joyful!

Cease to be a drudge, seek to be an artist.-- Mary McLeod Bethune

Poetry Archives 2008

Archived works are in no particular order. If you are looking for a particular author or work then do this: On your computer, go to edit on your toolbar. Then go to "find on this page". Input what you are looking for and your computer will do the rest!

 Three from Joseph Spence Sr.

Greater Art Thou!

Photo by Nate Bernard

Heart broken torn apart like scrambl’d eggs;

As the weak link snapp’d momentum slow’d—stopp’d

Love wherest art thou? Torment’d now begs,

This cup of scourge, drink or not—spill’d—now mopp’d.

Et tu Brute? Whisper’d from Caesar’s lips;

Yet Romeo and Juliet once lov’d,

Like Macbeth’s witches brew—don’t drink nor sip:

Fate or faith shatter’d, vulture pick’d bones—cross’d.

Heart pleadeth upward—greater is thy love,

Open Heaven’s gate with thy purest light;

Hearest thou not the meek? Awaiting thy dove!

Remove these shadows of darkness and strife:

Greater art thou in Heaven than on Earth,

Creator of creation giveth now birth!

"Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat."

--Robert-Frost

Tomorrow the Sun Shineth!

A frat asked, will you ever forgive her?

Come! The house has a toast for you tonight!

Now forget—this is not the way you were!

Let’s walk frat, tomorrow will be alright!

Let her go and have her own way each day;

Cleanse the taint with an aromatic bath

Let done be done forever—God molds the clay;

Come! Stand with us—let Him show you the path.

When entreated with her loveliest lies

Spread your wings to the sky with open ears;

Brittle vows and fragile oaths always die

Shallow days, months, years they too disappear.

Upon the rising sun—look to the East,

A royal feast, my frat—that’s the least!

"...when power corrupts, poetry cleanses."

--John F. Kennedy

Merciful Majesty—Make Misery End!

Medieval misery crushing citizens;

Shackled: grueling, clanging, negativity

Middle Passage past, plaguing, yet frightens;

Intense insanity—gangs captivity!

Draining dreams and desires from hearts—slashed:

Ancestral destruction, devastating;

Bones protruding from ribs, weakening—lashed;

Sight yet sickening, distraught, disgusting!

Will God speak in molding humanity?

Will His divine grace cleanse such evil souls?

Self posed dictators, fool’s insanity

Greed in governing—crushing others’ souls!

Where art thou, Master of the Universe?

Hold not thy hands while the poor suffer worst!

“…when power narrows the areas of man’s

concern, poetry reminds him of the richness

and diversity of his existence…”

—John F. Kennedy

Joseph Spence Sr.

Two From Changming Yuan

How Often

(after Galway Kinnell)

How often

Have you lain in thick darkness

Imagining a white crow

That you wish to see

Or rather to be

Not until the other morning

Did you hear a wild bird crying

Like a persistent knock

At the door of your heart

Beyond your curtained window

Beyond your curtained dream

It was a crow hammering all its white yaws

Right into your yellowish soul

Resonating with your entire being

Spirit’s Secrets

1. In every temple of meaning resides a spirit that tries to become a god through concentration.

2. All wonders of the human world are decorated hotels for the traveling Soul.

3. Many already stone dead are still very much alive, while many still very much alive are already stone dead.

4. Spirit is immortal according to the law of conservation of matter.

5. It is a strong mind that can gather all the gossamers of selfhood and turn them into a single whole known as Soul.

6. If we put all the shadows of Spirit together, we would have a different kind of night.

7. Dream is the only realm where humans, spirits, ghosts and gods can meet face to face.

8. Every body is a spirit cage.

9. Does a pine tree or wild cat also have a spirit?

10. As an energy form of consciousness, Spirit never dies in the universe although it may go through numerous processes of change. If it is strong enough, it can not only outlive the body, but also transform itself into Soul. Depending on whether it has a categorical superpower, Soul can become a ghost or a god. That is to say, every human being can become a supernatural being.

[First appeared in Vallum]

The Moon

Danny P. Barbare

Like a lamp in the night, Oh!

How it shines, enlightening the page

Rewriting it each time--with

A halo in the sky like the

Light of Christ--rays of white

Stretched out like arms.

Three by Ray Succre

Visages in Avatars

Careful! Hold on! These listless tokens talk.

Listen! Wait! There are so many, look.

Nudges of costume, a bit of anonymity,

the dank symbols or lightly frivolous—

images these people picked like small wits

from the wire.

