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.

To Arrange a Life

This is a pointless practice, it could be said.
No one reads poetry these days, some think.
I didn’t until a year or so ago. I would take

the time to write my thoughts, that catharsis
of Aristotelian poetics, for a slowing down
of my breath—but to take the time to listen?
But now I want to hear the whispers of silence,

and somehow I think that involves this reading
and writing of words in strange arrangement,
open mostly to inconclusive endings, for you
can’t expect anyone to read these things,

anyway. Any way is not one way, and I’d
encourage you to listen your way, as long
as that includes listening. Sounds are not always

voices and messages. Lack of message is at
times the loudest message of all. That’s how
they get you. We think we know discernment.

We make a lot of choices. But who really reads
poetry these days, and why would I bother
to write out my life’s thoughts when they arrive,
to look inside my heart looking for what is not

dark that I might be freed from my strange
arrangements?

A Year Without Poetry

I told myself, Write, and I put
the pen down. Told myself,
Write, and made a phone call.

They say you have to write,
just write, and write again, and
I don't know if they're right,

but I know I have not been. If
this has been a year without
poetry, it was not, I think, a

year without theory, a breadth
of time to be forgot. But a year
without verses must surely have

been recorded somewhere, even
an unseen somewhere; it was just
not so readily edited, spaced, paced,

or considered as it slipped by.

Advent Sight

In a world embittered by what others have done in the name of God, we would do well to approach God in supplication with great humility when asking, Teach me your way, O Lord. Too often has God been morphed in our feeble minds into an enabler of bad tidings, into an oracle allowing our eyes to see whatever we want to see. But this is one of the many reasons we celebrate Advent, and all the other great festal seasons of the Church calendar. We need better vision. We need our actions to be guided by a holy pattern.

In this season, we await the in-breaking of the kingdom, the star and staff of Balaam's utterance (see Readings for Monday of 3rd Week of Advent), God in the flesh that all of our flesh might be renewed and quickened for the ways of God. Even now we partake in the Advent we await. And in this waiting we are strengthened to be humble, to be able to recognize the source of Christ's authority which shapes our whole beings to be faithful.

Hopeful Sadness

I would imagine that only
those who would say, "the
Lord does not judge us

according to what we
deserve," can only say such
with any authenticity

if they do so with some
grieving. Otherwise, why
the need for the lifting

of heavy burdens? For
strengthening our weaker
parts? For water to keep

us from fainting? In other
words, a tinge of sadness
is a great gift. A sense

of hopelessness is the
awakening of hope. We ought
to still have doubts; never

leave behind those questions.
Only, realize they can be freed
to new modes of lucidity.

So, bless the Lord, O my soul,
all that is within me--
my dissipating fears, my

confidences, affections, visions,
sadness and joy. Fuse my paradox,
and help me to learn from the

meek and humble heart. Jesus Christ,
Son of God, have mercy on me,
a sinner.

(Isaiah 40:25-31; Psalm 103; Matthew 11:28-30)

Terra Incognitas

These are terra incognitas, histories,
to wade through marshes of words,
to swim across lakes of images. Disguised?

Their retreats seem more apparent, yet
transparent, when we’d rather not
know the past as it is felt presently,

a ghost’s nip. On our heels, we’re
forced to face mirrored halls, and
often we do so with closed eyes. Why?

History hurts. Our own acts are enough
to swallow, to still be able to shrug,
and so now the weight of the Church?

Leave it unknown! Leave it alone! Keep it
away! Let me say my pledge, covering my heart,
easy words of heavenly citizenship, I believe,

enough. Ahistory is much easier,
no need to point to how we got here.


But slow down and breathe. Yes,
mystery is unknown. But let us not run
from our flailing efforts, graced by mystery

drawn near. Nor put our back to nuance.
Things shift. We’re shifty characters and
so were our forefathers. Shifting

solidity, solidification, foundation, and
apostles are still sent to speak us back
down to this earth where grace breaks in.

Breathe together, gathered, called of
the Church in the world. Walk the unknown—
they were known—ways, the paths

the aisles to the chancel, the nave of
saints’ prayers and texts. And in all
things, still, say in the Spirit the name

over all names, prayer of prayers, Word
of words, history made history; the truth,
confession, sanctifier of flesh, tongues,

hearts that speak, “Jesus Christ.”

Child, deep down

You, child, reach deep down there,
into the deep opening of the earth,
the serpent's home. Not the cursed one,
but the eternal swallow, the staffed
snake, the swirl of your veins,
the path of you blood. Reach there,
into your depths, into your childlike
self, your revealed self, hidden person
freed from the lowliness of winter
and summer's despair. Reach down
and grow from there, flourish as justice
in the time of God's peace, with
blessed eyes that see what prophets and
humble rulers once only
imagined, now known
through the Son for the Father's good pleasure,
in the vitality of the Holy Spirit's
delightful fruit. Gather, now, all,
all you children and creatures—
those that bear piercing teeth now
purr; which bleat, coo in innocent
frivolity. Commingle around the
table, and banquet the gladness astir,
and taste that depth, that true good, that
endless end.