Poetry Archives 2008
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Poetry by Carol Bevan-Bogart
Alms
Everyday, two angels hang out on the corner.
Their wings are a dead give-away.
Otherwise, they look like ordinary panhandlers,
long-haired boys who pluck guitars hoping
for a hand-out to buy a nickel bag of dreamy numbness.
If you pass the corner quickly to avoid their eyes,
you’ll miss the tenderness fanned toward you
by the slight beat of wings. You might hear it
and think an awning has come undone,
flapping in the hot air.
Look closely at the angels’ hands.
Are they asking for or giving alms?
Either way, how are they different
from anyone with palms outstretched
blessing even those who turn away?
©Carol Bevan-Bogart, Author
©Eduardo Schäfer, Photographer
Poetry 
by
Nancy M. Welsh, ssj
Mirror of God
Luminous jewel of the universe,
ribbons of rivulets,
wave upon wave,
wrapped 'round its sphere;
"Gaia," glorious earth, pulsating
with life's whimsical web,
mirroring endless Beauty
in wondrous seasons of grace;
sing out your praise, my soul,
utterly amazed!
Prayer of Presence
At dawn, I linger for a moment,
wearing my fragile garment
of brief ecstacy...
in the stillness, I listen intently
to no-thing-ness...
in the quiet Presence of All,
I am free...
for a delicious instant, I know
I AM the love I seek..
one with All,
love is who I am...
Love is me.
Encounter
Was it on the shore of another lake
that I first met the Holy One, the Christ,
or was it in a field of flowers,
moving gently in the morning breeze?
Or was it, perhaps, under a cypress tree,
where He stood,"majestic,
yet infinitely humble?
I remember; He looked right at me with
warm eyes, that crinkled at the corners
and a half-smile on His lips...
a small flame lit itself in my soul,
shimmered and spread
through my being.
He walked over to me, raised my face
to His and simply said, "I know you,"
..."and I, You," I murmured in return.
I found my home-coming in His look,
He, the source of my truest self.
Would that we could have stood there
no less than forever.
© Nancy M. Welsh, ssj
Photograph © Jennifer Tramel
Erik Estabrook's Poetry
All Things Holy
Believe me Lord, I've seen the storm
but also seen your glory
believe me I'd rather die than turn to you a blind eye
you are the great redeemer
you renew all things
and in your kingdom reign
my own tormented vision
is one blessed as it is
but not enough of a testament to you
we need you and all things holy
my cries ended when you entered my life
my strength began when I found Christ
it is a love that will never fail
my warbound chains you set the bail
we need to go forth with hallelujah
give praise in every way,
express to our master and creator
that we were beautifully and faithfully made.
Blessed Fountain
This is where I drink the life
this is my breath
this is my heart beating faster now
I drink from this blessed fountain
your love and mercy surrounds me
I need your love
I need your voice
if you believe you can make the choice
I will be the rock on high
strong all my life for you
I will be your shelter in the rain,
no joy or pain can express my greatfulness.
His Way or My Way
When I see the cross, I know that Jesus lives today
my way is good enough to squeeze on through
to make it into heaven's doors okay
but there's a thing called trust between God and I
and thats why I follow his way,
my way is good enough for you and me
but ask me how I should live?
I live with thought to Jesus and deal with pain through him
I live upon this world staying true to God
and echoing out he lives
its not about what's right or good enough,
its do you follow his way today?
Birdie Houston's Poetry
Days of Old
Do you know or have you been told,
What happened to the days of old?
When hair was done in promenade,
10 cents a glass for lemonade,
Family picnics filled the parks,
Catching lightning bugs by dark,
Screens unlatched or left unhooked,
Fathers worked,
Mothers cooked,
Windows left up without fright,
Children said their prayers each night,
Neighbors you seemed to know their names,
If sick in bed, flowers they'd bring,
Boys and girls grew up where,
Moms and Dads were always there!
Blue
Blue skies, blue water
Blend with my satin blue dress,
Blue dress goes nicely
With my blue mood,
Blue mood makes me so blue,
Blue enough to shut my eyes,
Blue enough to hummmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Blue hat tilted to the side
Blue mascara runs,
Into my frilly blue hanky,
Brimmed with blue laces,
I grab it tight with my blue,
Silky gloves,
Blue purse, blue beads,
I will lay down by the seashore,
Blue flower you will find,
In my dancing wavy hair,
Blue you…
Blue!
