 

for her to sniff 

as if I'm Pope.

She nods, 

I turn back, 

in wonder,

blessed.


4 May 2006




Stopping where the path turns from the field 


Something has spooked the geese

at the other end of the field

and they startle me

enough to stop and write this down.


I should say how the sun is low in the sky

and the shadows of the border trees

are long in the pale grass,

how all these brown and yellow October leaves

sound like chewing corn flakes

as I shuffle through;

there is an insistent one-note bird

yelling go, go, go, go

willing me to make my south;

the wind wondering, wild,

rides the hair from my collar;

overhead are unseen aircraft

one after another

traveling elsewhere.


I thought you should know

before I move on.


6 Oct 2007




Taking out the trash


The gravel in the driveway 

plays maracas 

beneath my shoes 

a pink street lamp shrouded 

in evening haze 

is the sun and moon; 

I put the bin of cans and bottles 

at the curb and turn around--

There, above the pine trees 

is a riot of stars--

I lift up my eyes 

and follow the lines 

wondering which is 

Cassiopeia, 

the vain queen 

of unrivaled beauty; 

in awe,

I am rendered still 

before the majesty 

 

2 Apr 2008


For Dean Sluyter's pages on "Taking out the trash" in the “Zen Commandments.”[11]


[11] Slutyer, IBID. pp. 21-23 




Turkey Brood


Pulling out the winding drive

I see the movement on my left

on a knee of a hill covered in pines

a brood of a dozen wild turkeys

Mom and Dad

out in the morning shade 

foraging among the needles;

as I slow, they scatter

faster, into flight across the road

just as a Beemer brakes, stops,

driver leaning forward

arms crossed atop the steering wheel

looking up at the flurry of fledgling feathers, 

sharing the wonder

of being engulfed.


13 Jun 2008




Fog 


I imagine flying out of the fog,

up "above the weather" as pilots are keen to say.

The first time my brother saw the fog

rolling over the hills from the Pacific;

he called it the finger of death,

paying homage to DeMille's imagining

the tenth plague;

and speaking of plagues,

I recall my grandmother asking

in Bible-teacher style,

"Can you name the plagues?"

That's a bit foggy

in my brain,

having moved south

with the seven deadly sins

and St. Anselm's proofs.

In church I'd wonder

Whether everything would

be clearer as I got older

as if the fog of wonder

would lift and the fishing lines

running from heaven would tighten.

But sitting here in this cab

winding its way on the back roads

to Heathrow at rush hour,

the only way I can tell the sun has risen

is by the gray glow that makes

the fog seem luminous.


16 Jan 2009




Flat rocks


We are walking on the flat rocks

of a gurgling stream 

cascading down the broken

sheets of shale and slate;

the youngest finds a small fossil bone

then the oldest sees what looks like coral

this wonder that pursues remnants of the past

as if they are new births of discovery;

today my daughter and hers

baked an old German peach kuchen,

that arose from a conversation I had forgotten

"what cakes did your mother make?

which were your favorites?"

the history of tastes called up a morsel at a time;

this was an early birthday 

and the thread that ran from mother

to partner to daughter

pulled taut for a moment where the flat rocks yielded

to the stream that ran over fossils

and found its earth about our toes

and hearts.


8 Apr 2013


Hiking with my granddaughters in a park in Ohio.






Eclipse


This day of omens

brought out everyone 

to the fields, squares and beaches,

to where the horizon and its sky

filled our eyes like panorama photos;

we were ready to see

with our magic glasses and cardboard contraptions,

even colanders--

anything with a narrowing opening,

a blocking of all that would intrude on our retinas,

to a singular vision,

this silhouette 

of one orb crossing another--

all that we do to see something we understand

comes only once or twice across our years

and we are ready,

with awe and a sense that this time is one to pay more attention

than any other. 

Such are the gifts of epiphanies 

that say "look, something is happening here,"

far greater than one disc

passing another 

on a white reflected page;

for one held breath,

all we know has aligned.

Will we know 

or will it pass us by

as heavenly dreams are 

wont to do?

Will we see the total triumph of life

in its darkest moment,

stare at the absence of light,

embrace the death that comes

as surely as the planets turn about

this waning sun?


28 Aug 2017




Eclipse II


This day of omens

brought out everyone

to the fields, squares and beaches,

to where the horizon and its sky

filled our eyes like panorama photos;

we were ready to see

with our magic glasses and cardboard contraptions,

even colanders--

anything with a narrowing opening,

a blocking of all that would intrude on our retinas,

to a singular vision,

this silhouette

of one orb crossing another--

all that we do to see something we understand

comes only once or twice across our years

and we are ready,

with awe and a sense 

that this time is one to pay more attention

than any other. 


23 Dec 2017


This revision of the Aug. 2017 edition, became the poem for our Christmas video card, 2017.




Great Blue


A great blue heron

is periscoping

atop the neighbor’s fence

getting a good look

at each of the yards 

within its grasp,

while I am hidden 

behind the glare 

of the sunroom windows;

we put out some mixed seed

last night

but it’s not moving 

and the heron is especially 

watchful of the moving;

I read they are birds of opportunity 

but prefer the small fish

or frog

or the slow mouse;

when it swallows,

that neck stretches for the sky

but all I have are tidbits on the ground.


1 Jan 19

Rewritten 7-Aug-23 to correct from Egret to Heron!  At our back window, Anna Maria Island, Holmes Beach, FL



A bird standing on a ledge near water

Description automatically generated

Figure 8 - Great Blue Heron – Holmes Beach, FL, Dec. 31, 2018, Photo by EGHapp.




Revival


 “He makes me lie down in green pastures *

and leads me beside still waters.

 He revives my soul’ –Psalm 23:2-3a


We go to the backyard

after the sun sets

and lie face-up 

on freshly mown green grass.

The stars 

on a Swiss night

are sharp,

poignant.

There is no twinkle here.

It is mid-August

and we are waiting for the first

Perseid meteor,

a so-called shooting star 

making its mark on the vast heavens

that arch above us.

It is a long wait

our voices still,

gazing left and right,

then “There!”

a fleeting presence

that warms 

our souls

hungering for 

for the touch of awe.


Mon., Apr. 4, 2022




The Roar


Standing next to Horseshoe Falls,

looking over the rail

at the enormity 

of the screaming flow

over the edge,

I am filled with awe.

As a young boy

in a Fort Worth church,

as the tornado

tore past the glass walls,

branches and liquid fog

took the horizon,

the roaring wind

drowned out the preacher

and we were frozen

in fear.

Here at the gambling mecca

of the southwest 

there is no quiet corner,

the constant yelling, bells,

Muzak take away

any movement,

thinking,

and that’s the point 

isn’t it?


