names
Our Lady has a day
Juan Diego anglo named
she gave him roses
(12 December, Our Lady of Guadalupe)
I am Christopher
bearer of Christ and walking
hundred-acre woods
your name is your name
assigned you for a reason
there is a story
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(a series, I suppose, though I think each poem stands on its own)
there are good stories [a line while drafting that I thought I’d let stay on the page]
photo by Aida Batres on Unsplash
two poems for Thanksgiving narratology
[narratology = dealing in story (sorry)]
this Thanksgiving
(mutuality)
say
find something to be thankful for
still here
a body
with a spirit inside
a mind
if the high point of that arc
was a long time ago
and everything’s been gradual
since
then
the bandage from last blood test
fell off
somewhere
hopefully not
to create a gross moment for someone
for me
the continuation of a series
gross
if bloody
that began with the first heart attack
or with
fall off the sofa when I was
four or so
and
there was a pool on the hardwood floor
that I could see
this is the past
highlights
or
lowlights
and how do you remember things
your own time
with time
nature
others
your own inventions on your own
and when dealing in
perception based on how others
treated you
that part of the play
when
Eliza says she is a duchess
because Pickering treats him
that way
and
there is
how we treat ourselves
now add the theme of thanks
for the day
Pygmalion/My Fair Lady (cited)
starspeak
and where is God in this
and sad
if not tragic
to
have to ask
maybe it’s because there are no easy
answers on the planet
except the gift
of
itself
in the cosmos
either
except to look with whatever combination
of our senses
to wonder
to measure
too
if there are no numbers for the wonder
we say
in certain liturgies
that
a star is coming
though they’re not supposed to be
loosed from their places
there’s that
wonder
the exercise to call it something else
by which it’s easier
or
to admit there is no knowing
and so let it unbound
unidentify its place
except it flies
and
also famously arrives
with a doctrinal purpose
but that we also leave it
simply as
astounding
also passage in an
extraordinary
narrative
that might beg belief
while
not insisting on its truth
on
what it represents
like the fictive guess
in “The Sentinel”
in which
Arthur Clarke invents a dying star
with
sentient civilization ‘round it
its last explosion
seen over the skies by
magi
of western Asia
and we could write our stories
too
as well as listen to what’s
set
and shared each season though off-season
makes your guesses
takes your chances
give
other versions a chance
allow imagination
serving
as an ironic stretching as a building-up
of credibility
“The Sentinel” is a short story by Arthur C. Clarke. The story is said to be the inspiration for his and Stanley Kubrick’s 2001. (Clarke having written that novel for and from the film.)
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Happy Thanksgiving! which should be a day of thanks for all, everywhere—or of hope for such with those in unthanking situations. (Sorry, need to bring up both.)
four more-or-less October poems (three poems narrative while one verse plaintive)
who takes the autumn time
fall
and I’m not ready
too cold too
fast
so
where were the colors
coming over weeks
as hot moved to cool
then to cold only at night
for
a while
yet
look at me
hear me
complaining
while
it was in the eighties well into
October with random
reason
or Earth turning
for all the heat returning
but frankly
the trees look like veterans
of the wasted early
season
green leaves with withered edges
an attempt at red now brown
meaning
late fall by climate change
and should we peak in wizened fall
from trees worn out by
normal waiting
for
the riotous return
and
it isn’t look
of course
alone
but touch the cooler wind
to smell the gradual passing
to
think on the mortality
but now breaking cycles
of the planetary model rest
to sleep under
into blade risings
with
spring
then who took the time of fall
MidAtlantic
everywhere and that would mean
south
what should be the verdant
growing time
ambassadorial
the orange cat
who
came to say hello then
walk right
in
to look for corners good for
rubbing faces
with new levels
chair
and stool
and bed
on which to leap
as if after
to plant a catly explorer’s
flag
to chirp and then
to cry a
little
signaling the visit done
and for us to go upstairs
to find
the unlocked door through
which
this pumpkin neighbor
had escaped and has come down
to call
a sibling face behind the door
of timider variety
now
waiting for the rascal-story
men’s Bible study
thought
I’d give a try
there were three plus
the proviso that
where
two or more are gathered
one
man I knew
the other not so much
but
we went on together through
the video
and readings
with
discussions on the way
and then
requests for prayer
