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Psalm 45, singing this song for you

Psalm 45

singing this song for you

 

I don’t mean to sing about the

Other, compelling as that value is

 

I don’t mean a covered-over me,

Secret subject I would rather

Talk about

 

I mean you, first—my friend,

Lover, maker, and my better

 

Half (so to say) except that you

Are all

 

Now, secondly, to you, who you

Are extended from the words

 

Were it not for you, there would

Be none of this

 

For all you are and what you are

Not

 

The rest is not silence (should

Shakespeare wonder), not if

There’s Interacting

 

We are at this moment closer to

The one who, all-relating, started

 

The first process, requiring more

Than one

4

Red Sky at Morning

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

5

Fatima, Medjugorje

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

 

2

Better Kilig

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,

https://areadingwritr.wordpress.com/

8

Art in Anxious Time

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)

8

That ‘70s Show

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

5

For the Squeaking Door I Don’t Have

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

8

And Now One Is Found

And Now One Is Found

 

The Nigerian schoolgirls

(hashtag)BringBackOurGirls

Remember

 

How would we

Understand two hundred

Seventy

 

How would such a number

Be taken without our

Noticing

 

In what kind of truck

And to what place all

Hidden

 

In our neighborhood-filled

Planet-parts, this is

Hard

 

From our earthen places

We cannot count

How

 

But in part we can’t believe

Not because it didn’t

Happen

 

Tragically, criminally,

Numerically—what transpired

Transpired

 

And with our questions and

New trepidations here is her

Body

 

Now we have her with

Child and husband on the fringes

Found

 

We can understand, now

Perhaps, a new story of

One

14

MS804

MS804

 

While they were up there

God took them home

Not to be taken as a platitude

Anger remains below

 

Confusion, aching concern

Managing all that’s in

The brain and

The human heart

That breaks in the world

 

Around, while more loss

Is measured out

And poured over like

Ashes, reminders that peace

Is not on board

Above or on the ground

 

War of attack

War of flawed things

The first mark being profit

Safety will never work as second

9

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