The Invitation

The date was practically illegible on the invitation,
Between the hurried scribbles and smudge marks
All we were able to discern was a tangled
"Your presence is requested at the union of..."
With the rest worn off by dust and frequent foldings.
The careless scrawl revealed signs of impatient haste,
Though what pervaded the clustered barrage of words,
In matter of fact, drew more along the lines of excitement.
Our friends were getting married, and there was to be a party.

Weddings are always full of merriment, hope, and dreams,
The clouds of instability, finance, challenged commitments
Still at bay somewhere beyond the laughter of the first month
Or two that so sweetly slip by after the honeymoon.
But weddings are for dancing, cheer, and wine,
Not some dim reflection on the harder times that do come.
We were honored to be guests, for though we were complete,
To witness a hint of that joy among others seemed to him
The same, with respect to pleasure, as marital bliss itself.

I speak here of my son, who loves so... naturally.
It is an effort for me to say "yes," to look beyond myself,
To see past the fear and hesitation of some herald
Who stares straight into your soul, asking you the impossible.
But my God, the boy does it with such ease of nature!
He grasps things so cleary--our writings and the poor--
And leaves scholars scratching their overly-educated heads,
But this is not the time for that, for we were in the presence
Of a newlywed promise for a lifetime as one, to form many.

Late in the afternoon, a young man approached us,
Disconcerted, concerned; clearly something was the matter.
"They ran out of what?" I gawked and then glanced
Toward my son, who bore an amusingly perplexed look.
He didn't have to be here, he did not need this,
But he was, and he wanted it more than all else.
All he sought was simply to share what others had lost,
What he gave so fully, what flowed so freely from his father.
His irked eyes spoke, "Wine celebrates our gathering, its joy."

Quietly he got up, following the flustered fellow.
When they passed me by, I grasped the waiter's arm,
A thousand thoughts rushed upon my mind,
Pondering if I should make mention of any or everything--
Of the lepper he embraced on the way here,
Of the authorities he silenced with his own,
Of how this would make all else pale in comparison.
As eternity-in-a-second drew to an end, looking to our servant,
My frail voice uttered but one thing: "Do whatever he tells you."

Unnamed v

v.
I often get lost in the Mondays that seem so different 
From no other days in the rest of the week; 
And all blend into one, save but one day, this our Sunday,
When we gather, kneel, stand at preceamus and peace, 
We sing, we silence, we receive, we go out into there;
And all blend into one, save but one word, this our Lord,
Through whom we endure, and all things as well, 
With whom we share, and all things as well,
In whom we are, and all things as well.
Let us forget not this day, nor the work completed therein.

Unnamed ix

ix.
How often does it break my heart
That your grace seems not enough
To satisfy my modest demands
Which, when left to their own devices,
Grow into gardens of weeds, 
Devil's fruit sown in with your good seed.

How often does it break my heart,
That my heart itself is hardened by fear,
By lack of control, by self-imposed distance
From whom it seeks, yet so soon forgets:
You and the "you" which you call forth
From me, if only I allow myself to listen.

How often does it break my heart
That--despite my stubbornness,
My utter refusal and wild claims that
I can do this on my own, that
I, American son, don't need anyone--
You cave in my world with your love.

How often does it break my heart
That you indeed must break my heart 
Again and again to show me you notice,
For never can I seem to remember that
My flaw as a human, my separation
Is overcome each day, each moment by you.

How often does it break my heart
That you care for me, that you keep
A mortal man, me, in mind,
But it is only through this and as such,
That I see you and know that I long
For nothing more than for you to break my heart.

The Bay State Introvert Society

I don't write much today, 
For I am just a bit tired:
Six a.m. showed up earlier than expected,
Route 2 is mostly a mess in the morn,
And a lot of people asked me
A lot of questions all day.
They were kind and the questions fun,
But it's most splendid to have a moment
Solely to sit and think 
And then sit and not think;
I think that sounds quite nice,
Yet not nearly as nice as the silence
Of my cozy cup of chamomile,
Which calms my crazed nerves.
My annoyances with the day
Evaporate with the subtle steams,
And I find my place of rest--
A quite lovely predicament methinks.

In between

On the cusps of the abyss I stand
Finding most mystery and some comfort.
I fear, for I do not know, but I know
Because for miles and many more I see.

I stand here waiting, wading in the vastness
Of what is on the edge of this looming unknown
If only I trust, if only I step, only then
Can I know what may catch my wondering feet.

And you are here, and so she too--we as one,
Praying the angels earthbound from above
To cradle my fall in the path of your dreams
For me and mine, for a future with hope.

Forward I shall reach.

Unnamed i-iii

i.
Your smile makes me laugh,
Not because it's funny or weird--
I just, for once in my life, can't find 
Words that express so great my joy,
And I don't know how to respond
In the face of such sheer bliss;
A giggle or three, my heart decides.



ii.
The fresh snowfall crunches beneath boots,
Racing heart that beats out time in the winter cold,
And that breath, nearly frozen as the air, 
Warms what it touches for a briefest second.
Shudder and shutter paired in the wind's blast,
Hands a bit cold, but soon not to be felt,
With a click, an opening, 
With a whir, a moment captured 
From the curious perspective 
Of a good five feet, some-odd inches
Of hope and fear, loss and love;
Red-headed lover of all things grammar and God
Captures a wild photograph in its natural habitat.



iii.
Sometimes I don't want to be forgiven,
Sometimes I don't ask,
Maybe I think I'm too good,
Or maybe I realize I am not good enough,
Yet, what you tell me is that no one is.
But no, you don't even say that,
You show me this one lone thing, 
And I somehow vaguely comprehend:
That you are the Heart of Love and Hope and Faith,
And some part of me knows well
That you had forgiven me 
Long before I asked.
I am made new in this new year,
And I am yours.