and I asked for
my niece
and abashedly then
for
myself
and
by the way
we had gelato at the start
while
I heard tales of Italy
from two so much more traveled
than myself
so
I could learn
because they’re nothing like
well
like being there
to insurance companies
thanks
to your insurance
I’m suffering
treatments have been identified
by experts
you won’t let me have
the help
I know I’m just one person
whose numbers move through your
machine
so easy to ignore
while you gear your promotions
through yourselves
over my health
but
goodness
I wish I could feel better
from the summer’s infections
it being fall
now
and
you know
I could feel improved
but
you won’t let me
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photo by Mauro Lima on Unsplash
Saturday haiku
(senses applied to what’s outside; maybe each verse stands alone; maybe they all have to go together)
the skitterers wait
leaves falling then branches cleared
skittering delight
what is there to hear
surprised or unsurprised sound
to like or endure
out front I smell town
cars and bricks and street work there
out back trees and leaves
unconvincing taste
air that’s all mixed together
good and bad to breathe
touching the splinters
old drying frame of window
trees too far away
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photo by LR HULTS on Unsplash
two poems about me, all of us
a story for me
(and you)
let’s
see what I recall
she asked me
do you know what your name
means
and
I said
yes
it means cross-bearer
to which she then asked
do you
know the story
and I didn’t
there was a wide river
and a man who
for a living
carried people to the other side
one day then
a child
came to the man
the child requesting
to
be carried across the water
and
so he took the child on his shoulders
and proceeded
and as they moved
it seemed
the child got heavier to bear
and then
heavier
the current of the river and the distance
made
everything more difficult
though it was the weight of the child
that mattered
most
so that the man
said to the child
I feel as if
I’m carrying the weight of the world
to which the child replied
you are
and that’s the story of the saint
named Christopher
and
I’ve kept that story from
my teacher
when in school and to
this day
so
I know there’s much to write about
about
earthquake and war
fire
flood and strikes
and such
and not
to dismiss
anything in the world with which I often
feel
uncomfortable
and yet
must love so much
but
sometimes it is me
as it is you
and we are one by one
as well
as
together
and each one matters
as
togetherness matters
and sometimes
you know
there is the day and only one soul
then
another
and what happens from inside to
the outside
through one and then another
to
the world
eventually
is what we have
one
two
together
more
the world
forever
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photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash
“long exposure image of a river flowing in the forest”
2 disparate poems (one poem about church, the other about art)
church time
liturgy
a language for the church at prayer
though we can go through
the mass book
on our own
the missal
I should say
not sacred language
in whatever language
unless
there is a translation
of glossolalia
but
as far as I know
normal words
that
enable me to go through
devotion
or a service
on my own
or two could
do
and this is church
is
said
that two or three are gathered
and no more
which means I’m not
a church
by myself
and
should have company
in prayer
and worship
(prayer for worship)
if
we want this to be church
as if it’s us
there is
perhaps while in the formal feeling
again
I ask
does art come from pain
and must it
always
love what we do
do what we love
we’re told
trite
cliché
advice a trope
along with dream big
I suppose
and
we know that life is hard
the artist thrown out from the start
or
disenfranchised once
the vision’s owned
because
normalcy
without a challenge is what’s
paid for
and
not the art
except that it appear
magic
at the show
someone decides to buy it
for
colors that complement
or
honestly could be because someone
is moved
(and
the colors complement)
never pay the artist
though
assuming
grants
or commissions
that for most
are in an air
too rare to breathe
and so
we go like the bohème
in a garett that’s happy enough
while
poor
until the poverty should bring disease
without a cure to pay for
by medicine
or
southern Italy
with the means to rest
and so
sun-heal
and I exaggerate
and
don’t
and so after
losing
what
the ordinary company of
one
next to another
having lost most of the world
already
there is work
and it might be art
and
I think shall be
proving
the thesis of the ages
I suppose
except for those who were not poor
to art
who
I imagine
started out that way
by something else
and then the provocations
to the institutions
true
freedom and creation
that outcast
