Silence

Silence falls in form of flakes, snow on snow,

And slowing Sundays, afternoon and eve,

Gather this noiseless peace unto windows’ height—

Frost and ice and winding white water,

Not so rapid as the river, yet quickly collecting

At her beckoning call.  

She, the order of things, Nature at best,

Breaks into our peace with that of her own,

And what yields she but cold and vast swirling winds,

Sheets which so blanket our ground and view.

Yet, what silence she bears with which she 

Garnishes the broken places of our town:

The thinning trees and crumbling buildings,

Curdled creeks and sloping sidewalks.

Who walks these once steel-ridden streets

But Christ in old work boots giving out at the sole,

Given out by a Worker some year past,

Maybe he wears a new scarf on unshaved neck,

Piercing, cavernous eyes, looking for a home, for a heart

To dwell in, to love, to challenge and cherish.

Am I afraid of you, my King? For you indeed do come

In so humble a state; you’ve done it once and you do it again,

And again, and each day I pass you in my fashioned car.

Warm am I, but my heart freezes up around you.

Why? Why must Divinity remind me of weakness?

Of the frail, broken heart no more secured

By my endless toil and gathering unto self,

Much as the snow gathers to my window?

The Winter’s chill blows on whom it will,

Ice and snow fall on rich and poor, young and old,

And she, she cares not whom she leaves numb, 

Lying in a gutter, beside the tracks of my well-beaten path,

Dying from the same neglect, the same disrespect

And misunderstanding which crucified you before.

Your cross? The street. The nail? My indifference,

My fear, my shame, my pride, my comfort.

Let me no more hang you on the twisted trees of Sample Street,

Hammering away with my practiced power to ignore

You who cry out in a silence so disturbing that

What falls all about me and all about us in these hallowed times,

Seems not peace, despite its beauty.

Silence bears much fruit, be it death or disguise.

Failure/ Revelation

The choir children fill this sanctuary vast
With voice of babes clung to angels' wings,
Piercing in their highs my defensive walls
Upheld by sinful ways of old.
"Libera nos, Domine... Domine..."
Ah, yes! Yes, my Lord, their prayer rings true,
For that is the cry not of a mere child
But of all created thing, and of me.
Though what am I but a child?
Cast us not from your presence,
Take us not from your sight,
But hold fast in your fatherly arms
All that you have created, all that is,
And all that is us, for we know not what we do.

As I reach for something else,
As I turn to something not you 
That I think is,
I nail another nail into this disfigured branch,
Into your flesh, your bones,
Shattering the truth that came for us,
And yet revealing it all so clearly
And all the more with each fell stroke.
Here you stay. Here you remain with me.
Here you are in the rising Son of your glory,
And I don't understand:
How could they kill God?
And how could I?
Yet I do each day with each passing failure and loss.
Still he loves me. He looks down with compassion
From that forsaken tree and his eyes proclaim
What was from the beginning: "This is for you."

Tears, I know nothing but.
Tears of sorrow, self-awareness, and heart-broken joy.
For this is not his last look: he comes in vindication
In a glory that causes me not to recognize him
On account of my own blind heart's fear.
But each day as we gather 'round the baquet table
Of the Lamb, we are taught here again
What it is to be, what it is to receive.
And then we know: "My Lord and my God."

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.