Include me. All clicks lead away,

but look, hold on, wait, let me seem

to exist at the fringe, in there,

not too far, not with you,

but a contact of some appearance.

Here is my token.

Careful! Just enough now.

Brightly Cold

Have your cup and drink in deep,

filling every space with cool joys,

a phantasm approach to tension,

the slow snack of relaxed pleasure.

Greater sadnesses come

to refine the mode summoned,

a dismay,

a heavier disappointment.

But have your cup

and drink upended;

holiday,

cheers and hellos,

holiday on and off impending,

month after month,

and a long, deep cup.

Motoring Toward Holiday

Photo by: Adam Jakubiak

Long drive— my grandmother at the wheel,

oh, a citizen, civilian on the branch of a town.

She confuses illegality with wrongfulness,

is a fleeceable home-and-gardener, but kind.

She talks, I nod, some things about Olive Gardens,

Dockers, Ross stores, it all hits down as enfatuation

with price and brand and patronage, I suppose

important things to grans— I don’t really listen.

As we collect all of these Oregon and Washington

bridges beneath our tires, the steel bridges broken

out in rivets, she bloviates jingly as an infomercial.

“Look, there’s a Costco!” as we pass the sheared,

wandering shadow of Saint Helen’s Mountain.

One of these folks is Ray Succre!

Three From Joanne Uppendahl

On the Way Home

I want

to come back to land

after becoming sea

its breath my being

fade and shine, rise and fall

ache and be soothed until ocean

quiets, time finishes

enter the deep woods

find a land of mossed, fallen trees

my flesh earthed in their green

softness beneath my feet

walk among them

speak their prayers

emerald feathered vespers

O Dance Unmoving

I stare at your grand head eyes sleep-puffed slits

from the moving tram through a wildlife park,

and your thick rust fur, as dark-horned shade juts

off your round skull, cape falling to your knees.

Bison bull, lone, prone brown beast--

black nose moist against earth's belly

(her full deep field), your cone-shaped body

and your hooves tucked under

Once you felt the buzz of sun and the ache

of wind’s rough touch and the pressing weight

of clouds’ palms as their downward breath

melded into murmurs of wet, untilled soil.

Once you understood the deep thirst of grass,

and felt the sharp taps of rocks pelting paths

woven into your sleep through hills at night.

This morning you sense only pale chill,

as warmth and light have slipped away.

You crave the succulent summer grass,

not thinned-skinned, but bidding good-bye

to sun's indifferent winter light.

The Way She Wakens

Her darkened poplars

sense day climbing her sides;

horizon yields its shimmer

as they wake.

Scrub pine and fir

shamble music through searching roots,

a thousand hills distant--

they intone in cloistered woods.

Subtle is the way of her waking

forests and wetlands;

grasses linger, unhurried along her thighs--

ivy creeps beside her cheeks.

Light folds among the drowsing geese

across the wash of marshes

and deep ponds.

Jade glimmers in the shifting

trees, as branches lift to stir

arousing birds to sing

early psalms.

A maple leaf summons eyes to feast

on floors of ochre fallen leaves

she gathers to her breasts

with soft cries.

Crumbling redwood succumbs

for lives of cedar yet to come,

for ferns’ unfurling.

She embraces autumn mornings,

when slowed growth clears hours of thriving time.

Her brood peeks from within; her quiet dark,

a warmer womb.

Three From L. R. Humphries

Graphic by Dez Pain

Mayfly

One slithered gleam of vivid light,
illuminates perpetual dark,
casting shadow into brightness,
new contours shaped by seeps of gold.
The rhythmic thrust of new born life,
disturbs the cold, intemperate planes,
existence nurtured out of blackness,
the gift of being in youthful bloom.

Then embrace it, like the mayfly,
exult the brood of father time,
soar in jointure with the daybreak,
and share in flight through boundless skies;
that reach out into a lifetime,
from mother's cradle to the earth,
a journey deep through gilded landscape,
and slow creeping wrath of age.

A trickled glimpse of pale shine,
soon tumbles to tenebrous lands,
as inverse colours meld in fusion,
the twilight born of remnant day.
And beneath, the placid ocean
cups the seeping life of summer light,
she hews a stillness out of motion,
a nurtured calm from raging being.

With peace of mind, our dearest friend,
now passed from life, to heaven send;
whilst mournful children sound their sorrow,
bereft of thought for their tomorrow.
And still like time, amongst the leaves,
their love laid down in floral reeves,
by sight of eyes that search the ground,
in silent prayer that makes no sound.