as they please
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photo by The Cleveland Museum of Art on Unsplash
Harmonious Times, Paul Signac
Annunciation school and church
shame
what is the shame
humiliation in
allowing such things to happen
such
awful things
and those who seek to move the world
but
cannot keep children safe
by lesser measures than vainglorious
and is that
it
we cannot say
one cannot say
I did this
and the mountains shook
the seawaves vibrated
by my hand
I pressed my enemies into the ground
beneath the beneath
and
took on God’s role for myself
over heaven
over hell
no
we simply mean to keep our children safe
most of us
that is
to remove the means
for harm
from them and from those
who’d
just as soon hurt them
to let Annunciation
say
these are the children
these
are welcome
we will keep these in the world
and
rise and fall by how we do
to have them in the school for learning
in
the church for faith
at last madness all to own
and
did it say
I hate those Christians
for
what is there to believe in
not myself
only the power I might bear
a little while
‘til I’m caught
‘til my
life is over and what
do I care
this is significance
blood
and flame
I’m like a king
a stupid
conniving
thieving king
a king
of nothing
this is what I am
what I’ve
become
and by such cruelty
and madness
I shall die
only
for remembrance
of them
not who I was
but
what I did
and even then only the loss
and hoped-for judgment
of
the flames
except for those
forgiving
even though I hate the Christian
almost
as much me
then
as I must hate
certainly deny
if not
forget
their God
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MINNEAPOLIS — Mass was underway Wednesday morning to mark the beginning of the academic year at Annunciation Catholic School when bullets started to come through the glass.
. . . which killed two students and wounded more than a dozen other people, . . .
(MSN)
https://kstp.com/kstp-news/top-news/ways-to-help-victims-of-the-annunciation-church-mass-shooting/
(KSTP)
photo by Jacob Bentzinger on Unsplash
celestial travel ecumenical
the journey crost
over
the bar
a star that guides
the journey each of us have to
take
hoping the water’s navigable
and the pilot
knows the way
and has firm grip upon
the wheel
and can command the crew
both technically and
kindly
then Tennyson has sailed this way
crost to the other side
and
we might do the same in variants of
faith
and transport but
to arrive
to disembark or simply step
from this life into
heaven
or
what you call it
how you get
there
that
we may study
talk about
while we pursue
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Crossing the Bar
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
after Tennyson composed the poem, he requested that it appear at the end of all published collections, and it did
photo by Gene Gallin on Unsplash
"Cherry Branch-Minnesott Beach Ferry, North Carolina, USA"
2 poems about perspectives (and prompts)
anyone by Tennyson
(reflecting on “Ulysses”)
and if
Ulysses leaves
then
something wrong in Ithaca
something rotten
like the other precedence
to say
maybe his administration by which
his parting
will take the ill with him
and
shall we be ruled
then
by Penelope
who knows how to weave and
keep
the promise
loyal as all promises
are pledges
in
themselves
and so security humanity
in adventures bearing truth
and
at home
bearing love
reliably
secure
the place for that pursuit of happiness
also from the Greeks
to know
and so by wandering and settling
to have
yet
do not settle
say Ulysses and the followers
though
yet there must be a place
of ours
enacts Penelope
and
shall Telemachus serve as medium between
the parents
and the warring notions
of the heart
and will
battle well
the main place
the parts
where battle matters
“Ulysses,” a poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, published originally in 1834
the ray
these
things that Bing promotes
the rays that fly through water
by Galapagos
they swim
they point the way they’ve gone
to mark the way
for what should follow
also
to defend
and promise that through the long black
point
that each possesses
and they do all of this
these creatures
and
the species
thousands of miles from here
though there are analogues
closer in
the beings have a mind
but no mind about this
they
do not move aware
of us
as we think we should be observed
and
recognized
rather
they move in life
and life
is what they know
both need and celebration driving
which is all to strive
against
our vanities
a lesson in moving existence
in all
“spotted eagle rays in the Galápagos Islands”
presented by Bing/Microsoft (Tui de Roy/Minden Pictures)
homepage 8/15/25
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photo by Maksim Shutov on Unsplash
Lisbon Oceanarium, Esplanada Dom Carlos I, Lisbon, Portugal
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