9 Jun 2022




Horseshoe Falls II


“Search for the Lord and his strength;

 continually seek his face.” –Ps. 20105:4


“See the falls from the Canadian side,”

we are told by friends 

who have been there.

“You can get up close.”

Standing there are all

the senses in awe.

The enormity of grasp

or lack of grasp

of the weight of the creation falling;

it is a wonder we can hold on

to the railing and not be swept away.

The rainbow rises in the mist below

and we are reminded.


30 Mar 2023





The Loons Call 

For Ann Moore


The loons call to me—

haunting—

the wind moves 

through tall stark trunks 

of mystery pines 

and brings a fragment 

that draws me back 

to a place 

where I weep 

for what is not here. 


16 Aug 2006 


I read this poem and the one titled “Ann” at Ann Moore’s memorial service at the Church of the Redeemer in Toronto, Feb. 3, 2024.  This earlier poem is recalled in the later one, among the "Saints", below, with the crying loons.


__________________________________________________________________

3. Places


There are some places that take us out of ourselves.  When we walk through the door of a cathedral, or stand before one of the world’s wonders and are rendered speechless.  Is it any wonder that Moses covered his face before the burning bush?[12]



At Grace Cathedral

(when the doors were opened)


The gray concrete majesty

of the great cathedral on the hill

dwarfed the pilgrims

who climbed the steep walkways

that lined the cable-whistled streets

climbing Ararat to see

if the Ark still rested

on its craggy moor.

The white-haired cleric

leaned forward from his perch

with voice bounding from every

arch and columned trunk

"the work of God," he said,

"is to love the hell out of us"

--a life long work no doubt.

Yet in this hallowed hall

of terrifying pomp and feared misstep

one wondered whether He was 

here to scare the hell out

of us as well.

But when the trio of men

standing to my right

unabashedly embraced

with echoes in their eyes,

it was clear

the doors of grace were opened,

its hand wrapped around this

single pew and touched the grey

tweed shoulder of the pilgrim,

and said to those who held,

no standing on this mount

save standing arm in arm.


4 Dec 1994


[12]  Exodus 3:6 “And Moses hid his face, for he was afraid to look at God.” NSRV.



Giza


We are

two 

children

standing

hand in hand

on the great

plain of giza

before the

ancient

pyramids.

The wind is

howling 

from the

south,

blowing off

the sands

of time

that hold

these tall

stone

monuments,

turning them

green

with waters

running

from their

peak,

palms

ringing their

base,

macaws

echoing their

mating calls

from

peak to peak.

We are

Ramses

and Neferteri,

lovers

ancient and 

eternal—

all this rich

history

came rushing

in 

in the moment

I held you

close,

and we were

born

so very old.


17 Jan 1997



Sanctuary


"Do not come near; put off your shoes from your feet, 

for the place on which you are standing is holy ground."  --Exodus 3:5


We stand

at the edge

of the newly nailed

oak floor--

sawdust strewn

as sand--

and crane our

necks upward

to the clear-story

windows

where ladders

once stood,

now sun descends--

white shell of a

sanctuary,

like hazy sky

echoing in emptiness--

full of awe,

such are the large places

we go

to be small,

to feel alone

in the midst

of a multitude---

we take off our shoes

so as not to stain

this pristine place

and in a Moses moment

step onto holy ground.


21 May 2000


Written for the new church at St. Francis in Stamford, CT as it was nearing completion. It is ever a special place in my journey.





Little Yosemite


I ask where the trailhead is;

she says, “across the bridge”

and adds the disappointment:

“There's not much water.”

I hike the canyon view

along the ridge, past the cows

grazing on the gold grass 

that is California; descending

to the dry river bed—

quartz-laced blue boulders

the size of railroad cars

derailed;

the wind pours over leaves

with an echo of the rapids 

not here this time of year;

I stand among them diminished

in my awe,

sentinel the rage of years that washed 

over each sharp edge until

sculpture smooth 

and let the sun and wind wash me

as if in the Jordan;

I raise my hands 

on the other side of drowning.


14 Nov 2008


Hiking in Sunol Ohame State Park, CA




Snoqualmie


The rumble rolls down the path

as a crier at the door;

evoking the expectation

before entering into a cathedral,

eyes lifting to the vault

of a stone ceiling,

the light streaming through stained glass;

I feel the depth of place

before the words come,

the inadequate wide-eyed lens

of the Nikon that chirps back and forth 

settling on a focal length

for which a single blink

registers majesty

and has none of it.

So I feel at the end of the board-planked

river trail, that turns

and opens the curtain of trees

with a flick of a wrist of wind,

the mist from the cathedral full of water

that empties over this lofty drop

again and again,

piercing the river below with a

thunderous thrust of power,

awe felt first in the rattling

of the sounds against my ribs,

pushing against me,

laboring my breath

with the weight of a truth

so profound I am crushed

beneath its weight,

then swept

up and carried,

borne to the throne room

of the Apocalypse

of Eden

to give account

of what I saw.


22 May 2009


Gruyere photos 


Every dark passage a surprise of light

rising up from the green hill is a spire, is an alp

alps rarely make their point alone

a friend is framed in years of stones

and a lover loves his friends,

art swings from the push of wonder

while angels circle to the cry of their dance

we are captives only to our outlook

and the future frames a shock of autumn trees

snow runs into skies

even the stones shout the rays of sun

and glow with its yellow heat

emblems clothe the tall

and the tall roofs shoulder the walking few

a balcony is an uplifted hand in whose palm I stand a little

the smooth brush of imagination hangs on fuzzy fieldstone walls

and makes strange companions of things found in attics

each alp fills four views

and the wonder of the painters brush lifts the eye

each pilgrim takes in what's before them

and sings the radiance of an abounding soul

a table waits for the meeting the ancestor oversees

roof lines mime the dents of meters

the tallest is a head bowed to something further

children bloom in the heights of our dreams

and grow beyond our reach

the footprints of many rains are worn on a steady demeanor

artists echo the creation of let there be

and float in pastoral whimsy

as elders look on unmoved by fire in their belly

and courtyards ring the playful doors

a sleigh of blue is readied for the snows that come

who watches from these windows at who plays below?

The bell is silent.  Finis. 


21 Nov 2010



Riding


Riding into an impressive sunset

the western ear-lobes of the Alps 

cast in a yellow-pink glow,

listening to the taps of a lingering sun,

Mont Blanc tres blanc

in the sights of a lingering sun;

and all this day-after winter beauty

is not as stunning

as it would be

if you were following 

the point of my finger,

I the capture of your eyes,

and the gush of wondering wind

as we say together, "look!"