Just 64, what age to pass?
no gentle soul was made to last;
instead they work, and cast the day,
and give their lives to those that pay.
They never see the sun in flight,
nor chase their dreams by fractured light,
but curse to where the time has flown,
and muse upon how much we've grown.

For slithered tears gleam in the sun,
whilst hands reach out and hold as one,
and spoken thoughts, they hold no worth,
as he is lowered to the earth.
Where God's safe hands must break his fall,
his cradled arms must keep him warm,
as memories prick, then tease my mind
of a loved passed before their time.

A Gleam of Pale Moonlight in the Morning Sky

I stirred today,
to creeping slants of morn light
from the gilded day; their pale
gleam, slow stole in through
the glistening pane made moist with dew.
I found my way,
toward the pallid, summer's
shine that caught my eye; a trick
of light, emergent from the
cloudless skies and carmine hue.

What met my sight,
not sunlit rays, but shards of
splintered moonlight from the
silver sun; their lingered cool
enduring through ascending day.
I thought of you,
so out of place, a glimpse of
guileless beauty in the deep
blue bay; a temperate glow
resplendent from exalted heights.

A wish to soar,
towards the fulsome herald
and perpetual night; a hushed
mien, the weightless landscape
of the skyline and its gentle guise.
But learn my place,
in awe beneath the dayspring
and its breaking glow; a splendour
fused, faint remnants scarred into
a memory and its silent grief.

Three Offerings From Larry Anderson

Intention

Lord, I hear your call in gentle breezes,

In an infant's cry, in healing words of love

I see your magnificance in towering snow capped peaks,

In galaxies of light and caring faces

I know your feel through gentle hearts

Compassionate souls, creative minds

Lord, teach my heart and soul

To seek sustenance in forgiveness, peace and love

Open my mind to the voices of limitlessness

And calm the egoistic gusts that push me off course

Point me in the directions for which I was created

That I may sail seamlessly into spirit and intention

HEALING

They embraced me with warmth and caring-

And understood my sordid, destructive life.

They loved me - I could not.

They listened to my story - carefully - my soul

Mirrored my life : stealthy gatherers of scraps.

Well honed for lies, they put a hose to

This ferile man and washed him. My beady red eyes

Cleared -I saw myself trapped by my own deceptions

In their earlier lives, they had

Sordid secrets - we were kin

I trusted them - and found a home.

They calmed my rage-- with soft

Touches of humor and quiet humility.

I needed meaning, I needed to love,

I needed dignity, I needed to return

To the family of man. I felt their energy;

Through a haze, gleaned right directions.

I now traveled uneasily. Like

A child, I began losing my lost,

Discovering my world. Another

Coin of creation's gold.

When my life became validated -

They said look - a squirrel,

A feather, a flower. Hesitently,

I put my hand through the black

Box of life and held gently.

My life had arrived - for this day;

I'll give it back -

Addicted, recovered

Fixer Upper

The conductor readied himself-

Hammers, saws, chisels, screwdrivers, nails,

Were preening themselves -

For a new orchestration.

The baton was dropped - music

Of reconstruction began. An old house,

Fallen into disrepair, resonating

To the songs of renewal.

The house - a dirge of cracked paint, boarded

Up windows and the musty smell of dry rot.

Rusted gutters shed tears of remorse and moss

Tries to hide neglect.

Someone's pride had weathered away.

Or maybe someone's spirit beaten

By the little battles of each day. It's hard to

Care when you don't.

A sorrowful past will be put aside,

Past errors now swept sawdust.

Carpenter's tools will keep singing -

And dance through rhythms of light.

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?

©Erik Estabrook
"Stained Glass" ©Bill Davenport

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

by

Karen Annie Powell

(Photograph created by author)

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 Chandler Powell

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

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

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

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?

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

Nirveen Hope

some days are just for editing
turning nouns and verbs like
garden compost mulch dug under

a comma here a colon there
pluck phrases re-arrange paragraphs
sweep away dead leaf redundance

a day for weeding rows of idiom
for space and light of understanding
quicken mundane metaphors of life

prune stake leaning beds of proses
while sprinkler rains on trellised lines
root deep tendrils of reflection

not the day to harvest chapters yet
as tender buds grow perfect meaning
my dear dearest or my darling one

Hold My Hand

by Gerry Tancreda

Come with me my child and hold my hand
I will take you to the promised land

Hold tight and float high above the world you know

Fear not to be free of the machines that are now you
Breathe on your own as you were meant to do

