In the Middle of Winter

Reading another's verse on
winter, I was reminded of my
remembrance that the passing

silver solstice overcomes the
darkening months. It all
gets lighter from here. It is

that yellow solstice, that
brightest of days, that hearkens
the sun's shyness, its coy frolic

with the shadows. We don't
notice because of the heat
of those days. But today,

in remembrance, as a member
of this lazy, yet demanding
stroll, I look up from my

thoughts in the handed-down
chair and see crystallized water
flurries meander toward the

clipped grass and tarred
road, and I know it's still
cold, still, hopefully,

maneuvering into that place
where the days are yet
bright and pull warmth out

from, not pimple up and
close off, the skin.

The Epiphany of Gaza

Today, Sunday 4 January, the western Church celebrated the Epiphany of the Lord. The Gospel reading told the story of the Eastern Magi coming to Jerusalem to find a recently born king. The prospect of a new king scared the piss out of King Herod the Great and the Jerusalem elite. In subsequent verses we find that Herod tried to kill all the children that might possibly be this new king. Jesus, we learn made an Exodus to Egypt, however. Nonetheless, the powers eventually got Him, put Him on a Roman cross. We would hope this would be the last time those in power would have tried to kill Jesus, but it struck me again today that they won't stop; be it the Jesus born in Bethlehem 2000 years ago, or the Jesus born next door, the Jesus living in Gaza, the one in prison, sick, powerless and therefore mirroring that which the powerful fear the most in themselves. I wrote this poem in reflection. It's probably not finished, but may we see the Epiphany of the Lord, even in a place like Gaza.

When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him... [H]e was infuriated, and he sent and killed all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or younger.
The Gospel According to Saint Matthew 2.3, 16

These things happen. They always do,
always will. And you think you can do
something about this? You always will.

Jesus has been killed once, outside
Jerusalem. And Jesus has been killed
many times over and again, inside and

out, Jerusalem. For the the rulers, their
rubies and diamonds, it's more paletable
when Jesus is a Palestinian. Jesus, He

was killed once; she and her children
have been killed again. Troops on
cummerbunded horses, ironclad thinking

dungeons, with piercing arrows and
munitions. There is no God but God. No
Anglo or Semite. These things happen.

Jesus hangs inside and outside Jerusalem,
eyes crossing back and forth over
frightened Jerusalem, shrieking Bethlehem,

olive pitted Gaza.

Confession

Painful, it
empties tears, embraces
humility and, tingling,
moves forward.
The body relaxes,
throws off anxiety, with
lies uncovered, displaying
some truth, a step
toward assurance, uninsured.

Theology

Theology is a (poetic) bodily act.
Its project of “detachment” is most fully
realized when the body and soul

are found to be in harmonious union.
Then the theologian hymns
beautiful poems to God. The hand, with a pen,

spills out in verse, by the soul’s meter, images of divine mystery,
often found in the most mundane experiences
of daily life. The heart, the pulse of a human life,

is given voice, helping humanity to re-imagine

the image

it has bestowed upon itself by

seeing that humanity is to be perfected
as it is—the image of God, ordained by God.
Preachers begin to preach

a Gospel, not of an escapist hope for the soul of
one day leaving the confines of the body, but
of the possibilities of striving toward

the perfected life now, in the body.
The strife, struggle, suffering, and solemnity
of life is redeemed by the catharsis

of moving words that point to an end—
putting affliction to verse—an end of
the pain, perversion, privatization, and pestilence.

Instead of being alone in their heads, people
are empowered to share
together in the community of divine life,

bound together by prayer, conversation, and letter.

good, Friday

What year, which reading,
will the cries of "no king but Caesar"
curdle our own blood when we speak them
with our lives?

Our legs broken that we might bow,
bend the knee, quibbling
before governors for our murderous
intentions fulfilled.

Righteousness, goodness,
love, meekness: despised and crucified.

Enemy forgiveness, suffering swallowed,
endured.

O Caesar, you don't understand.
Forgive us for giving
you power, corrupting you,
giving you reason
to smirk.

Lord, we kill, we die,
but let us rise above
our derelict voices, our
choice for power.

Restore us to
exiled love.

Tea on back deck, under the sun

A cup of amber tea.
My friend crafted
the cup from clay
made by God, packaged
by humans, glaze
probably mechanically
distilled. Amber tea,
from yellow, black
leaves, Chinese. Iron
Japanese pot for steeping.
Unbleached sugar, its time
as Paraguayan cane
crystallized, shipped last
in plastic. Dust bits float
on the surface. Am I
swallowing my own skin?
Spume, mirror of the sun,
of a face, diminutive,
effervescent, from
the center out to a
circumstantial part
of the potter's
boundary, minus the three
aloofly polar domes
there alone, noticed
and inspiring. Inspiring
to be not too concerned,
not merely observant.

Not He

When I think to myself
of myself:
"Here, this is the prophet
who was to come
into my world.
By force,
make him king"--
I must withdraw
to a quiet place
by myself
to remember kingdoms
were not meant
to be of this world.