2 Dec 2010




Bamboo


At night 

the tall thin bamboo

sway in the stifling breeze,

waving me back to my room

where the cool breath of AC

fogging the glass 

perched on the bridge

of my nose,

taking me back

to a cold eve

on the other side

of the world,

just nights ago

when the bamboo

shivered stiffly

in the blowing snow;

and it is ever a wonder

how something as simple

as a gangly green stalk

takes me back 

to somewhere else

that I had forgotten

or lost in the every-day,

that now stands out

and shakes me like 

an outstretched hand.


4 Dec 2010  


from Kaula Lumpur 




On the Train to Genève


Vast tufts of fog

are lifting from the lake,

the morning sun

climbing over the Alps;

we hurtle through one

then another:

one town yawning in yellow,

the next squinting

in the mist;

reading this morning

a short bio of Doctorow,

I wonder how the story

will unfold,

the headlights of this

train lapping up the rails

to Genève,

and I,

facing the rear,

back to the wind

seeing what already

has gone by,

am full of hope.


7 Jan 2011




Green


Looking out at the tree tops

from the upper floor

of the white marble museum

in the thicket of the modern city,

she says,

“I miss the green.”

and I wonder in the midst

of this antiquity

if the exhibit of the garden

is in the darkest halls

of our being

ready to be called to life

in the spoken light.


4 Aug 19



Humming the Prepositions


“There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, *

the holy habitation of the Most High.” —Ps. 46:5


In the City of God

are the echoes of the womb

whose waters that once bore us

and to which we return.

In the midst of a Michigan winter

we are flying 

   to a warmer clime

   on the water flowing

   from the Gulf 

   under bright sun

   beside the shimmering palms

   over the sands

Walking in open-toe shoes

humming all the prepositions 

that are in me,

is it any wonder 

that we call this a slice

of heaven

to which we are called home


7 Mar 2023


Ah, vacation restoreth the soul.




The Big House


Years ago a classmate

wrote a paper that the professor 

singled out. 

It was about the theology

of early church design,

where a large hole was left 

in the roof, so that nothing

would impede the faithful

being caught up in the cloud

of the rapture.

I imagined those who gathered there,

looking up to blue sky in anticipation,

ready for the blast of trumpets

and the shout of angels.


As I walked down the ramp

and through the appointed stadium gate

to my seat, I did not know what 

to expect, the roar of the crowd 

drawing me in, the bright team colors

that the faithful wore stood out against

the green field. A sea of a hundred thousand

worshippers chanting a fight song

and gesturing the chop that our team

was to make of the enemy. 

I was at once a grain of sand

insignificant in wave after wave

of significance, 

the voices and the brass band rising up

in this open-air cathedral

that took away the air from my lungs

and with a single “oh”

I understood the ancient ones.


18 Feb 2024


The Big House is Michigan Wolverines stadium, the country's largest.


__________________________________________________________________

4. Saints


If I’ve learned anything from my years it is that God comes incarnate in the moments when we experience a moment of grace, and epiphany from meeting others. While these poems may be grieving, they stand at that edge of life we cannot see across, where we tremble. So we remember.


Mother Marie


Seated in a wheel chair

old woman with the trace

of golden hair,

fierce eyes --

carrying the fleece

of the Lamb

in her lap,

the finger of God

in her grip.

She held on to my sleeve

and wouldn't let go,

it kept me from

falling away  

in my embarrassment

to flee from her

impulsive, holy way.

She had to bless me

before she died

whether I sought

the balm

or just to get

the awkward moment by.

Oh, She wouldn't save me

till I let her have

the upper hand.


16 Mar 1994



Agnes


Her world was not much larger

than a gingerbread house,

a kitchen bathed in the smell

of baking chocolate cake,

the bloom of buttercream flowers.


Within these four small walls

deep breathing was understandable.


Here the breads of Christmas,

birthday cupcakes, wedding cakes,

cream puffs and petite fours

were crafted by her gentle hands.


Here was the icing of special days,

days that mattered deeply to us all.


Though none of us were ever content

with gingerbread, here we returned

to lick the batter, savor the special

moments with candles, revelry and song.


In this small cradle we were each reborn

breathing deeply the dust of heaven.


17 Sep 1994






Richard


Like all good

story tellers

he told the stories

with a smile,

delighted at

the simple things

that are the vessels

for the deeper places

in the heart.

blessed by

the grace found

in the brighter moments

as the darker places

in our lives,

he would rather

laugh and smile

with the sinners

than wear the airs

of a lofty saint.


here was someone 

with whom 

you could

sit in a circle,

legs crossed

and head cocked,

with a child's

sense of wonder,

straining to hear

each word

as if life 

at that moment

depended on the

nouns and verbs.

and in these stories

it did.


like St. Francis

before him,

he blessed the animals

and preached

as sincerely to 

those with soft ears

as those with hard teeth

and claws,

remembering each

one's name

with an interest, 

care

as if we were his own.

and so we were.


In this place

we are the flock

resting about

this simple hearth,

this simple table,

in a neighborhood

without roots,

the nomads of

the urban outland,

we are gathered by

this shepherd,

the gentle face

of the creed,

and our belief.


17 Sep 1995


John


I do not remember

seeing him without

the smile,

or hearing more than

a sentence or two

without the punctuation

of a chuckle—

as if the telling 

of the most simple

things was a delight.

He was the equal 

opportunity provider

of good humor,

in every place

and every time, 

so that it was all 

too easy 

to make the mistake 

of not taking him 

seriously enough.

And yet the wisdom

was often buried

in the quick

remark.

So it ends up,

He was often 

right.


It was a fretful 

meeting of the Vestry

one December

when the budget gap 

was large,

and Christmas seemed 

as if it was delayed

another year.

To the question

of how we 

would make ends meet, 

he quipped,

with the abruptness

of a gasp,

“Well,

you just have

to have faith!”

—As if faith

wrote checks.

A few months later, 

We were humbled

when our

assistant priest 

was called to Stowe,

and the budget gap

fell silently

away.


Walking

down the path

with me

he hunches over,

as if bowing to life

larger than himself,

chuckling

at the stiffness

in his joints

with the humor

that reminds us 

that humility

is bowing

before majesties

larger than we—

of the joy of life,

the love

of a giving heart,

the faith

in a caring God.

It ends up

you were right

dear John,

its ends up

you were 

right.


15 Apr 1997


For John Cooper, a patriarch, and Warden emeritus at St. Francis Church.