©Birdie Houston, Author
"Blue" ©Dez Pain, Photographer
Poetry and Art
by
Sally Arango Renata
Dancing Upside Down
It isn’t a dream,
the sense that I am blind
or that the only way to get
from here to the river
is to dance upside down.
Fish brush my ankles as the soil
under my feet churns,
plastic then mud it lifts and falls,
I lift my arm to keep balance,
to show good intent.
My toes touch petals of velvet
and I know I will fall into water.
There is peace in this, knowing
I will sink or move with the current,
that the current knows where it’s going.
Faith
The best time
is prayers before bed
when Mom
kneels
with her alone.
Eyes closed,
she cups small hands
reaching
to netherland
for a nod
of grace
Jesus is asleep she says....
Will he wake up?
Mom smiles.
Her prayers are answered.
©Artist and Author Sally Arango Renata
Ode to a Terse Cactus Flower
Once upon my journey
Down dusty white-sand trail
I came upon a cactus patch
To enter- I prevailed
A proud soft yellow flower
Shy and near the ground
Beckoned boasting buttery hues
Upon it I stooped down
Its petals sheer translucent
Overlapped as if to say
“Do overlook my prickliness
And cast your glance my way.
Although my presentation
Is lacking velvet touch
This sun bathed bloom to you I lift-
Now thank you very much.”
Point of Turning Pin
by
Keith
The universe and all within
Are to our God as the point of a turning pin
Yet on that point, that tiny dot
There’s not a soul that God knows not
And to us all God speaks clear
His children born (again) with listening ears
All others stand on the pin and shout
God’s voice they’re trying to drown out
It’s not that they cannot hear within
It’s just their love for the turning pin
Is greater than the voice within
Magnificent God over all
I do, without ears hear His call
When I try to describe God I fail
But of trying I will never bail
For what I have come to know inside
I cannot hide
Awesome God within and without
The living God who leaves no doubt
For in God we find our breath
and height and width and light and depth
Above all is God - creation knows
And all creation groans to show
Of how God loves us so
It takes not - God within to find
Good things bestowed - and all the time
It rains and shines despite ones bent
But when trouble comes our way
The child of God sees through and prays
Not as the fool - who pleads the trouble go around
But as one who passes through the fire
That’s the difference in child and hire
For even though God created all
With that we managed first the fall
And all that we have done thus far
It’s safe to say - that we have waned
From God’s intent, we’re Eden’s shame
By now we should be light of day
But still to other gods we pray
Gods love is far beyond our words
Gods way covers the undeserved
And then on top of that Gods grace
Why would any turn their face?
But I have found that many will
What ere the reason - they turn still
Hardened will and hardened heart
Living on their inward part
Will cause a man to live a lie
Time to confess - he will deny
The child of faith can’t wait to see
Rewards for all eternity
Not for anything they’ve done
"Just" for trusting in His Son
If you are not convinced at all
That you are covered from the fall
And Jesus is the only name
Then you will add to Eden’s shame
I’m not trying to twist your arm
A few words of verse can do no harm
But if I plant one seed that grows
Into a tree the Maker knows
Then of the many I offend
I’ll take the criticizers end
To stand before the God of all
One soul averted from the fall
As days pass by- less time to tell
Of heaven's light and satan's hell
When all abruptly comes to end
I’m hoping that of those I’ve met
Who haven’t made their mind up yet
Will gladly choose to trade their sin
Than holding fast- the point of turning pin
Somewhere Near Evesham
by
Karen Kelsay
December swept the cemetery lawn;
The pealing church bells bridged the waterway.
On ancient tombstones, near the abbey wall,
Each epitaph was faint and worn away.
But then that special one, in front of me,
Had blossoms reaching upward from the ground,
All yellow, bright as spring. And when I read
The words engraved, a sleeping voice I found--
It softly echoed out in hope these words:
"Although my body is corrupt, I shall
Once more be whole. " And all the way I thought
Of her, while wandering the long canal.
(previously printed in "collected poems" by Karen Kelsay)
Inner Man
by
Judy Crayton
What wonder this
This something draped in flesh
This ageless essence morphing time by time
Changing shades of greed and love swirl with eager heart
Splashing tears of joy and sorrow rush to add their part
Never changes this ever changing Zoe
For soft it rolls neath slumbered eyes to alter even then
And starts afresh when flesh arise to finish what has been
Kneading the heart of unseen man
Seeking to make him all it can
Color and fragrance changing shape behind the outer wall
Longing the morrow though upward climb oft precedes a fall
Marching on together their clock's tick not the same
Both may bask in waters tame or guest abound and walls decay
But Inner Man's encompassed all paths these walls assayed
When shell has cracked
This something birthed, undraped by human flesh
Alone ascends transcendent to ageless reign
Two From Cheri Byard
How Does God Choose Which Mother We Will Have?
