Poetry

Poetry

Come again?

“I watched Satan fall from heaven like a flash of lightning.”
                                   —Luke 10:18

So John the Revelator got it wrong?
It wasn’t Michael and his angel throng

who threw the mighty Lucifer from his throne?
You’re telling me that seventy raw-boned

peasants passing barefoot from town to town,
carrying no money, no change of gown,

and sparing no time for chat with chance
encounters on the way—these sons who dance

among snakes and scorpions, whose quick steps
raise dust from heels to head—you mean these schleps

drew down from heaven upon unmapped squares
apocalyptic judgments no one dares

compare with those that wasted Sodom?
These day laborers harvested a kingdom?

These were the lambs who blacked the dragon’s eye,
who rumbled him down from his realm in the sky?

As I fall

           “this deep dread . . . is a great gift from God
           for it is the precise point of our encounter with his fullness.”
                                                                               —Thomas Merton

The old slough appears in this dream,
mudded, shallow, and with leeches gathered
in the overhanging grass along the banks.

The barricaded overpass floats forty feet
above the water, closed to buses, cars, and trucks.

It seems the briefest fall to an observer
on the shore. But new awareness comes
when the plunge protracts, weighted
like the purple-orange air of the Grand Canyon
dusk murmured up its eastern wall.

As I fall, time dissolves into something different
from eternity. I surrender to the dread
and to the peace of being and oblivion.

Death is merely incidental in this dream.
I watch my body as I feel bones crunch
against the earth, and hear my breath pass out of me
by a sort of mystical ventriloquy.

Sprawled on spongy ground beside the overhanging grass
as some vast something brushes past, dangerous
and gentle, I wait with patience to be devoured
or to be given second birth.

Poem for a dear friend

I don’t tell you how much it matters to me that you are my friend.
I’ll never tell you, bluntly and face to face. I can’t summon words
That way. They only come to my fingers occasionally if I’m silent
And give up thinking. Our fingers are a lot smarter than we know.
Like today when my fingers want to say something like: your gifts
To me have been ears and humor. We speak some strange language
That few other people speak. I don’t know why that’s so. It’s surely
An accident. It’s not like we set out to find each other in the tumult
Of this sweet wilderness. But we did somehow. You can put names
On the finding if you want. The names all mean the same thing. An
Old name is Providence, which is another way to say God, which is
A way to say We Have No Idea How, But We Are Aware of Grace.
There are more names for God than we’ll ever know, and one is you.

of all the Woulds

My Son could
have ridden and shed blood upon

mahogany, ebony,
maple, elm, oak,
fir, poplar, banyan, teak,
palm, bamboo, juniper, sequoia,

hawthorn, dogwood, magnolia, crab,
evergreen, balsa, birch, ficus,
peach, cherry, pear, persimmon, or

apple

the most common one
He’d allow
for
Himself to be spread-eagled on

would be yew.

The coil of prayer

Count on the faith that links us
as we pray, about odd things
in each other’s lives, nothing ruinous
—a lost ring, an aching tooth. Even
a request that we forget after
a casual pledge: I’ll be sure to pray for you,
words spoken as we chat at the store
—they form a filament of gold, forged
in heaven, that loops around us.
Even careless phrases spoken through
air hold firm, are heard, and may
be answered. A cough that won’t
give up, a missing check, a migraine
that suspends us, waiting, held
in the loop of prayer.