Poetry - March, 2007

Poetry

Lost in the Forest

“The Department of Defense announced Friday that
the battery operated ‘digital’ bugle has come of age and
is a necessity with only about 500 U.S. military buglers
to perform at the 1,800 daily funerals for veterans.”
                                    –Washington Times, 10/09/02

And now even this is pantomime—
or worse—a kind of full-bodied lip sync
at the gravest occasion. Someone
in uniform lifts horn to lips to blow
(one thinks), simulates the deep draw
that hallows breath into note and moves
us to that spacious human room
where mourning sounds.
                                And now even this
is just charade, a button pushed (at least
the fingers move), and though the tones
are clear as night and sure as sleep,
one wonders whether God is really nigh
and what besides the soldier-child might die.

Poetry

Longing, Lenten

The walk back, more loss. When I open the door
it’s over, so I set to piddling: tidy
end tables, check the mail, draw a bath.
The restless energy finally settles
as I pass the mirror. I peer into it.
My nose touches glass. Not much left,
already effaced, not even a cross
to speak of. A smudge. A few black soot stains
like pinpoints on the forehead. The rest
of the blessed ash has vanished to a grey
amorphousness, to symbolize . . . not much.
Except a wish for those hallowed moments
to be followed by sustaining confidence.
Except spirit, which means to shun its listless
weight for yearning, awkward if not more earnest
prayer and fasting in the clear face of dust.