Poetry

Poetry

Autumnal diary

For just this day I thank you, Lord—this day
when in a new and lonely empty place
appeared a friend with whom I could retrace
through forty years an undeserved array
of other moments shared, and so survey
as back across a pathless hillside face
a hidden net of tangled trails where grace
had always, always canopied the way.
The bits of furniture he left behind
will be of course in constant, welcome use
but they will also serve as types that bind
with unseen ligaments of love my loose
days here to many others far apart
in space and time but very near in heart.

Lot’s daughters

Genesis 19

I

At first—a leering mob circling
the house, jeering, dancing naked,
taunting the guests with their sex—
the daughters thought their father brave
to step outside, lock the door behind him,
stretch his arms out in protection.

But then, even he offered them up,
a sacrifice to protect strangers.
Their father. The only
“righteous man” in a city destined for flames,
“Do with them what you like.
But don’t do anything to these men.”

Then their eyes were like Isaac’s
below the knife,
the ram not yet in the bush,
the blade gleaming.

II

What dread dug in the daughters’
betrayed hearts before the rioters,
struck blind, stumbled, fell down,
unable to find the door,
Lot tugged back safely to the house?

And later,
when they left that life behind,
eyes straight toward Zoar,
did they hear their mother turning,
her stories sliced off mid-sentence?

What kept their gaze fixed?
Their father’s almost-sacrifice
or the intervention?















Firefly

I want to find the room where my father is sleeping,
take his hand and wake him. I will say I am sorry

to have come so late, after all the other children.
I will ask about his heart and his dreams,

apologize for disturbing his rest. I want to drive there
faster than anybody, but I am not even on the way home.

The masters say all is one but I am five hundred miles away,
studying the alphabet of broken trees

and the gorgeous dusk of the beaver marsh.
The masters say nothing is separate but I am lost

among the lilies, the needly mosquitoes, the slow tenderness
of the fireflies. I will leave tomorrow if need be.

Tonight I will dream of the great healing
and the night will be warm with the hum of fireflies,

the chir and splish of the beavers fitting one more stick,
one more slap of mud into the mile-long dam.













Falling upward

          “. . . he was carried up, and a cloud took him.” Acts 1:9

Gravity, they say, is all about mass. Big attracts
Big sucks big pulls big, like death, won’t let go. Still,
We worship those who try: “Lucky Lindy,” St. Michael
Jordan. Leonardo, bless him, forever plotting how
To fly, or assuage the general jowliness of time.

Jesus was taken up, and Mary. St. Teresa of Ávila
Had to cling to the rail during prayer to keep from
Floating skyward—the Assumption being that things
Sometimes fall up. But, come on, which way is
Up? That is to say, which way isn’t? If Teresa was

A person of such faith, why didn’t she just let go? Like
The man I knew who, after being told he had “maybe
Six months,” immediately signed up for swimming
Lessons. “Well,” he said, “I just felt that if I could learn
How to float, I could learn how to die.”









The Volcano Series

            And the graves were opened; and many bodies . . .
            which slept arose, And came out of the graves after
            his resurrection, and went into the holy city, and
            appeared unto many. Matthew 27:52-53

                        When asked, “Just what is night anyway?”
            Coyote closed his eyes,
            Placed his burden basket over his head
            And began making the sounds of hoot owl.
                        “The Burden Basket,” Elderberry Flute
                                    Song, Peter Blue Cloud

What do you think of the little rumblings, the discontents, the
warpings of fault lines and fissures? What seems to be said takes
some thinking. He led captivity captive.¹ Now that he
ascended, what is it but that he also descended first into the lower
part of the earth.² What could it have been to descend into the
earth: the magma and lava the dark heat nearly sweat lodged there?
Was it where he wandered with his ash bucket, his firepans and
shovel after Calvary, after the graves were opened? What did the
dead do the three days he was in hell preaching on last chance to
the unchanced? Did they look at one another and didn’t quite
know what to do? Maybe some saw their families on the street and
weren’t recognized. How had they changed that they didn’t know
them? It would have been too much anyway for the families to
know their dead were only waiting on Jesus and had three days to
kill and would have to leave again for a second parting while the
families were still grieving from the first. Still others hid out,
pulling their tunics and cloaks and head cloths about them, holding
their little angers, the mistreatments, the rapes, the robberies, and
waited on the edge of town for him to return from hell and take
them in the air.

¹Psalm 68:18
²Ephesians 4:9