Joe


He tells us of the operation

that reattached a retina

from where it had unplugged 

at the back of his eye;

there were tiny flashes

of light at the edges,

along the periphery

of what we think is straight sight.

two years of this narrowest of beacons

sirening without the pain

or directness of a sound;

and then all went gray,

the light dimming

as if the power slowly drained

from this sharpest of eyes.

he gained some of it back

from the skilled hand of the surgeon,

but now the architect 

of straight lines

cannot tell if the finish of the molding

lines up flush with its mitered turns;

precision slips from his grasp

and the creative mind 

tells its lucid stories.


1 Jan 2013




Alice


The nod of the head

as the cross goes by

this recessing with honor

I learned from her

watching on a Sunday morning

in an old white church 

sun streaming in the tall side windows

slicing up the room

into photographs of memories;

there were no words said

no caption

just a subtle bow

that spoke more benediction

than the blessing.


Not that she was one of few words

when she was riled by some injustice

and there were many

she’d mutter 

to herself, 

and if you heard between the lines

and said so

she’d say an emphatic “right!”


It was an early foyer dinner 

at someone else’s house 

that another new parishioner

leaned over in my direction

in the kitchen holding a glass of wine

“isn’t she wonderful?”

I nodded 

as she passed 

holding some dish

 that needed bringing to the table 

in the next room.


And she wasn’t referring to the hosting

but rather all the moments of accepting us

in our frailties

and there were many

grace comes in small gestures

a touch on the back of a hand

a prayer at the window

with the birds flurrying around

a feeder just filled

as we were.


You adopted us as your children

and we adopted you as our Great Aunt,

if ever the word great was understated

it is now Dear Alice

when we each bow with a nod

as you pass by 

with a cross in your hand

smiling about some secret

we have still to live out.


30 Sep 2018


Originally titled “Passing,” I wrote this for Alice Smith, our adopted Aunt and fellow Warden at St. Francis Church, and read it at her memorial service.



Ann


I remember

sitting at our table

in La Taverna

for our weekly lunch

and conversation,

there was laughter

and a glass of wine.

You would punctuate

a rejoinder with

“oh Ed”

and a wave of your hand

that landed.

If there was an issue,

you would get determined

and say,

“Well, we’ll see about that!”

When I asked you what

I could do

after Lou had passed,

you told me you missed the

conversation,

so here we were

talking about business

families, loves and church

(and without an order).

We each moved to our cities

and the conversations

and menu

became a distant memory.

I had just sent you

a birthday card

with a lake scene

like the one you told me about

at the summer cottage

where you stayed

with the loons crying

in the distance.


Now it is we who cry

dear Ann

and your life

calls to us

with a generosity of spirit

that I will forever

remember

and miss.


26 Jan 2024


For Ann Moore.  See the “Loons Call”, Aug. 2006, above.


__________________________________________________________________

5. Passion


There are moments of passion where the divine breaks in.  The mystics understood this.  We can also, if we but pay attention.


Passion


 it is the candle

 to which we're drawn

 as the fated nightbug.

 the source,

 the well

 of light,

 heat,

 flicker on the bedroom wall.


 the wax

 forms hot little mittens

 on your fingertips

 when you stroke

 the pool beneath the flame;

 it numbs the soul

 and the story line.


 so quickly blown to memory,

 yet still to wet

 a finger,

 and squeeze

 the smoking ember,

 and hear it sizzle

 before it slips away.


31 Jul 1993

Movie, "Damage"


Passion: ending ii


 reality returns     

 as the children all

 run to scavenge

 in the matchbox drawer,

 and light it up again

 before dessert is served.


31 Jul 1993, For the movie, "Damage"


As an additional stanza. I prefer the shorter version (As Von Rohe taught us, less is more)

The Edge


 there are those

 times of passion

 when you give

 up yourself to

 the moment

 completely,

 when you know

 the edge is coming

 like the drawn

 out delay of 

 a sneeze --

 you are losing

 yourself,

 disappearing --

 wanting and not

 for the end,

 quickly you fall

 head long over

 the top

 when it all rushes out

 as the warm water

 flows from the basin

 when you've finished

 washing your face,

 it swirls from

 your head through

 your open hands,

 splashing, circling

 the abyss,

 with a gasp

 it snaps 

 like a shade

 from a window

 rolling up again

 and again.


13 Sep 1993



Communion


The vestry 

gathered about

the meeting table

like disciples at

the last supper,

where the food

and drink were

not the kind

that satisfied 

the hunger,

but the 

gristly issues

of gays,

aids,

and pulpits.

we chewed

and grimaced

on its taste,

unable to consume

the spread laid out

in its enormity,

we choked on its extremities.

for this meal

was not 

the passioned beliefs

of distant matters.

this one lived

at home,

where we worshiped,

where we gathered,

where we ate, 

as one;

where he served himself

to each,

and touched us

in our righteousness.


5 Dec 1993



Sparks


I have seen the

face of God

in the 

burning passion

of red hearts

smoking with life

as the bush 

on the mountain top,

the very brush

the cradle of grace.

When we cry

out in ecstasy

to God in heaven

and die in naked truth

is when I feel

most alive,

real.

With the grace

of an artist’s

finger,

His hand reaches 

cross the barrel

ceiling

and touches our oneness

in the dark.


15 May 1994



Golden


It is

the moment

when her eyes

go golden—

light dancing

on the horizon

of each lash,

an arc of

lavender below

this iris

sun—

and I feel

her smile

as a flash

of joy.

That I

am here,

upon my

hands,

rising up

to see this

dash of dawn’s

delight,

is but 

a gasp

of awe,

as words

leave—

a snap

of a whip

of wind

in the

windows—

such joy,

when I 

can only 

mouth 

her name.


20 Jul 1997


__________________________________________________________________

6. Art


The first time I saw Michelangelo’s “David”, like the visitors to the Academia, I was speechless, gawking at the statue as we walked slowly around it as if in a trance.  Whether sculpture, paintings or photographs, art often gives us pause.




Trompe l'oeil


The artist --

we didn't see

the name--

painted snapshots

to fool the eye;

a leaf on the siding,

under the glass

of the frame,

in the lens

of the camera

and the eye,

this maple awn

with fingertips green

palm yellow

wrist orange

whose summer ran out

to fall as drops

of quivering sap.

the white clapboard

mounting --

the coming snow and ice.

nothing moved,

the whole at once.

painting of

the photograph

of the maple leaf

somewhere in

New England

on an unknown

October day.


10 Jan 1996

David Brega print




A picture containing plant

Description automatically generated

Figure 2010 - David Brega [13]



[13] David Brega, Gallery Archives,  https://www.davidbrega.com/archives 



Peace


“I do not know which to prefer,

The beauty of inflections

Or the beauty of innuendoes,

The blackbird whistling

Or just after.”  --Wallace Stevens [14]


Is it the peace

that comes at morning,

before the town awakes,

or the one that follows sunset,

after the last cardinal

sounds its call?