Loved ones will remember you with a smile and a pause
For you touched the lives of many
With your sunny grin and giving heart

Come with me my child and hold my hand
I will take you to the promised land

Meditation by Joe Lyons As I lay in bed eyes opened The sun creeps under the blind Sunlight chases around the room Seeking what it may find

Rolling over, oh so slowly, the sun rests upon my head

I now have a decision should I get up or stay in bed

With the suns rays gently warming banishing lethargy away

My feet reach firmly for the ground ready for another day

This morning ritual meditating

Recharging brain cells calculating

How will I deal with my tasks today

Am I fit to send them all away

Until my feet can feel the ground

My eyes are focusing all around

Take a moment to quietly pray

Then smile to chase the blues away.

Three from Jonina Kirton

this thin veil

when I woke this morning you were gone

in my dreams last night you were there, the feel of you

as familiar to me as if it was only yesterday you

last put your cheek

on my cheek

this thin veil of reality altered in sleep

allows access to those who have gone on

to the next world, they beckon us

hoping to remind us they are there

resting in peace (not to be assumed)

yet many times we say

they are in a better place now (as if we know)

many have visited me from the other side

I can tell you they have regrets

they do worry about those left behind

their message is always the same

even they did not know

just how much they loved you

loved life on this side of the thin veil

interior

there are no maps for the floating you must do

to get a sense of the whole of yourself

as complex as any map you have ever seen

is the inside of your heart

pause

mystery hangs

sweetens the air

inviting - ever hopeful

suspended truth

remains untold

time passes

poets listen

pauses - sighs

subtleties surround

create circadian

rhythms in sleep

open worlds within worlds

unwrapping - unraveling

all we think we know

Two From Sandy Hiss

The Saint

Like sleeping beauty she sleeps

peacefully, undaunted by the passage of time,

her body lithe and pale

as a stone statue chiseled and carved

only to be left alone in halls of solitude

where art is to be admired and consumed

through swallowing eyes,

and in the process of being devoured

by love and envy, she emits

an odor of soft roses which

covers the sanctuary

in a shroud of sweet surrender,

beguiling, enticing the witnesses

to look upon her and learn,

to unravel their thorny lives

with kindness and compassion

for those bound by vines,

to be as soft as the rose’s petal

and in doing so, they too

will leave a sweet scent behind

Pockets of Prayers

He likes to walk alone at night.

His favorite spot a corridor

of maples, their thick trunks

resembling honey-brown bricks

of a towering cathedral.

He's never felt closer to God

than when he is there,

spilling sins from his throat

and stuffing his coat pockets

with prayers he hid in the trees'

mouths last Summer.  Stocking up

for a long Winter, warned by the

frigid nip in the air.

April Evening

Carl Palmer

Spring ripens summer

sun lingers low moon comes to view

The smell of a yard sprinkler

Cools the balcony air

Higher Ground

Cheryl Williams

Life is an uphill climb,

a slow growing vine,

a salmon swimming upstream,

a butterfly emerging;

Why should it be easy for us,

the chosen ones,

the ones to whom

so much is given?

In just a while,

we will reach

that place of longing;

Though the sun is so distant

and the mountains loom large,

Our spirits were meant to soar,

not settle into the dust

from which we came.

We were put here for a purpose;

Our souls have a destination

so much higher than the valley.

old rusty gate by Lenard N. Eccles from day to day my memory swings like an old rusty gate it squeaks where did i put my shoes? where's my specs? they were just here a bit ago i push the old rusty gate opening my view of yesterday and the days before when the gate is open a child appears a can of oil inside the gate

Lord, I Wonder

April 6, 2008

Christian Motley

Lord
Sometimes I wonder how cool we would be
If you just decided one day to come down and just kick it with me
Would we sit at dinner and laugh
Or would you condemn my humor
Call me the tumor on society
Depriving your lost souls safe passage to your promised land
I promise man, woman, or what have you
If I could have you right here next to me
All I would need is just a minute
--Time for you to hear me out
I know a lot of people say "lawd, you know my heart"
But I want you to know my heart!!