I think it is in her fingernails.
When I was young I use to sit in church gently and steadily
running my index finger up and down my motherʼs
soft, smooth, perfect fingernails,
attached to the most beautiful woman Iʼd ever seen,
looking oh-so-much like a Jackie O but much more special.
Although surely she was trying to listen or pray,
she allowed me to continue this ritual no matter how long I desired.
Maybe it was how I identified her as mine,
a fingerprint, of sorts.
The nails were so much her.
They placated an insecure child,
brought peace to a leaping mind,
begot balance to a searching soul,
answered never ending questions,
and cleansed obscure childhood guilt.
I was home with those tips, so silky and pristine,
like fine old-fashioned linen, well-worn yet comfortably clean and fresh.
Sometimes I wish I could go back to that place of beauty and rest.
I would snuggle up to her and ask her if she would lend me her hand.
I would cast off my cares and cuddle up to her nails,
my sanctuary of ages, returned to her fold once more.
HONOR
A forgotten attribute
disregarded by masses.
No longer admired for its integrity.
Imparted to me by a judicious man
(I pray he recognizes who he is)
to pay tribute for that which is endowed to oneʼs self
and exhibit supreme appreciation for a phenomenal gift.
Once recognized, the heavenʼs open,
celestial light shines through,
angelic assertations are heard.
This once-empty woman
is now forever in debt
to the supremacy that guides her
through this sanctified path.
A route which could have easily been discarded,
paid no heed in the least.
Wakefulness is upon me.
Forevermore there will be no turning back.
This energy called life is a miracle,
a crossing this mere mortal never envisioned.
A remarkable, delightful passage
in which daydreams pale.
An abundant endowment of unspeakable grace
which humbles the soul
and stills the mind.
Praisepoem
by
Carla Martin-Wood
Praise to You by many names called,
by none defined,
Praise to You who will not be contained,
You of the limitless where
and the boundless here,
For You have filled my blood with words this day,
and play your happy songs upon my bones like a flute.
Glory be to You for the exuberance of life,
for this dance that does not cease.
Let me see You in all things created.
Glory to You for the gaudiness of flowers,
for outrageous roses never told
that pink and coral and scarlet are not properly worn together,
for flamevine in passionate abundance
dancing in the blue and golden morning,
Glory to You for this ignorance of flowers,
for they have not been informed
that beauty commands a price,
but display their splendor
to the poorest among us who walk the field with open eyes.
Glory to You for the wonder of night sky,
for the glittering extravagance of so many stars.
Glory to You for the miracle of morning,
shattering darkness into fragments that scatter
butterflies in glad profusion across the blossoming dawn sky.
Glory to You for this cacophony of birdsong,
For melodies of skylark and disharmonies of crow,
For plagiarizing mockingbird
and ineffable whisper of hummingbird wings.
Glory to You for all feathered flight
and also for the common caterpillar, who waking
from long sleep finds wings bejeweled
like a gift from morning:
What excess of joy bears him up,
with blossoms as his only fit companions.
Praise to You for marshland that stretches in oceanic waves
of brown and golden reeds against the sky,
How filled with Life is the tiniest drop of its water.
Glory to You for the ruby-throated lizard
and the darkness of swamp that sings with
toad and serpent and cry of heron,
with vulture and with snowy ibis,
each with a place and a beauty
that You have ordained.
Glory to You for brown and russet, for gray and indigo,
for the thousand-colored shadows
of this deepstill meditation of reed and bog,
for the treasure of reflection:
Where water stands, I find pieces of sky.
Glory to You for saltwater, fresh water,
amniotic waters of the womb of Life,
For our blood that contains the same chemistry,
documenting our heritage, our source, our family.
Glory to You for the shattering of birth,
Glory to You for the wisdom of the pain of giving life,
for it reminds us that we enter this consciousness
both heirs and indebted.
Glory to You for the magnificence of stone,
for its strong and silent singing, as it teaches us
the virtue of simply being.
Glory to You for the verdant grandeur of forest,
for the bountiful home of deer and dove,
of rabbit and fox,
for whom You provide unquestioned.
I sit upon the earth and feel Your pulse beneath me.
