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.

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.

A winter's morn

Snow-crested drifts cross the wooded yard
In the howling barren of a winter's morn,
Peak upon peak of flurries formerly fallen
Have gathered here and now calmly wait.
For what, O frosty friends, do you pause?
Why so still in these moments of silence?

A wooden bench fenced in by winter's blanket
Creeks and croons as gently it sways
Only so slightly in a breeze this faint,
Teasing, tickling the pines and winter berries.
For what, O timbered ones, do you watch?
Why so wistful, in the way of whom?

The sunlight gayly glimmers on glassy snow,
Guiding eyes heavenward but to cast them
Down, left, and right, as this looking 
Cannot withstand something e'er so bright.
For what, O star, do you summon my gaze?
Why so warm in this blinding bliss?

Christmastide comes quickly at midnight meek,
When through our heart again comes light
Newborn of light, held out in darkness holy:
A king, a child, a savior, a slave.
For what, O boy, do you ask of me?
Why so humble in the presence of yourself?

Save we now our traces of contrast

As by chamomile and candlelit warmth
We stare at bleak forests, blasted with ice,
Through winter's window, the chill's not so cold.
For what, O dream, do we now feel?
Why so unknown in this birth of the new?

A final Advent reflection

Christmas is all but upon us.  It is the final day, the final few hours of Advent, our season of expectant waiting.  Tonight, our savior is born.  Tonight, as we approach to the banquet table of the Lamb, as candles dance joyfully in the sanctuary, and we the faithful resound in joy with all hosts of heaven, Christ once again enters our world.  

Today will be busy.  There is much baking to do and much wrapping.  How do I find you, my Christ, in the midst of all this holiday busyness?  Where can I stop for a brief moment to find solace in your rest?  How do I come to see you, the maker of all things, lying among animals in a manger?  Where are you in my Christmas cookies, in my materialistic gifts?  Are you there?  Are you truly in my heart?  

You came to give and to give all for the sake of all.  You came and you gave and you give, because you are Love.  You, the Father's Word, you are that most full expression of what it is to be divine.  And still somehow you are so fully human.  I don't understand this.  My gifts, my presents, and my presence are but a mere shadow of that, but they still reflect something of you.  Somehow, who you are has captured who I am, and I ask that each day you transform my heart into something new.

I am deeply struck by the name Emmanuel.  We have spent the last four weeks singing and calling for you, O Lord, to come and be God-with-us.  We beg and pray for you to join us in our earthly pilgrimage. But you are ever with us, if only we open our eyes.  You plant seeds of hope in our brokenness, watering and tending them to fruition in places we never expect.  You bring us through our darkest night, walking by our side, often so silent and unnoticed.  But you are ever there.

I pray that in these final hours of preparation for your birth that I may be more wholly aware of your presence in my gifted life; that I may see you in others, in the gifts that are prepared and offered, and in myself.  Help me not so much to understand but to be the love that you are.  For it is in receiving and embodying such love, that we most truly fathom what it means.

Advent Sunday II

I wait for you each day, my Jesus.  Yet this is no passive biding of time.  In these precious days I labor to build a place ready for you.  It is no more glorified than the humble stable that welcomed you some 2,000 years ago in the presence of a few barn animals, your Mother, and blessed St. Joseph.  The place, which I prepare, is none other than my feeble heart, fickle with the times and insecurities of life.  But it is all yours, O my King, who come in the form of a mere babe.  Often do I ponder and twist my mind into the maddest of knots, trying to fathom why ever you would deign to be born into our brokenness.  When you came forth gloriously from the mouth of the Father, you showed us what true glory is: a Mother groaning with the immense struggle of childbirth, a patient and faithful husband, whose great suspicions were met by a greater trust and hope, and the boy, crying, covered in his Mother's placenta, longing for her sustaining milk.  And in that moment you knew, whether consciously or not, you felt what it was to be human, and I can never understand why.  But that is not the question you ask me.  No, you don't even have a question.  You have only a look in your eyes that tells me all I could ever long to hear, more than all time could yield, something so purely infinite and so wholly other, but so radically here.  And what your heavenly gaze, captured in the face and heart of a newborn, proclaims is this: I came because I love you, and I will remain with you forever.

Be it done to me according to your Word.

The Announcement

O my Blessed Mother, I too am greatly disturbed by this call of your Son.

O my Blessed Mother, I too am frightened at the sight, words, and message of his herald.

O my Blessed Mother, I too do not know what it means to be the one brought the Word and then to become the one who brings him.