Could be the quiet

before falling off

to dreamful sleep—

or the slow stretch

after a Sunday nap

when the house is yours alone?

Is it the calm

in the summer air

before the pounding squall

or the purple

smell of ozone

after the thunder’s gone?

Perhaps the lovers’ pause

across the candle light

knowing they will now retire,

or the soft sigh

that follows ragged breathing

and the sparking coals of passion?

No, It’s the soft gurgle

of a newborn

before the cry—

or the tiny gulp and gasp

after grabbing the warm breast

with his hungry lips.

Then it’s the serene

contentment of two friends

sipping tea at three-- 

or the silence

that follows the forgiven

angry word?

Maybe the pause

before the trumpet

sounds the Armageddon note

or the stillness

as the dust of battles

floats to earth at last?

Is it the peace

of a child’s sleeping 

innocence,

or the embrace

of an old man

who has breathed his last?

No, it’s the peace

of Eden before

the fratricide;

no, the stillness

of Easter morning,

before the tongues are flamed.


10 Oct 1996


William Stafford wrote in his little book “Getting the Knack”, among other methods for getting started, to write a poem in response to another poet’s work.[15]  I chose Wallace Stevens, a fellow CT artist as my muse.


[14] Wallace Stevens, “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,” from “The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens,” Alfred A. Knopf, 1954, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45236/thirteen-ways-of-looking-at-a-blackbird
[15] Stephen Dunning and William Stafford, “Getting the Knack: 20 Poetry Writing Exercises,” NCTE, Jan 1, 1992, https://www.amazon.com/Getting-Knack-Poetry-Writing-Exercises/dp/0814118488/  





Rising Moon 


She comes to the ocean

dressed in wistful white,

as the sky turns to indigo

and runs into the sea.

A summer hat dangles

from her hands,

an act of homage

or of opening—

and all is still

save the soft breeze 

across her hair.

She is looking 

for the quiet places of refuge,

solace,

longing—

found in the rising moon

that carries dreams

upon its splash of light.

You may hear her deeper breath

gather in the sea,

the sigh that makes even moons flicker

in low evening skies,

but you never know the eyes that stare

into the coming night,

unless you learn to be

the rising moon.


29 Nov 1996


While viewing David Schock’s painting “Rising Moon,” Edgartown Art Gallery,  Martha’s Vineyard.


A person walking on a beach

Description automatically generated with medium confidence

Figure 2011 - David Shock, "Looking to Sea"

–similar to his “Rising Moon” [16]


A person in a white dress

Description automatically generated


Figure 2012 - David Shock’s “Looking Out” – similar to Rising Moon [17]



[16] David Shock, Gallery of Figures, https://davidschock.com/figures-1  



Two Deer


Two deer

cross a field

in the stillness

of winter--


do they run

toward the embrace

of the wood,

away from

the hunter,


or simply free?


At this end-time

we rush to

tomorrow,

away from

yesterday,


and pause


on this day--

to listen

for the timeless.


30 Nov 1999






36,194 Deer Snow Photos - Free & Royalty-Free Stock Photos from Dreamstime

Figure 2013- Two Deer in a Snow-Covered Farm Field [18]



[18] Christmas card 1999. The text was included in Steven Sametz’s choral work, “Peace on Earth,” 1999, https://stevensametz.com/composer/works/info/peace-on-earth/ with the sheet music here: https://notenova.com/product/peace-on-earth/


Boy at the end of a string


There is a boy

at the end of a string

and somewhere

beyond the edge

of this glossy paper

is a kite

tugging against

a celestial blue sky—

but all we see

is a look of bliss

and wonder

as if looking

at angels

dancing on

the point of some cloud

as if looking

at the smile

on a divine face.


6 Jun 2002




A child holding a toy

Description automatically generatedA photograph of a boy flying a kite [12]

A photograph of a boy flying a kite [19]

[19] From “15-Happy Boy Flying Kite On Sunny Day Slow Motion Video,” Pond 5, Item ID: 64083685

 https://www.pond5.com/stock-footage/item/64083685-15-happy-boy-flying-kite-sunny-day-slowmotion 



A face on the wind


We stand by

the side of the road

watching in awe—

the mobile sculptures

turning and twisting

with the breeze—

small metallic shutters

snapping photographs

of light and clouds

on a surface

that moves left

then right,

up then down—

holding a long pause

in the air

as we hold our breaths

then exhale,

rushing where it will.

Standing here

on a Sunday

a man and a woman

hold hands—

so much is unknown

under God's heaven,

even a face

on the wind.


7 Jun 2004



“Tim Prentice, one of the most imaginative and poetic sculptors practicing today …floating lines in space—that he suspended in the woods. Balancing them so that ‘the wind endlessly (can) draw and redraw the lines in a continuous flow of patterns without ever repeating itself,’ he created an effect of mystery and wonder.” [20]


A light shining on a kite

Description automatically generated with medium confidence

Tim Prentice, Kinetic Sculpture


To see Tim’s work is to first marvel at the design and function of his mobile art, and then stand in awe as a piece disappears with the changing breeze.[21]



[20] Christine Temin, The Boston Globe, July 28, 1994, https://timprentice.com/reviews/ 

[21] For example, see his “wind frame”, on his farm on Lake Road in West Cornwall, CT: https://timprentice.com/wind-frame/






At the 60th Annual Meeting of the Parish


He bids us listen

for a few minutes.

It is Sunday

and the church is full.

We wait

with expectation

for him to speak.

Silence.

Nothing.

Then

From a hidden stereo

music begins—

a single note

a few voices

angelic

then more

folding over

a delicate air

with a glimmer of light

over a ground

of sinewy strength—

it is as if 

we are eavesdropping

on Creation itself—

Adam

rising up from the dust

in naked glory—

Ave, verum corpus[22]

hail true body!

The priest’s words follow,

analogies are assigned—

in this community of doing

there is also being

that simply is.

Here we are gathered,

in awe of the maestro's beauty,

with Thomas we say:

my Lord! [23]


29 Jan 2006


[22] Mozart's Ave Verum Corpus (Hail True Body,) on the 250 anniversary of his birthday, St. Francis' Church, at the 60th Annual Meeting of the Parish.
[23] John 20:28 "Thomas said to him, 'My Lord and my God!'" 

