Fear of Death

December 20, 2006

For long, my fear was for nothing but death;
I looked my black end in the face.
To my disgrace,
I turned, ignored, and hid, or tried,
But could not hide
My beating pulse, and quick'ning of my breath.

Though the quiet He came to me
And offered kindly, godly hand:
"Ascend, my friend."
And to my soul, enslaved and weak,
Did he softly speak:
"Abide, abide, and I will make you free."

O death, will you approach? Immanuel
Is holding me, arms out-stretched wide,
As I abide
Upon his breast, hands, bloody, clasped...
Short, tortured gasps...
Then silence. "He descended into hell."

The cold, dark silence proves he is a fraud!
Leaving his sons, three days in fear,
He disappeared.
All but one did lie, or hid from men
And from their sin.
But one beloved stayed beside his God.

'O Death, thou wast once an uncouth hideous thing,'
But blood and dust have made thee fair!
Now who will fear
Thy sting? Where is thy victory?
No, thou, with me
Are on the cross, and raised again!

The nutshell dies; And, now alive, awakes
The tender, fresh-born center part;
Just so, my heart.
Bestirred and soft and newly-seeing,
A new-born being
Emerges, blinking, as light that early breaks.

Then I, his pupil, heard the truth, and Hark!
All times seen but go and die,
But seeing eyes
Remain to see each fresh-born time
Fall into line.
Ah! the school of life, like light, dispels the dark!

For I am I, my eye is I! I see
Therefore I am! And what am I?
His apple-eye --
He who lives and loves to revive
Our fleeting lives
'Till, dying, becoming, we come to be.

For he does not his precious pupils leave,
Those black and fresh-born center parts
Within his heart;
But plucks a plank out his own eye
Blood-tears to cry
To vivify and heal by blood and grief.

My breath becalms, as does my beating pulse,
And now my black end I may face,
Thanks to his grace!
For fear has been cast out by love.
A gentle dove
Descends to coo, and woo my fresh-washed soul.

And though his deepest brilliance is concealed
From my weak eyes, I climb each rung
Like those among
The cloud of seers beyond the grave
Who sing his praise
With me, 'till I'm in him revealed.

O Life, who made this dust alive with breath,
Please show me through, from black to black,
Not looking back
But facing you, who are so bright
That I am blind
'Till I, by grace, am joined with you in death.


Glory to God Alone.

Babel

Text erects a flexible tower, stretching to the heavens.
Ancient armies spread their shields and arms in lines.
Kings and queens gather greed like sheep-shorn bundles,
Make plans, stake out land, do what they can to win, but then:

Self-lies and pride wreck what's left of their pitiful tries,
And this leftover mess is the best men hope for;
For the less men hope for, the better,
For this fetter attacks the jugular,

And this treasure attracts only burglars and moths,
This crucible tacks nails into the faithful like a hateful Centurian within
This thorn in our side may be worn with pride, for pride's sake,
But the bride's safety depends on who wins, and who dies,
And for whose sake who dies when they die,

Words outstretched like arms,
That fly where the never expected the text to fly.

Elemental Songs

The man of earth, from dusty ground
Is body, filled with breath
In eighty years, or therearound
He'll lose his dust to death.
The man of God must learn from dirt
Which comes and goes to earth
His spirit must to God return
And, dying, find new birth

As water lifts from deep blue sea
To misty clouds, which rain
The selfsame drop eternally
Flies home and dies again.
Just so must he who loves his God
Being born of Spirit and Father
Float up, and be poured into, God
Becoming living water

Air flows with an easy grace
Back and forth and back
Torn throughout the West and East
It yet remains intact
Just so does he who loves his God
Wander without a care
Until he's called back unto God
Becoming purest air

Flame alights an arrow's head
Before it quickly flies
To flaming fields of burning dead
Where it, too, quickly dies.
Just so does he loves his God
Emerge and move the same,
Until he lands and lives in God,
Becoming burning flame

Quiet Star

A book in hand, a friend or three..
A quiet, undistracted place:
A recipe for quiet glee,
A meal of simple, common grace.

We ate this meal, one evening clear,
As she first shone, that Evening Star
who first in blue-black sky appears...
In fact, she joined us from, afar,

She sat down right there in between
My friends, as if 'twere no big deal,
And mused about philosophy
To us while we enjoyed our meal:

"Have you ever noticed, friends,
That, though it's quiet when you're alone,
When silent, and with several friends,
The silence is of a deeper tone?