Sight Anointed

Blind and blind
and awake O sleeper.
I'm tired, but I may be awake.
When do I see?
When I see I don't see, I see.
Small, slight, unobtrusive,
the light can be seen;
though it would be
better to not have a king.
Olive oil and wine poured,
tasted and absorbed.
Anoint with spit and mud,
words' liquid and earth.
Awake O sleeper, see.

(1 Samuel 16:1b, 6-7, 10-13a; Psalm 23; Ephesians 5:8-14; John 9:1-41)

The Small Law of Love

The smallest mark,
the little insect,
fleeting thought in the dark.

Over all these,
and you with and over them,
streams the law so wise.

We would worry
about the smallest details
of the most foolish party,

but, see, we learn
all life is in the finest print.
It is not so we will burn

with anger, judgment, neurosis,
but so to discern with love,
with praise of fair justice.

We see the pupils
of our widened eyes,
the windows of people

closed in reflection,
looking upon intelligence,
the law of love in meditation.

(Deuteronomy 4:1, 5-9; Psalm 147; Matthew 5:17-19)

Towards a Full Nothing

Nothingness, nothingness
in the heart of all that Is,
the Is, that which always was and will Be.
There in that heart, nothing beats
except what Is.

And then something, something
happens with great light,
not piercing darkness,
for there was only light,
but a new light,
a light fathomed
by those given fathoming.

An empty light, a void of light
indistinguishable of itself,
except from the heart that made,
the Is that opened up,
made a space to share,
to overflow.

What are these thoughts
from on high here on earth?

The heavens stir the waters,
thoughts hovering over
this new, deep void.
Floating upon the face
of the void.

From void it began,
to void it will return,
all that is in it,
all that dwells to reckon
emptiness,
nothingness with shapeless shape.

Such formless beauty,
potential breathed movement,
flux resting in stability,
peaceful craft.
The fullest emptiness.
A prayer whispered,
still heard when nothing
is seen for all it is.

Weeping Waters

Saved from the waters,
may I too be saved from the waters.
I hear them,
their breaking in the background.
I feel them,
touching my eyes.
I need some light
to arise out of my evening time.
Let me speak true things,
and think good thoughts,
not these heavy ones
from where they come I know not.
But they rush over me,
they pour down on me,
the swirl
and they swallow.
O Lord come down
and lift me up.
(It seems so odd to say this
when I hear the world weeping.)

(1 John 1:5-2:2, Psalm 124, Matthew 2:13-18)

eleven::twentyseven

I hear of wars,
read of insurrections,
positioning of fleets,
underground plans.
I'm not exactly afraid,
feeling safe here
in these mountains.
Why would I ever
taste these wars,
touch insurrections?
It's more comfortable
to read the dreams
of kings and conquerers
from a computer screen.
Jesus' words are spoken
daily by the structures,
"I am he,"
"the time has come."
Few can remember
how to listen,
how to not listen,
for few want to hear
rumors of wars
for the hate they are.
And I don't want to fear.
But I'm feeling trapped
in safety and knowledge;
I know nothing
of suffering.

(Daniel 2:31-45, Daniel 3:57-61, Luke 21:5-11)

Birthday Poem

My body came out of the womb
this day, nearly a quarter century ago.
And here I am,
in a beautiful world destroyed,
temples of God ignored,
waters polluted.
But, today I hear too of fresh waters.
Somewhere, somehow, there are fresh waters.
They are flowing from the temple.
They are rushing from consecrated temples.
Oh, God, close my eyes that I may hear.
Open my ears that I may see.
Things are not as dark as my words
often lead them to sound.
Or maybe they are,
but there is light, too,
water, too,
so long as we will upturn the tables,
the stands and foundations of ill commerce,
and then we will live, holy, true.
And may my body
be among the temples flowing
life giving water to a dying world.

(Feast of the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica in Rome, Ezekiel 47:1-2, 8-9, 12, Psalm 46, 1 Corinthians 3:9-11, 16-17, John 2:13:22)

O mother, our Father

She groans, our mother,
the earth:

"When will they remember,
my children,
the children of God,
and reveal their dirt,
rub in the dust
to which they will return?
I want to replant them,
to watch them grow,
to see them weep with me."

O Father in heaven,
remind us of our earthiness
and the place your Word made.
With words and touch
make us reminders,
the sons and daughters of God
being revealed.

(Romans 8:18-25, Psalm 126, Luke 13:18-21)

Thoughts

Burdened by many working thoughts,
the anxieties of communities of thought
conversing and arguing, questioning,
wondering if anything is ever said.

Nearly ready to give up on words,
their inability to rehearse.

You, thoughts, working so hard,
settle yourselves; sit a while.

Forgive yourselves of confusion,
things you will never know.

Flesh yourselves out in silence,
and be at peace through touch.

(Jonah 3:1-10, Psalm 130, Luke 10:38-42)

Taste the Voice of Weeping

Tears can come with the hearing of a certain voice.
An echo of a call heard before.
An image of the self in another lowly one.
And tears are often a sign,
a clarifying blur when how to see is forgotten.
How low we are.
How small.
How young in the age of the creation.
How can we assume to teach a thing?
Knowledge seems such a reach,
and yet, we are to share?
Love, be pure, speak?
Where do the words come from?
And so we see our tears fall,
we taste their preserving saltiness.
Fear and trembling:
wisdom and discipline.
Taste the goodness of that guiding voice.
Be still and listen.
Love, then, and speak,
and weep.