 


On the Ruelle


The twins have left traces

in the driveway

this evening:

three chalk cars

and a blue line--

two sedans above

and one below,

as if "above" 

meant something 

in the flat-lands;

I notice the quiet

and the remnants

as if heaven 

dusted the earth

with a flick of the wrist

so those who pass by

and look back

are left wondering.


13 Apr 2012


The twins who lived on our tiny lane in Nyon, Switzerland were frequent artists with chalk on the macadam.  Walking home from the train often meant walking through their art gallery.




Two Chairs


We may look at these two chairs

that face us as empty,

sitting outside this rugged house

with the closed blue shutter

and stucco falling from the field stone,

but I see all the conversations

that have not yet happened,

the laughter that has not yet

rung out across this path,

the glance that comes

before the kiss;

what has been behind this window

tied shut with a bit of straw

has been,

and what is yet to come

cannot be kept within these walls;

come sit with me

and start a story

as if it were tomorrow,

and I will dream with you.


18 Dec 2013

For Shirley for Christmas


Emblematic of the many “chairs” we share at the table, this poem found its way into our wedding play, March 14, 2015, at St. Francis Church.

[24] The Lynn Tait Gallery - http://www.thelynntaitgallery.com/
__________________________________________________________________

7. Crisis

The great theologians of the last century understood the role of crisis. Indeed, crisis is often that moment suspended between “time and eternity, the world and God” when we are pressed to the edge of existence, whether by an event or in our being. [25]


Crossroads


Two men stood

beside the twisted wreckage

of what was a late model Thunderbird,

fire engine red.

One, the driver of the Ford,

the other of the semi that reduced it

to flattened metal,

wheels, and broken glass.

They were fast to the crossroads,

a right on red

and a rush on changing yellow.

Eighteen wheels spun the car around

in the howling of a twister

as the Kansas house on route to Oz.

Now both are shaken men,

one who walked away alive

and one just innocent of death.

None of us rushes to the graveyard,

few are given such a pause.

While the wrecking truck

carts away what's left

and the sheriff writes

the three part form

of time and place and cause,

one wonders what these two witnesses 

of their intersection

took with them to tomorrow

and what was left behind.


9 Apr 1995


[25] J. Gresham Machen,  “Karl Barth and the Theology of Crisis,” April 23, 1928, WTJ53 (1991) 197-207.  Machen writes: “The teaching of Karl Barth and his associates is commonly called "the theology of crisis." The "crisis" or "decision" that is meant in this title is the one that is forced upon a man when he is placed before the dreadful antinomy between time and eternity, the world and God.” 



Contact


She sits

on the edge

of a canyon,

all the

evidence

of day

has been 

followed

to this rim

where now

the sun 

sets,

and she is

a silhouette,

rocking

as lady 

justice

weighing

blinded.

The canyon

calls,

and it is

the echo

of a love

as real as 

a billion

stars

drunk in

at once—

now she

must step

out

as the one

humbled,

into the

awe,

across

the great

divide,

and know.


12 Jul 1997

“Contact”


One of my “skinny poems”, written in response to a movie that moved me. How apt.


Towers


There's a love song

playing on the radio,

its hope floats--

a cinder on the wind.


An hour of miles

away,

the foundation

of the towers

still smokes—

each day

a new photograph

fails—

the hope

of six thousand

families

winks out—

the foundation

not yielding

the dead.


This song of wonder—

"amazed at you..."

is trying

to remember.


Earlier today

I pinned

a postcard

of the skyline

to a bulletin

board

and watched

in silence—

an imprint

of another day


I will always

remember.


27 Sep 2001

Written two weeks after 911. During the 1980s, I worked a block east of the Trade Center. It would be a decade before I could bring myself to visit the site.


Advent


“1: the period beginning four Sundays before Christmas and observed by some Christians as a season of prayer and fasting

2: the coming of Christ at the Incarnation …

3: a coming into being …” –Merriam-Webster


“I never tell

stories anymore,”

he told the

captive

attendant

at the desk—

“ever,”

the emphatic

punctuation

as I walk

by,

canvas gym bag

in one hand,

car keys

in the other—

and I wonder

where this 

is going,

on a cloudy

December

morning—

what happened

when

and why—

I’m already

a captive 

ear

narrowing

my stride—

waiting,

expectant—

“Let me 

tell you

how it started…”


13 Dec 2002




Listen


Listen to your life

he says;

I have gone back

to this passage

again and anew.

At times it seems

my life is shouting

from all corners

of the room

in which I sit,

trying to clear my head--

Stop, I say!

putting my hands up

as if to halt traffic

at this intersection

as everyone bears down

on the brake pedal

and lets the little boy

cross the street;

he is humming something familiar

and kicking a small stone

with a carefree boot of his shoe.

I need to hear the song.

I need to feel that shoe.


1 Mar 2010



The words of Frederick Buechner became my traveling companion again.  How many times do we hear a cacophony of demands speaking in our lives; how many times do we hear nothing?  When the voices are silent, sometimes we tap the carefree wonder in our lives anew.  It's always there.  We do well to walk in those shoes.



In the fullness of time


She opens the purple bow

on the oval box

of chocolate eggs

"oh ho ho," she says

touching the green foil wrapped one

with her tiny hand.

"Later," I say.

Wonder dashed from her eyes,

she backs away.

After dinner,

she is covered in chocolate,

ringing her lips and each finger,

the arrival sweeter 

from the longing.


23 Mar 2008, Easter


In the eyes of babes is the loss and the triumph of the Kingdom. A hint of the crisis of God’s “Yes” wrapped in the “No”, the now in the not yet.


__________________________________________________________________

8. Epiphany


Moments of revelation come in the ordinary.  C.S. Lewis, expanding on Thomas a Kempis, wrote, “"The highest does not stand without the lowest. A plant must have roots below as well as sunlight above and roots must be grubby.” [26] Perhaps that is the wonder in the ordinary.


The Yes!


In the garden

is creation,

touch of the

finger of God,

the mysterium

tremendum,

the awe of

wonder,

the awe of

primal fear.

For this hand

that molds

the clay,

that throws

the Yes!

upon the ground,

points to the

garden gate,

where we are

banished in

the No!

How soon we

forget

in the wilder-

ness of days

the enormity

of that Yes

and fragility

of the No,

for though

the one is

carried in

the other,

the Yes rings

back to the

very tree

of life. 12 Nov 1996


[26]  C.S. Lewis, “The Four Loves,” Harcourt Brace, 1960, p. 20


 

Paths


Palm trees

click their tongues

in the slow early

morning wind,

the air tripping

over their lips

as a stutter

of a metaphor

to the dawn.

