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Parting Storm

Parting Storm

(Good Friday,

while rain falls)

 

Tempests of dread

Over waves or

Maybe upon towns

Or fields or where

Any once had met

 

Storms have many parts

 

Forget the question if

It makes a sound where

There is no one to hear:

Storm sounds

 

(Makes noise,

Goes deep)

 

From the first

Crashing, splitting, thieving

Maddening descent

Of all the elements

 

Calling for chorus

And rebuke

 

Within or under

Land and water, as if

Newly and terribly alive, and

Where both converge

In savage contested

Bordering

 

Dying sets in, life strives

Against

 

Waking day of uncertain

Force, fearing that

Maybe faith no longer

Holds

 

Falling with night

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eccentric impoverishment

eccentric impoverishment

 

I believe in odd things

in the creeping things of scripture

in the texture of flower petals

that hold the elixir of hope

for nature

 

in that which doesn’t last but

really does

kind encounters with strangers

(kind when strangers encount-

with me)

joy in small things

joy even on a day that’s dim

with unlined sky

for creative impossibilities

 

the world doesn’t value the

arcane

things or my eccentric way of

loving them

 

so how am I to live

 

in response

I do not know is first

with fear closely behind

 

how do I live for real I mean

 

how does a world set so differently

(or I so differently to it) agree

and arrange to pay for who I am

and what I do and how

 

how do I find my way with

only colors in the corners

if I must direct myself toward

a blander needle point

 

but I need the life of hope in

creativity with the world

 

who salaries that

 

who pays me

for that artful amorphous

life

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31 January 2016 (in the global north)

31 January 2016
(in the global north)

I still wake up with jittery feelings. The sun is bright. The snow is melting down. Maybe I need it gone. But is that the boundary of my fear? I sit and look outside to see the beauty. I am inspired to come back and write a verse of two. Still, fear jumps inside me. At least it doesn’t leap. I’ll feel better, once I write a bit. Drink a hot drink, maybe take a pill or two pills. I know that on a good day my heart still operates in an iffy way. I know that what happened here was momentous. It’s momentous, still, outside. As in ancient Arabian architecture, I cherish space and righter light. Not simply looking out into amorphous glare. Rather the view of a virtuously bright and blue-skied world above with earth of desert browns beneath. Through arches made of genius and of grace, numbering the stars within each stone’s embrace.

I dream this is all easier, if not delightful, in a desert paradisal scene. Where arid becomes beautiful and free air moves through all, spirits borne and carried along. Maybe heaven’s healing wind will pause and wave upon me there, and I will feel and know something of the serene aspect of God.

Too much romance and earthly-bound, I know. But I need this. My fear frankly needs it, as does my hope and peace.

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Burying the Unknown Dead

Burying the Unknown Dead

A ministry, non-sectarian, in
Boston

Students from a private
School—senior-students
From a private school

Attend to one, an unknown
Man, somewhere with a
Name but no one to claim
And care for his mortal
Remains

“But today we are his family,
We are here as his sons . . .”

Pallbearers, recitations of
Free and liturgical verse—
These youth provide all

To bear the body and,
Finally, kindly lay with
Loving intention into the
City’s yard and ground

In Boston, it’s a frozen
Day, yet there is some light

Because hope of all kinds
And times and mortal or
Immortal prophecies—

Hope blazes here

(reported at npr.org for
25 January, “Today We
Are . . .” by Arun Rath)

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