Red Sky at Morning
The Coast Guard claims
dangerous waters off the
coastlands of Northern
California
The Guard is right, of
course—and will that alter
our decisions for safety
sake
Well, I can hope so
But it seems to me that
warnings of danger mean
a challenge, a contest
to some,
even an extraordinary
holiday from which some
shall not return after
A last holiday—for some,
not me, too appealing
Fatima, Medjugorje
When Mary appears,
The sky dances
Circles of light and faith
Are made
First for children
There are those who
Doubt, which doesn’t
Matter (though the
Doubters matter)
God loves them, and
Maybe God’s mother will
Visit them sometime
And if you don’t believe
I love you, still
Maybe we’ll all gather
At Guadalupe where
Grown-ups can see
Her, if innocent enough
Though I’m never sure
If that means me
Better Kilig
for Rosema
my friends in Tagalog
tell me that kilig means
tingling anticipation
right before sensation
and then the sensation,
too
a good word revealing
prospects of all kinds
of pleasure
God invented this, you
know—and if thinking
about God and pleasure
seems out of sorts to
you,
then let’s re-think
pleasure
Rosema is A Reading Writer,
Art in Anxious Time
I’m anxious and it’s
hard to write
art expressed in pain:
I don’t know how
those artists do it
maybe it’s big fear
and nihilistic agony
that keeps them
going, that prompts
expression that might
change the world
and everything
beyond
the gardeners at
Hiroshima and
Nagasaki must
accomplish this
I have small pains
and many things that
trouble me—yes,
sometimes they are
bad as in raw—
unformed, unfixed,
though I think the
only one that might
be changed through
treating these in art
is me
still, through all
the small-town
clay-house conflicts
I might strive to
express something
new
something that might
relate to you
(the teacher and good
sport in me should tell
you that clay house
is a Puritan metaphor)
Psalm 44
a sleep-song
I nap and still am tired
Good, maybe I’ll sleep
Through the night
Napping was necessary
I was too sore and too
Worn-through
I could have stayed awake,
I guess,
Except I couldn’t
Will you still love me when
I’m gone away?
I mean, eventually I’ll
Be closer to you than
I was ever before,
Than I am now:
I like you and respect you
I seek to be near you
Is this ever enough to
Bring a dream of you
Or, dreamless, a
Long time of sleep
Because I’m loved
Throughout this night
That you have made?
I can hope so
Not because I’m smart
But because I’m yours
Psalm 43
miracle-song
a miracle of unexpected grace
I paraphrase while reading a
line of text, which in fact ends
differently
but maybe that is what miracle
is, unexpected science and
grace, an unplanned gift from
divinity,
which we need so badly (or so
well)
no judgment in receiving, who
is worthy (who is not), no more
than in evaluating the giver
something is saved, and that’s
what matters:
material of miracles making up
the rest
That ‘70s Show
The seventies were strange
Times—we were trying to find
Ourselves, though had to be
Told first that we were lost
We were the TV generation;
We drank Coke, the real thing,
And sixties protest signs
Became seventies pop art
I tried TM, tried to find out if
I am okay, because you are; I
Was too young for this, but it
Was the world we had
The generation before had
Failed us not simply for not
Respecting or responding to
Our questions but also for
Confessing that the life it
Would leave for us might and
Likely not be better than
Before (what the earlier
Generations owned)—we
Could protest with polyester
And acrylic, leisure-suits and
Lounge-lizarding; we could
Disco until we were done,
Then pack away our hopes
In a Star Wars kit bag, because
Leaving our universe back
And far away gave better
Light than warring over oil,
Other energies at home and
Abroad in new draft lotteries
Our cordless phones were
Bricks or in our muscled cars—
And something called the
Personal computer horizoned
We left narrow lapels and
Ties behind, prepared for E.T.
Calling, then Buelller leaving
Off the decade’s happy days
For the Squeaking Door I Don’t Have
I make noises like a squeaking door
When I get up from sitting cross-legged
On the bed, where I’ve been tapping
On the laptop surface that sits in front
Of me, there
I make the noises verbally, that is—for
Now, my joints are fine
I don’t know, it’s my way to speak into
The silence and the solitude: a way to
Say, I’m here
For all the world to respond to, which,
Of course, it doesn’t
Psalm 42
song about who judges
Lord, I hope
My enemies never
Have another good
Day
Which is why
It’s good that I don’t
Judge with divine
Power but
Leave that up to
You
It’s your job
You do it perfectly
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