I sit in the limbs of trees and know I rest in Your arms like a sleepy child.
I look to the infinite reaches of space, and You are there, laughing down at me!
I look through a microscope into a molecule of matter, and behold:
You are there, laughing up at me!
Glory to You for all limitless things:
for sand, for stars, for the subatomic world,
For through them, we see You most truly;
In them, we see You most clearly.
Oh, Inexhaustible:
You who have no limitations,
You who scoff at boundaries,
Oh, Everlasting:
You who are,
You who have been,
You who shall be ever,
Oh, Unutterable:
Your creations in all their wonder
are but pale shadows of Your Most Holy Self
How beyond imagination,
the infinite beauty of Your Face.
Who Are
You, God?
by
Margot Brown
Who are You, God, that I should feel so small;
when what I do transmutes to nothingness?
And What are You, that I should lie awake
to ponder possibilities ‘til I regress
into a sleep which fails to end my quest.
Who are You, God, that I am so much less?
Who are You, God, that I should feel remorse
when I forget You time and time on end
and What are You, that though I fail Your name
when others do, I’m quick to your defense,
as if You need a soldier here on earth.
Who are You that my loyalties I lend?
Who are You, God, that I should feel so safe
when I’ve no friends to count nor friends to name
and What are You, that if You are a god
I’ve often thought that You have felt the same
when people like myself despair of you.
Who are You God, that we should feel so lame?
My God! Oh, God! Why do I cry to You
when I tell people I command my fate?
My God! Oh, God! Why do I turn to you
and think You’ll hear me though I wake so late
from human sleep both conscious and not so.
Who are You, God? Why can’t I let You go?
Three From James Keane
My Hero
While you were busily
absorbed in dirt and spade work,
I was the clean one, gardener
of the barely begun, who, hapless
eyed your radiant smile,
grown expectant, grow
sad, and sorrow churn whatever
warmth soothed your heart
to dread. Too warm to be numbed
dead. Your tears would blossom
when I least expected them, and anger
threw me every time they did. So when a child
only of God
came true, plucked
by you, virgin mother,
from a squalid death at the end
of squalor, my resolve to be worthy of
the hero in you grew. And so, thank you
for the dirt and spade work. For sadly
churning bitter weeds
to flowers. For exulting
in words that sprouted oh so quickly
when I asked you, somewhat rudely,
“Well . . . how is he?
“He’s ours.”
[Previously published in the anthology Flowers of New Millennium]
Hey, Hummingbird
Hey, hummingbird
hovering, peering in
just outside my window
to life,
just be there when I need you,
where my sad son
can see you. Be tickled
your soundless whirring makes
him smile a little to fly
a little, forget to cry
alone, a little.
May he always know
he is good, and my prayer
through his window to life
be heard, and never misunderstood:
Keep him lovingly in your sights
all of my days, and all of his nights.
[Originally published in Autumn Leaves]
Buoys
When I was very young and smaller,
my father stood taller
in the ocean water. Pulling me forward
relentlessly, my puppy legs flailing
needlessly, my blind cheek pushing back
salty flicking, when the licking
we were taking abruptly
halted in the wake and swell
of his simple command, "OK . . .
now stand.". . . Stand? "Just . . . stand." Timid
and guppy small, my feet
slithered down an invisible
slippery wall to dryness?
Dryness . . . a cooling cushion
of dryness. Nothing else waiting
beneath the flicking, licking
and slapping.
Later,
buoys anchored together, we bobbed
and stood, agreeing in solemn tones,
"The weather this week for the most part
has been very good," until quietly
probed a gentle wave
to implore, to suggest
a silent interlude, perhaps,
though swelling
to prod my father, grinning, a bit
closer to the shore, as if it, not he,
knew best.
When,
beyond the pulling
and imploring
of all human caring, he grinned
no longer, ever so
smaller, and with the feeble wave
and swell of a final command,
he rose again only to smile
somehow, and dip
to his final shore, I understood
Buoys – 2 (new stanza)
in the end, without
a simple command
there was nothing more left
to him
to understand. Yet,
even as
my memories of him
grow ever so young
and smaller,
and even though
I stand alone, I know
I will never stand taller.
[Originally published in Autumn Leaves]
|
garden grammar by Nirveen Hope
Hold My Hand by Gerry Tancreda
Come with me my child and hold my hand
|
Meditation by Joe Lyons As I lay in bed eyes opened Rolling over, oh so slowly, the sun rests upon my head |