Near the end

of my brisk

walk,

after

a night tossed

upon accusatory

dreams

running speechless,

the rhythm of

my breathing

settles into

the pattern

of endorphins

dancing on the

strained synapse

with euphoria

as a sedative,

I follow

unknown

paved paths

in a strange

town

somewhere

near the 

coast,

following

the thread of

this poem as

it dances up

in bits

and clicks

in the wind

of the feel

of the muse,

I come upon

Avanti Circle

that catches

my breath

and breaks

my stride

with the

here-it-is

nature

of

epiphany,

where once

again 

you come

to meet me.


9 Mar 1997

PSL, FL




Blessings


"Count your blessings,

name them one by one,

and you’ll be surprised

at what the Lord has done"


The old chorus

from a child’s hymn

reminds me to count—

something for 

which I am a natural,

blessed.

And name with words,

descriptions,

vivid images,

in which I abound.

Then there is

the openness

to surprise,

humbled by

my plans

that often go

awry.

This leads to

recognition,

trembling insight,

awe under 

Providence—

and I 

am 

blessed.


15 May 1997

 





Epiphany


Clouds part

lightening arcs

thunder shakes

down in the toes—

grounded here

senses burn

smoke curls

from the white

heat of knowing.


19 May 1997



Easter


We are stumbling

down the hill,

sliding on rocks,

falling over each

other,

to see who

gets to the cave

first—

we were told

someone was there,

by the waitress

at the cafe,

who ran in,

disheveled,

out of breath,

and full of alarm—

it made us hold

our coffee cups

in mid-sip,

lips pursed,

eyes up over 

the rim,

frozen—

then out the

door,

running,

wondering aloud

if it

were John,

having been

lost for three days

since we had 

ventured

deep into the

cave 

together,

the light

went out,

and only two of us

came back—

we had 

searched

and searched—

went back

three days

in a row

with the 

firemen,

policemen,

and two dogs—

but all we found

was a fragment 

of cloth

from an old

t-shirt

that was probably mine—

no sign of John

anywhere.

We had given

up, slogged

back to the cafe

for breakfast

early Sunday,

not sure

we were going

back

to look again—

now out of

breath,

anticipating

meeting up with

him again,

cursing him

for scaring the

pee out of us,

hugging him,

like he was

a prodigal son

or something else

come home—

and that ache

behind the

breastbone building,

like after a day

body surfing 

at Jones Beach,

we were anticipating,

wishing,

hoping anew—

downright bubbling,

sputtering and

whooping as

we ran round that hill

and into the gulch,

dodging rocks

that had rolled down

into the path

during winter thaws,

we danced

like running 

through pairs of

tires

at boot camp—

it had to be him,

it just had to be him,

'cause we

had hope

and faith was

rising at the

mouth of a cave

somewhere 

at the edge

of heaven,

somewhere

at the edge

of reason,

somewhere

at the edge

of imagination,

was a

glimmer

of knowing.


13 Mar 2003



Epiphany on a Treadmill


“But as to the sudden stopping, looking up, and tense attention characteristic of the people of the Bible, our wonder will not be so lightly dismissed.” –Karl Barth [27]


At the end

of a brisk walk

up imaginary hills,

I see a couple

at their car

through the window

below.

She points up

across the way

out of my vision

obviously amazed.

He gestures

across the car

to her—

the known gossips

of the YMCA

in apparent

passionate debate

about the heavens.

I stoop 

to see what it is,

but cannot.

Later,

two of the matriarchs

in the stretching room

are talking about the store

and truck

across the street—

Restoration Hardware

closing.


30 Jul 2003


Looking out the window while walking briskly at the Y in Westport, CT


[27] Karl Barth, “The Word of God & the Word of Man,” Harper & Row, 1956, p. 62.



Luke


I’m wondering

what it would be like

to be one of these shepherds

out in some field at night,

with a flock of sheep

in the dark

where all there is

is a rustle of wool

and bleating--

I’m wondering why

sheep don’t sleep

in this dream;

the other shepherds 

are out cold,

the fire has dwindled

to coals

and I’m up 

in a tight spiral

of insomnia,

too tired to get up

and toss another log

on the fire,

not really tending

to the flock at all--

these four-legged alarm clocks,

who rather than blissfully

jumping by one-by-one, 

carrying me off

into the land of serene sleep,

woke me in the first place.


I realize

I’m tired of being a shepherd

where there is no quitting time,

the clothes are coarse wool,

sandals of dried leather

that bring out a blister

every spring.


Suddenly--

the author of my dream writes--

there is a host of heaven--

a cacophony of shooting stars,

I imagine,

with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir 

singing in the background,

bright lights in my blood-shot eyes,

and somewhere overhead a virtuoso trumpeter

is playing reveille,

annunciating an awakening

of other proportions.


I’m wide-eyed,

shaking from the core

more than the cold turn of night--

all I can remember is that

waterfall voice rumbling

"Do not be afraid,"

like standing on a fault line

in another dream

with the ground--

the very ground--

shaking,

having faith that this earth

still holds me

in the palm of its hand.


12 Mar 2004

Cf.   Luke 2:8-14


Sometimes a dream or imagination brings us to the precipice of awe, and paying attention leads us on its journey. 




The Edge of Epiphany


On an afternoon walk

in the infancy of January--

a baby-blue-eyes sky--

the edge of freezing--

gloves on--

headphones pumping

into my ear canals,

I pass a jogger

for the second time.


She smiles somewhat perplexed,

gesturing above her head,

something about her hair.

I nod and smile 

wondering 

what in the world

she said as she runs by.

Looking up in the tree-tops

I see 

a hundred starlings 

shining in the spaces,

late for the flight south.


I silence the music,

take off my gloves

clap my hands 

and they flock to the next tree

like early pollen in the wind.


Perhaps she said:

It's raining birds 

in my hair

and I don’t have your hat. 

Head uncovered,

I hear the chatter 

from the trees

between the gray and blue.


7 Jan 2006



Week after Ash Wednesday


Seven days into as many weeks

and I’m wondering where

the journeys of the penitent faithful

reach the canyon floor.

I’m told the donkeys are more

sure-footed than their gawking cargo,

snapping photos

at each switchback,

twisting to each others

oooh… lookie here!

It’s gonna break—

armchair geology rising

to convince the rider

not to yank on it.

The burro-train ambles

down to the deeper conversation

at the bottom where

all my mean and nasty actions

cough up 

and serenity 

lies beneath another winter.


