Stutzmann sings”Ebarme Dich”.
I think into Spring.
Her wrists like rainbows
Rise and bend with rhythm
An aria stretching the skies
With sorrow.
That price of hope
Is the last supper of explanations,
A call to cloister to hide away,
To hide the seed
On warmish nights when frost could still fall.
So what was can die
And what will be,
Can be what is.
Does the song make me grieve,
At all
This loss of what was cold?
The winter of discontent?
No.
That is a mercy.
This is Spring.
Late February,
Snow settles its yearly debt.
I am left without.
I grab the pots off the shelf in the Walmart. It’s time to start the garden even while the snow pack is three feet thick. Ice has made the ground as hard as my heart. Will I admit, as I shovel the Miracle-Grow left over from last year, that I am angry at the world?
Walking From Winter
A reality repeats
Like a season’s turn.
I place the seeds of life, three in one: three tomato…three pepper.. three cucumber in a rhythm that reminds me like the repeated infiltration of a knife to the heart….To the heart those raping winds still blow. “Beware the Ides of March”.
Surviving the storms
I walk away from winter
No longer in it.
As the garden sprouts on my window sill, I have to admit embracing life is better than lamenting its pain, its fear, its heartache. For all that, there is beauty too. That is worth more than all this trouble I have given myself by letting in a worthless winter of discontent.
It’s not time to plant.
Yet it’s too late to give up
Forgiving winter.
Time is my boy,
Tumbling on the mats
At the YMCA into
Manhood.
A Cycle
Of hands over legs, feet over fists,
A fumble of again and
Again in
A drunken stumble,
Never straight line
Into the future.
That was yesterday’s fall, failure/success
Depending on who you ask.
Into the yawning maw of unknowing,
The fete’ accomplis
Is generally knowing how
The cookie crumbles
When the acrobat crushes it in his stride.
Take the crumbs and put them
In my cup.
And that is time.
Eternity flows
From God’s eyes into men’s hearts.
We live in time then
Die in forevers As God
Who is everywhen watches.
April 17.
Spring
Was called for almost a month ago.
Flowers
And Showers
Are supposed to be our lot now.
But
I Am
In the storehouses of the snow.
This place
Says, “no”
To the new.
Old
Wineskins
Die hard,
Even in the temples which worship new growth.
When
The Mystery gets used to what was
Spring
Cannot find its Space.
But
I Am
Not
Staying in the storehouses of the snow,
Insists
“Wine flow,
In
Daffodils
And lilacs.
Survive.
Crack
Those old
Casks and finally
Burst Forth!”
I sit somewhere.
Between joy and sorrow
Mixing White Russians in my mind,
I’m never sure where that is
Exactly.
Hope?
Despair?
Good?
Evil?
It’s like tipping one back
At church.
Exactly.
Faith?
Works?
Wrong?
Right?
She sits beside me.
Stirring her own
Fancy Umbrella drink
She says,
“Rest.”
“Relax.”
“Just.”
“Be.”
“Exactly.”
My God, My God?… We, Called Out, wrapped in red, white and blue Why have you forsaken?… We plunge from a precipice into the orange sun. His waves burn. Amber grain, Why are you so far away?… We are upside down Icarus. So few remember the story now that liturgy has been Pushed aside. Everyday I call… A juggernaut breaks down three houses. Every night I lift my voice… The fourth estate is Poisoned. Is this the One who relies on the Lord?… Icarus tumbles. It is better than good. We crash. We die on that Solid Rock. Let the Lord save him… The Juggernaut comes at The Rock…The Rock that crushes….the Rock that cannot be moved.
Let the Lord rescue him….
Heat warms Pacific
Breezes blowing through jungles;
Equator’s winter.
I am jumping timelines in a tuna can: Boston to New York, New York to Seoul, Seoul to Manila, Manila to Ilo Ilo.
“What day is it?” I ask for days.
I am tomorrow’s yesterday even though today is the day I live in all the time. I feel bigger on the inside than on the outside and there’s no room even to pray as the seasons pass away along with my schedule and my knowledge of routine. What am I supposed to do?
Now the cold returns.
Sharp intake of frigid air.
New England winter.
I return to yesterday in a sardine can: Ilo Ilo to Manila, Manila to Seoul, Seoul to Boston.
“Why am I going back?” I ask.
I am fatter from the salt I ate in tomorrow. The worst is yet to come. In yesterday day is night and night is day and for days upon days I wrestle to sleep. Even now, week’s out, I wake up and forget when I am. Somehow in the third Heaven that seems OK. What am I supposed to do?
Then, time remains still.
I breathe, “bali bali” has
Passed at last away.
Our decadent liturgy is dribbling decencies:
Debussy’s Prelude all modern and dissonant:
“Of course that doesn’t make you look fat!”;
Dan Gibson’s Introit, all daylight and desire:
“Mmmm! This is so good I must have the recipe!”;
Dawn’s invocation:
“I am really good. You?”;
The laud at the door:
“Such a sweet child.”;
Second song:
“I sing because I’m happy.”;
Canticle of alms and gifts:
“Of course I can buy one. I’ve always wanted one of these!”;
Sermon:
“You sing beautifully!”;
Hymn of response:
“Well of course. That makes perfect sense.”;
Benediction:
” Come back anytime. Just call first.”;
In our service will we ever speak all the words we can never say?
I sing the summer boys
Home. The clamoring crowds
With strong drink letter
Affirmations that at last
The series is in the bag.
I’ll never say die.
Even when my heroes fall.
I’ll scale the mountains.
I’ll take the skies of midnight
Home in buckets made of clay.
Shovel the neighbor’s
Drive. Speaking life to the
Winter wind. In the
Dark journey the truth now brings
A needle’s golden thread.
I call forth the Spring.
A three-strand string binds the shards
Of broken mirrors.
It makes sense of the damaged homes in
Reality’s tapestry.
I am not a year
Nor a season, month or day
I am but minutes,
An eye for the thread leading
To the finished work, God’s hand.
Lillie-Put 