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Psalm 37, a song of earthly rendering

Psalm 37

a song of earthly rendering

 

When news is so bad

Coupled with lack of opportunity

Everything is weighted down, dear Lord

I don’t know how to make it better

To see it better

To feel it better

Please, what shall I do

In past work, we see

That you are there

That you follow us through mountain passes

Over peaks

And in valleys so blinding in fog over the way

That we could be underneath earth as well as above

 

You bring us home, dear Lord

And are with us in safety

Or in peril

Calm our fears so that we might enjoy some relaxation in peace

Some soft moments in our day

Some mercy on the way

 

Let your justice prevail, O Lord, so much better than ours

May your help be plentiful

Your presence touchable

If only upon

The surface of our spirits

Because we can keep it dense and difficult

To allow you further in

 

Pardon me and be with me

Even when I am poor in realizing you

Psalm 36, song out of poverty

Psalm 36

song out of poverty

 

I would sing to you

But my throat is raw

 

I would give to the poor

Except that I am one

 

What may I do for you

When I have nothing to share?

 

Well, I am something, I guess

Even in the vacuum

 

Of offering

Something in my design

 

You liked in making me

And sustaining me thus far

 

I guess I do have

One more thing to give

The Good News in Straightening Up

The Good News in Straightening Up

 

I have cleaned

I have picked up

Washed things

Put things large and small

Away

 

Sun arrives, maybe only

Passing through

But I see blessing in the timing

Calm and peace are lit

For the time they’re here

 

I am sore

But inclined toward watching

Surfaces

Feeling energy and a little

Healing from the shine

(haiku) From the Back Yard

(haiku) From the Back Yard

 

 

Cardinal on fence,

Momentary red still life,

Flies away—that’s good

 

 

Cold morning air, one

Bumble-bee under flower

Following its call

 

 

Rabbit’s tall long legs,

Wary, lope across the yard:

Mitigated zeal

Christ Is a Refuge

Christ Is a Refuge

 

Christ is a refuge

He takes all the unwanted

He is home to countless

Without home

To the comfortable as well

Christ Was a Refugee

Christ Was a Refugee

 

Christ was a refugee

In Egypt

We do not know if Mary

Or Joseph had family there

Nothing is said

We know they traveled

To escape persecution

To miss the massacre

An insane king

Had decreed at home

First of May

First of May

 

First of May

Ancient practices

Now with modern meaning

 

One of Saint Joseph’s days

This day for the worker

Come to celebration for

Soviet Christians

 

So that May Day, a state’s

Day of recognition in the USSR

Could be marked as a special

Day while religion was

Beneath the surface, and

The believer required a

Spiritual reason

Masks

Masks

 

We talk a lot about that here

Which is good, I think—it must

Be an important theme

 

I’m not sure why I was talking

Yesterday with my brother

About Guy Fawkes

 

It’s a strange holiday from my

American look—you know,

“Remember the fifth of

November and such”—but

 

Then, I have “the eighteenth

Of April, in Seventy-five;/

Hardly a man is now alive”

(hardly)

 

Remembering, as we should,

That Revere had help from

Other riders, a man and a

Young woman

 

There—I’ve forgotten about

Masks, like the one on Guy

Fawkes (used in V is for

Vendetta), a definition of

Wry, sardonic looks broadcast

Throughout the realm

 

Carnivals (pick a nation) wear

Masks, as do some super-

Heroes and, well, bank

Robbers, too

 

Celebration (okay, maybe

Criminality), impression,

Second plastic skin, the

Need to turn away

 

But I think we mean the

Masks that hide our feelings,

Even our deeper thoughts—

 

Things that need concealment

And from which we fear

Exposure

 

Do you know who I am? a

Twenty-first century search

 

Finds sad response: a number

Of YouTubes (Do you know

Who I am? I’m entitled to

Road rage),

 

Well-known persons in the

Mind, at least, who have

Declared this in a gross

Way—and a book for women

 

(And, who knows, the book

Might be good)

 

But for the earnest question,

We don’t perceive the block,

Which is, we cannot ask

The question:

 

Masks inhibit the seeing of

Another and the hearing of

Oneself

 

It’s really a question that

Has beauty; now it needs

Strength

 

To ask and, on the way, taking

Down—relenting—of our

Masks, souls in disguise

Walpurgisnacht

Walpurgisnacht

(30 April)

 

Eve of a saint’s day and

 

Something to do with

Witches and with German

Witches, I imagine—the

Good kind of witch, I’m

Sure

 

Not Charmed witches,

‘Cause they were silly

(After three seasons,

Anyway) nor the crones

With noses whose hooks

Could hold pots, so badly

Were they drawn

 

Maybe that’s why,

Starting at dawn, the

Television plays episodes

Of (so-called) real

Mysteries

 

Because tonight good

Witches are dancing in

Dark bulls’-eyed circled

Places with what light

They might extract from

The sentinel moon

 

Under which their sinews

Slide in pace to music

Unheard

 

Beseeching sky and earth

And fire with water held

In fashioned vessels

 

To love the world and

Give their healing magic

Potency to break feverish

Ills that make corrupting

 

Sickness of what men

Catch and spread when

Dealing in the day

 

 

Harz witch in front of the fire

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