O my Blessed Mother, I too yearn to bring your Christ, my Christ, our Christ, into the world this Christmas, yet I too am confused and afraid.

O my Blessed Mother, I too am learning that each day is Christmas, and each moment Advent, and that the God of all waits patiently to spring forth from my womb too.

O my Blessed Mother, pray for me, that I too may have the courage to accept him and receive his love, for there is no other way I can be if I do not first do this and every day.

Oh my Blessed Mother, I too need to be pointed to your Son--my brother, my friend--and to his cross; you best know the way, for it was your "fiat" that unleashed the reign of love upon the world, your "amen" that led us to the blood-soaked hill called Calvary, your "ecce ancilla" that allows us all, each and every day, to be nailed as well to that cross and have the hope of our own assumptions.

O my Blessed Mother, I too just...

O my Blessed Mother.

I am your Peter

I am no rock, yet I am your Peter,
Not the one who runs skipping to your place of rest,
Hoping for a glimpse of the unfathomably true,
Not the one who stands in front of nations,
Proclaiming what until then I had not understood.
No, I am not these things, but I am your Peter.

I am the one who tells you to call out to me,
Who begs for you to beckon me close,
And when I brave the edges of my safety,
When I thrust my feet into the swelling terrors,
Standing amidst the fury of all great fears,
I am free, even if for one brief moment,
Even there and even then, I am free.
And even there, I am your Peter,

Sinking and crying out to you,
For I have grown weary and afraid.
Your waves looked much smaller from inside the wall,
And you, you looked much calmer, 
When my eyes were fixed upon yours.
Go away from me, get back!
You do not know who I am, nor dare I let you.
For I am who we all are: a sinful man, a sinful woman,
A sinful people; and still I am your Peter.

I don't know what it is, I cannot ever explain.
But I've given you up three times, and that's enough.
I am too tired of doing that, so must we now part?
Is this where you disappear into the clouds of my winter,
And leave me with only your spirit?
Yet even if this be, if this is all that ever can,
I know you will be with me, even unto the end.
And here will I stay, for I am your Peter.

Simeon

You bring me your son, a swaddling little toddler.
No different than the other thousands of sons
I have seen in my aging career: he cries the same, 
His laughter, that of a week's practice,
Which really isn't saying much; 
It's more of a close-eyed hiccup-grunt.
He sleeps like anyone else,
Wakes up to let you know he's passed the food test.
And oh yes! he's got that stink kids his age have,
You know the one I'm talking about.
His eyes, deep, but no rare color, 
Perhaps the same as yours, Rose,
But I dare not look into the heart of purity.

Maybe you and Joe and your son
Live in a home no poorer, no more lavish
Than all your neighbors with young boys.
Maybe someday he'll take up the family trade.
We sure could use someone who'd work with his hands, 
Learn to love the sound of hammer, nail, and fallen tree.
God, he really doesn't look that different.
So why am I crying?  Am I sad?
This is just some kid, from some mom,
From some city 100 miles North of here.
So. What.
Why can I not hold back that skittish feeling,
That standing-on-the-abyss 
of the world as we've known it, and life to come?

Some inexplicable joy ravages my heart,
And across my confused countenance 
Breaks a tearful smile: "It's him." 
I don't know how, I just do. Game-changer.
Anna, shut up! Get out of my head.
I know what you're thinking.
But can't I just savor this for a moment?
A dear friend, more ancient than the rest,
Once promised me something, and now I can go.  
Now I will find him,
Or, better yet, he'll find me.

Old chum, peacefully you let me depart,
You gave me your Word, your life, your own,
And I have held him.
In my tired arms, with aged soul,
I have held all that is, all that shall be:
Salvation, Light, Glory.
May it ever be as when you spoke your first Word.

April of another

This Summer is my last,
Unless I at last see
Something beckoning me further
Through weeping willow trees.

I cannot stay much longer,
For Someone beckons within,
To write, to inscribe my own heart
Before my soul wears thin.

Alas, my dear, I've wandered
Far and sought to be
True to my heart and questions
And now I shall be free.

And now I shall be free
Until my Lord he calls,
To bring me some place elsewhere
Where once again I'm small.

Smaller than where I started
A trifle wiser too.
I pray, my dear, to our God
That I be called to you.