Its just so crazy how the start of my existence
Fell in the mist of steeled roofs and store fronts
--Times were more simple then
Simple when I would just take what they told me for face value
Now I'm wondering just how to disagree with the one you placed in front of me
What they done to me
Took my world and made it prison
When I envision freedom and liberation in my interpretation
Of the stories I read
Though I heed even the one's I don't quite believe
Thinking "God, I know you wouldn't let them deceive"

Not your boi
I'm even named after you
But the path to you is so rugged
--Not just the terrain of the journey
But all of these maps with their various directions and distances
Instances when I want to even deny a pretense
Set to have sent the brightest spirits I've ever seen
To a cold and lonely hell
I'm in a cold and lonely well
Baptized in a pool full of water
That's only fit to keep me living, yet still trapped in this earthy version

I love these poems, but sometimes these words just don't do the job
Either the words won't rhyme like I want or I just can't get 'em out right
Robbing me out right
Of the proper transcription that I need from brain to mouth--Might you
Please put my soul at ease
As I still stand, yet with a soul displeased
…Cause you know my heart, right?

Three From John Thomas Clark

(What John says about the poems which follow: "They are about Lex, my black lab service dog who has added considerable uplift to my life. Of the 100+ published poems mentioned in my bio, twenty-six of those poems are about Lex.")

FIFE AND DRUM IN THE MORNING To sneak a moonrise past a coyote is a task best left for Don Quixote and, as Coyote’s canine cousin eyes the first flush of the morn, it’s no surprise he’s up with it. The tinkle of his tags sounds like an airy fife. As the sun drags the covers off the dark side, Lexie’s drum beat starts. The bed rocks to the steady thrum of his tail against it. If home and hearth do not rise with him, he adds rapid Darth Vader vocals. A chorus moans, “Lex. Bed. Too soon.” So he takes five. But as my head hits the pillow and his marching tunes fade, he’s back again to head up his parade.

TONGUE LASHING

By three quarters past the six o’clock hour, watching the news, Lex and I finish our breakfasts. The storm lathers Maine, maneuvers back for New York. Lexie’s sweep tongue hoovers his bowl – a Lab thing – for that last bantam bit. He gathers up by now mere phantom flecks, so he takes his bowl to the kitchen at the anchor’s next-hour news pitch. In returning, his switch tongue still runs riot, and loud licks flick the air. A soft “Quiet, my friend, I’d like to hear what’s being said,” and he keeps that swivel tongue in his head. I lean down to whisper he remains in good grace and he looks up at me and slathers my face. JAZZED UP We were tuning up our vocal technique at school. I asked sweet-tempered Lex to “Speak,” and he sang. When I said, in a whisper, “Speak,” he crooned. Next, my voice a bit crisper, I said “Lap.” Up he bounced. On my “Off, Sit,” he sat down. But as soon as Lexie hit the floor, I said “Lap, Speak.” I heard my pup purl the most dulcet tones when he came up. While there was no change in his soft, sweet eyes, his silky ears, revealing his surprise, tilted. My improv – a woofy bebop – had Lex join me for a doggy doo-wop. Though, not up to Ella Fitz* or the Velvet Fog** I howl thinking of those riffs with my velvet dog. * Ella Fitz – jazz singer Ella Fitzgerald **Velvet Fog – jazz singer Mel Torme ©John Thomas Clark Two From KJ Hannah Greenberg Hurt is to Healing ( A Requiem) Streaks of lightning, skyward fires, Dawn’s misty clouds, sunshine’s stars, Flaming rivers, pulling us higher, Praise horizon line. Desert-blown winds, desert-blown gore, Sands of the nations, blood of the war, Tear stained legions, living out lore, Praise horizon line. Herbs’ healing blossoms, folks’ fostered kin, Rainbows’ bright endings, storms’ slow begin, Forces felt human, forces within, Praise horizon line. Death, birth and passage, eternal clash, Mixture of history, horrid morass, Victory’s prices, expensive peace, Praise horizon line. Sleep while the wind sleeps, rest with the sky, Danger in fire, safe while it’s nigh, Wheels on life’s river, breath whispers by, Praise horizon line. Bloom tiny babies, bring woolly sheep, Light scented torches, oils to seep, Shadows encroach here, Truth leaves us peace, Praise horizon line. Hurt is to healing, blood is to tears, Laughter takes illness, songs destroys fears, Living brings losses, living repairs, Living repairs. Song of Oenomelian Balance carefully! The stone stands clean in rain and time, The riverʼs dry, a spiritʼs find. The dark clouds bring out hope and shine, On promises to be. The sun masks loveʼs uncertain lights, The wind plies free ardorʼs rites. The fireʼs passion sometimes strikes, Into the briny sea. Little worms flush out the earth. Flowers bloom, bovines birth. My heart stays sated while I search, For love that once walked ʽlongside me. ©KJ Hannah Greenberg ( Editors Note: From dictionary.com: Oenomel 1. something combining strength with sweetness 2. wine mixed with honey )