24 Feb 2010


I wrote this late at night after having woken from a dream. Even the scribble on the page was indecipherable. What was this about? Our dreams sometimes take us to deeper places, where the evils lie. That which troubles us has a way of popping up when deep in sleep, or near to waking. As Robert Bly once commented about a dream poem, "my job is not to explain it, but to write it down." [28]



[28] Bill Moyers, “Swirl Like A Leaf: Jimmy Santiago Baca, Marilyn Chin and Robert Bly,” The Language Of Life, May 18, 1995, https://billmoyers.com/content/swirl-like-leaf/

 



Yearning


I read pages

of daily meditations

for the weeks I have missed,

the yesterdays for which

I did not pause

and set the little paper boat

of my imagination adrift

on the water of wonder

and into the falls of minutes

washing over in their relentless

call to be immersed,

plunged into sensing

the fullness of yearning—

that is the word

that stops me mid-page in January—

yearning for that far country

that is itself a taste of heaven,

a spring of truth.


3 Mar 2010


Reading Buechner again, I dive into the opening days, the ones about knowing.  It is the season of Epiphany in which his editor has gathered some of his signature words, ones that gave the book its title: “Listening to Your Life”.  That our lives speak in the voice of the Holy One is itself a scandal, but this is a foundation of the Gospel: God in His grace turning every expectation upside down.  In learning to be silent, He comes.






Epiphany II


Another gray morning

and my stop is next;

the bus shutters and creaks

through its turns.

On my street there are remnants

of Christmas trees,

tips of balsam where

dry branches brushed up

against the doorways

thru which they were pulled

and popped their treasure.

I am told Epiphany is the time

for taking down the glitter,

extinguishing the lights

in the midst of seeing new;

yet today there is no sun

no shocking blue

no shadows on the walk.

Today I know nothing.


9 Jan 2013



Baptism


1.

It is one of those hazy hot days

when everyone seeks redemption,

the young boy on the swing 

and his sister holding the hose

so he sways in and out of its rain

2.

I remember none of my baths

let alone one in a fine white dress;

was the water hot

was the water cold?

the duality, even binary, of the sacrament,

3.

my garden moment

when in later months

such a fondness for peeking up skirts,

which I also misplaced

to my mother's relief;

4.

it was momentous nonetheless,

of which I'm reminded each time 

the squirming child looks up 

into the priest’s eyes

and screams a confirmation 

5.

that this is strange and filled with awe

at least in those who gather round

and try to remember

ever being poured on by someone

other that a younger brother

and someday getting even.


7 Jun 2014


Laughter is a universal reality of being human.  Watch any child play.  Can humor also be a moment of epiphany, of revelation?




__________________________________________________________________

9. Wonder


At the end, we return to the beginning, reaching back to the wonder of the child, reaching ahead to its return.




Wondering


She is slowing down 

in the airport,

a little girl in pink

taking in the colors 

and sounds

in this corridor of shops.

mom has kept her pace 

and veered to the right,

while two of us towing bags

stop to watch as daughter 

suddenly realizes she is no longer following;

though we point to where 

she is 

and the way will part one day,

the panic washes over her face 

like a summer squall 

until mom turns around 

and she catches the safe gaze 

of a refuge 


21 Oct 2011




Nose to nose


There are some who lean into wonder

as if their being is drawn forward 

by hypnotic smells wafting from invisible cafĂ©s, 

have broken cogent sentences 

into mere groups of words hanging about;

who feel the wind in their scarves like distant wings 

blowing doors open they have already entered;

who rise up in stockinged feet to follow a nose gone so passionate

it glows a shade of Christmas red;

And oh this glee, this imagined connection,

this real bump in the night when even sugar plums are seen; 

on this man with chunks of coal for buttons,

standing still with half his face gone orange

from the heat that runs from red to blush,

a fresh carrot is discovered as if for the first time;

two unlikely and prominent noses touch, as

the entering has truly begun.

Even if you squint

it’s hard to see the beginning and the end

of this fusion of first delights

that seems to happen when the baking that must be going on

in one hundred ovens gathered around these two

reaches the point when the doors have been flung open

and a steam of such a mélange of simmering sauces

has begun the melting

into one small puddle,

now a rivulet, now a stream,

now a river raging 

with wonder bobbing among the white tops

with sets of feet hanging over the edge

swinging toward nowhere in particular,

to everywhere all at once.

 

23 Dec 2011


For Shirley’s Christmas card (see below)






A snowman and a person kissing a snowman

Description automatically generated



Curiosity


The workers string up

an opaque curtain

blocking the view

of the site on main street

where the building has been

removed and a small front loader

brings scoops of dirt out the side;

why must the right

way of doing

shutter the curious?

the hawker stands on a box

outside a tent

and chants the wonders

just beyond the canvas flap;

how do we ever learn?


13 Nov 2012




Sounds that come and go


There is a museum of endangered sounds,

all the clicks and tap of machines

that have come and gone 

a rotary phone

typewriter

telex

a dial-up modem connecting--

my grandchildren do not know them;

and I wonder what sounds

my grandfather remembered

a hiss of steam from a locomotive,

the single blade of a plow knifing through the soil,

the whistling of a bomb dropping from its bay,

I cannot remember the sound of his voice

just a harrumph when he shrugged his shoulders

like a god,

the great, silent one.


1 Mar 2013


My paternal grandfather, Pop, was the silent grandfather.




Sunday Poem


I had a poem last Sunday

by the edge of its robe--

whether from the line in the story

the priest told to open his homily

or the first line from the hymn I love

whose name is somewhere

in the back of that weighty blue book;

a Barthian and Harry Potter moment

Expectant and ominous--

I only know it was wonderful,

would have been of the riches of the heart

and from the heart;

it spoke to me,

the pilgrim who in a divine moment

confesses and forgets. 


29 May 2013


I wrote two versions of this poem, one with "or" conjunctions and this one with "ands.” Epiphany may just be in the "both-ness" that is the paradox.



Sound bites


One wonders if

it is the diminutive,

those small sounds

that want you to lean

into;

or is it the ones that

grab your sleeve

and imbibe wonder 

about play or aggression 

visited at the end of your

sleeve by this new canine

that is bonding;

but when I stood next to you

under the sliver of moon

and early stars 

without a sound at all

that I was bitten

by the silence of awe

and how your hair smelled

when it caught a wisp of

summer evening air


22 Jul 2015



Wonder


He has taken up the center

aisle as if this is his window

and with his back to the floor

he stares out 

at the stained glass 

and chandelier 


Every once 

in a while comes a roller,

one who follows his own path

in a way that catches 

our attention 

consternation 

sometimes joy


His mother looks on

with a tolerance

that is open to imagination 

and what she supposes

he may be saying to himself


Later, after the service

he dances the babble-step

of a toddler

hanging on to his mother’s hand

as if it were a lifeline,

a tube of air

that lets him float in a space

that he will claim as his own


5 Dec 2017






Finis