Flesh and Spirit

I did not write this, but it is far too beautiful not to share. It is an excerpt from a sonnet by the 20th century Welsh poet, D. Gwenallt Jones:

God has not forbidden us to love the world
And to love man and all his works,
To love it with all the naked senses together
Every shape and colour, every voice and every sound.
There is a shudder in our blood when we see
The traces of his craftsman's hands upon the world.

Letters to our Mother

Oratory yard bells ring on a slow Saturday morn,
Beckon and bring to prayer the fragiley faithful.
Hortatory words tell the meaning of our who:
Something about mercy, hope, and sacrifice?
I sit here, silent, in a simple seat shouting,
"O rose of such virtue, where are you?
And how did you?" 
For much do I struggle to take up my cross, 
In fear that I might carry
Not the one I can, a burden that is not mine.

I think on what has brought me here,
On what has left me in this place,
On what has sustained me thus,
And of what most keeps my heart in His.
And I think that... perhaps... it is not this,
That maybe I have been spoken to 
In a quite different way
Than I have demanded as of late.

Be it that this pervasive sense of longing,
Which has spoken hence to boyhood
Is not what I need lay down and is even
The very thing constantly called forth
From the depths of my whatness,
Then I will yield you the benefit of doubt,
To see where this winding, cross-strewn road,
Which I have narrowed far more than even your Christ's,
May lead me in so meek an hour.
Ecce filius tuus, ecce mater tua.

Qui decessit

Over the crest of our hill you come, running,
The long-grained grass flowing
In the blowing of a Northerly wind,
And in your Sunday sundress, beaming, 
Your smile brighter than the yellowest of blossom,
The dandelions and sun flower, which reach 
Not toward our dear world's star,
But to you, my little one, as you skip and dance
Through the Elysian fields of God's good countryside.

You pause and stop, the breeze toppling your hair
Over your face and back again,
To reveal the comforting gaze of a child's faith.
My sweetness, look about, 
Cast your gaze on all-greening meadows,
On the butterfly dancing on the cusps
Of late August's warming breath,
And on the mellowing trees 
That do prepare to soon change suit;
To you belongs this great kingdom.

Must I let you go, must I bring you to Him?
And your tiny voice singing resounds
A chorus of hymns far fairer and simply simpler
Than the reaches of the heavenly heralds,
Who announce the coming of a Father 
Greater than I could ever be, despite all your protests.
"But Papa," you exclaim with a look 
That flattens even the tallest of mountains 
And seems to say, "You silly old man." 

O my darling, my daughter, 
You indeed have called my bluff, 
For I am nothing else than as charged,
I am condemned to your loving looks
And laughter; do your worst.
And although age often yields wisdom,
I am but a fool of your coming Autumn,
And I am a fool for you.

I am so open to you this morning

I am so open to you this morning,

As raindrops patter and timidly tap on my window pane,

Asking gently to come in and lie or maybe just stare,

So you, my lovely one, knock at my gates,

Requesting an audience much lower, much sadder

Than that of great popes.

And I cry, I cry: for fear? for loss?

For the All-Knowing Unknowns?

I know not why,

Only that I am so open to you this morning.

Please--when you enter--be gentle, my love,

For my my heart is worn

Not on my sleeve, but... out.

It is tired and yearns for nothing more

Than but to be with you, even for the briefest of moments.

Yet it is so frightened of what you might say,

Or perhaps I am, and what am I other than a heart

With a few bones, some flesh, and firing synapses?

Good Lord, why am I at such fear in the face of

That Which I claim, above all else being,

To seek, to cherish and behold... to love?

Answer me! Answer me, O you wretch,

For I cannot much bear this for much longer.

And yet still here do I remain,

Waiting in the calm silence of a great doctor

And low voices

Rumbling through the walls in preparation.

I am so open to you this morning.

I am so open.

Here

You take me by the hand 
To walk in your gentle garden,
Beckoning me come further
To settle and perhaps sit
Down,
By the chrysanthemums and cucumbers,
Nestled in the corner of your blossoming Spring--
A curious coupling it would seem.

"Come near, my dear one, and rest by my home.
I shall be here your Host.
Learn from me, as you kneel enshrined,
In the hope that I here do reside.

Yet know this, paled traveler, 
Dearest of my heart, 
That I remain here,
That here might become your heart.
Do you think that the God of all that is
Could be so easily caged, 
Held, as it were, in so shallow a shrine?

Though here you must--
As Mother, generations before--
First find me and abide.
Learn to rest, to quiet, to care,
Neither when nor where you will go,
Neither how nor why you will find,
But only that you are, that I am,
That we.
And then you may withdraw."