(1 Timothy 4:12-16, Psalm 111, Luke 7:36-50)

nine/eleven

The powers have been despoiled by Christ.
I say this aware of its treasonous tone,
a tone many of my brothers and sisters in the church
would be ready to gather stones upon hearing.
I am not a patriot.
I was born in a country; I am not of it.
And the men in power
lie.
They kill.
The have deceived you and me
and we must walk away from them.
We must go away to the mountain to pray.
Buildings will continue to fall,
they will soon tear down another on American soil
and continue to point fingers at others,
and continue to ask you to kill others.
We must walk away to the mountains.
We must pray.
The tormenting spirits are alive in this country.
We must go away and pray.
Hatred and greed rule this people.
We must pray for compassion.
For Christ has defeated the liars,
and we now are Christ's presence.
Towers fall and deceptions rise,
and we must walk to the tops of mountains
and pray.
We were captivated by death
and death swallowed us whole,
but we are now set free by life,
brought into a new Kingdom,
one transcending the old,
even being before them.
You were called out of darkness,
smoke, fear, dust, the news.
You are called to a mountain,
to a mountain to pray.

(Colossians 2:6-15, Psalm 145, Luke 6:12-19)

Sell

"Sell all that you have and give it to the poor."

Shit.

That's enough to make anyone walk away sad,
anyone who believes possessions are part of them,
who lives within a mind that thrives on amassing
wealth, health, years, times, things that shine.

A whole people whimpers, "Shit,"
For we have forgotten to leave others alone,
to each their own,
not to own but to be at peace with the sacred surroundings.
Israel's mingling was not abhorrent because of other tribes,
it was their search for comforts that were no comfort at all,
bigger crops, bigger storage, taller hills for worship.
And then they cried
and called their despoiling the judgment of God.
Such is what happens when you outgrow your provisions
and seek to enculturate and dominate your neighbors.
There is abundance for a people of faith and care,
but once all a people wants is to want
there can never be enough.
And so we know why we're to sell all of our shit,
give it away,
we were never meant to have it,
for to have is to commit adultery against provision and providence,
to lust after poles on hills,
to cheat and steal,
to never know abundance or happiness.

(Judges 2:11-19, Psalm 106, Matthew 19:16-22)

Paradise Belongs to Children

Paradise belongs to children.
Let us not, however, assume their assignment
is some merit of innocence.
Innocence, in much of our thought,
presumes a guilt to soon, inescapably, come,
therefore being a present reality even in
that supposedly short season of guiltlessness.

Forget, then, innocence.

It is of no consequence.

Remember instead that all God has made is good.

We've simply come to believe

we can make ourselves good,

declaring those not in line with our rule guilty,

and condescendingly calling those who

"can't yet understand," innocent.

"Keep them all away from our savior,

his will belongs to us.

Our will be done in heaven as it is on earth."

So we think, unthinkingly.

And our cycles of knowledge trample on forward,

drought and war,

those innocent children starving,

those guilty citizens by the shore drowning.

How far our understanding has brought us!

How blessed by the promises we make,

the rules we obey!

But don't we know paradise is a child's place?

Oh, it's not something to be known,

understood, maintained, controlled.

Its growth is a mystery of God,

a provision of the Spirit that stirred the waters

and brought up the land from their depths,

and sowed the trees and flowers,

put flight into birds,

courage into the lion,

trust into the lamb,

breath into the human being.

Why do we try to breath on our own,

for ourselves?

Why have we fabricated wealth?

It has decreased what we call health

with the Creation moaning

as we wither her away

for selfish and passing gain.

Paradise is a child's for she comes with nothing,

and nothing in the hands of God,

in the eyes of the Son,

upon the winds of the Spirit,

is everything,

for there,

in the Void and Presence,

her being is.

To be a child,

unbound by the pretensions

of man made manners and civility,

oh, what grace and wonder!

Become a child and no longer despise yourself,

but see the sacred all around,

in you,

in the ground and out of it,

God being in and through all.

Hear God's voice,

"It is good, you are very good.

Let us dwell and delight in paradise."

(Joshua 24:14-29, Psalm 16, Matthew 19:13-15)

Beautiful Woman

Beautiful woman,
Mary,
and the ones before you
and after you,
givers of life,
wise women.

No wonder in his hallucination
John on Patmos
saw a dragon after you.
But the dragon has not scales
but the appearance of scared men.
Not the dragon
found on pages celebrating
inhuman masculinity,
but the insane brotherhood
on quest for power.

But you reflect the earth,
and the heavens,
life giving,
blessed for all generations,
for through you are generations.
Teach me to love,
to open up,
to receive the promise.
Our God has prepared
a place for you
in the desert.
May I come for a visit
to be reborn?

(Revelation 11:19, 12:1-6, 10, Psalm 45, 1 Corinthians 1 20-27, Luke 1:39-56-- Solemnity of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary)