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!”
On April 2, 1989 your water broke, but you wanted to wait. We couldn’t imagine what for; So your mother and I rode the roads. We bumped the bumps just to jog your willingness. Still you refused to attend your life.
Then the doctors called us in. PIT got the process going even as the procession paraded in. Nana and Grampa and Aunt Nicole, even Bii Chadbourne were all there with the doctors and nurses that come part and parcel of every birthing center. Then you popped into the world. What you wanted was an audience.
April 3rd
1989
You were born.
This poem was written in honor of my son. Today is his 31st birthday.
Last night thunder came
It broke the sky brought the rain
My soul is still not
Clean. Emotion’s sheen clings
Shattering expectations.
On most days at 3,
I step out my front door
To do my duty.
My little dogs go ahead.
They know the usual way.
We turn left, then left
At the Summer Street signpost.
Down to the white house.
Tip our hats to our friend Pearl.
The lady who smokes outside.
Pandemic days come
And turn the world upside down.
Pearl stays inside now.
The Summer Street sign is gone,
Inexplicably just gone.
And so I turned right,
Yesterday instead of left.
I went to the park.
Empty space. Social distance.
It’s a new experience.
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.
Diamonds in the trees,
Precious childhood memories
January thaws.
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 