Prayer for Interior Martyrdom

I want you, Christ, in me to raise anew
I do not want the holy God to spurn,
I want to be on fire with love for you,
But, Lord, I do not want my heart to burn!
Since servants are no better than their guide,
Young Stephen died upon a cross, like Christ.
For "greater things" does greater deaths imply,
Thus Christians do; thus, too, they sacrafice.
As Stephen did not only die of piercing nail
But burning flame that licked his flesh to coal,
So let me be a martyr, drawn and pale,
But caught with fire that rather kills the soul.
The burning bush was burned and not consumed
So let me burn and live, in You exhumed.

I Am Small and But a Man

I am small, and but a man, my heart in twain
A house divided cannot stand, nor vice
Win the pearly circle: white-virtue's crown;
That vast, spectacular seat, with Christ.

But small although, though small I go, I go,
Down the middle, down the spiral deep'ning
Where all specks, electrons, and young mites grow
Hidden, all in invisible light circl'ing

Glory-fire flashes in the recess!
And from that single spout the black surge flows
And bubbling up, draws me back to vastness
He, shrinking, grows; unknowing, finally knows.

Stirring From a Dreary Sleep, and Dreaming

Stirring from a dreary sleep, and dreaming,
I rolled from comfort into chilly air.
The cold did not dispel my mental slumb'ring,
Nor remove sleep's lazy tendrils, unclear,
But braided in mind with divine half-truths.

In this state I saw a statue of my being,
(So to speak...) An image, cloudy in the mental eye...
Armoured and naked, large and small... My seeing
Flitted 'round and changed like Northern skies,
Taunting me, an eager and curious youth.

I believe it was a picture of my self;
A picture-prophet... Or rather, prophetess,
A servant of God, like those at Delphi
Who whirled and sang and showed their inward breast,
To Greece, like mothers who love, but stay aloof.

Wisps and shoots of falsehood still remaining,
She spoke and built a statue with her words;
Enigmas, jokes, and falsehoods intertwining
With chirps and melodies, like that of birds,
Her twinkling eye a mirror and a spoof.

I lent my ear to catch new sounds, or tried,
For I heard little, understood less...
From somewhere utterances arose and died,
Vivid yet obscure, like a roaring lioness,
Her self and source her only proof.

Of a sudden, resonance replaced desire to know
And sounds unwrapped themselves. Contingencies
Became in mind the branches of the tree unknown,
Which, seen as such, are, too, necessities,
Whole, beholden, beheld by holy truth.

I saw my weal in woman's eyes:
She said: "I am ground and statue crumbling;
I am peaceful, loving, Christ-like and kind,
Humble, I am to my brethren humbling;
One with source and seething ground of sooth.

"Rooted and grounded in love, I am that tree,
And each branch, grafted in, drenched in love,
With this unknowing trunk, vibrant, happy,
Receiving life below and life above,
Riches in blooming ground, and pouring roof.

"The virtues four increase a hundredfold!
For man is man when he is purified
From sin; not pleased and rich or wise and old:
Yes, man is man when man has died!
This dying life, my ruin and my ruth."

And more, she told me, "Wait." That word rang clear.
Projecting stillness, she became a song
Of patience, without bustle, noise, or fear,
Like lying still in bed, or righted wrongs,
Like a warhorse, resting powerful hoof.

As dawn-light broke on day, and on my brain
She left me, with a whisp'ring echo of her tune
Still resounding 'tween my ears. To know again
What then I knew beyond unknowing
I, waking, now am searching like a slueth.

But so it is! Praise the Lord of souls!
The ever-living Father, Son and Ghost!
So be it, God! So be it! Spirit, pull
Into grace this soul and her body-host,
and burn from me all that which is uncouth!

A Paraphrasis

"Forgive the ponderousness of these ponderings
('Are you used to it now' I am wondering?)
Poor communicative skills in the face
Of important realities takes so much space
To approach even approximately
That which I only imperfectly see. "

Ends and Means - a Silly Poem

Along the hoary timeline
Of poet-gods and kings,
Those singers of the song and rhyme,
All ringing, jingling things,
There comes a one (or two)
Of such who use archaic speech
In silly ways, like "pard" or "froo"
Their somber truth to teach.
Immortal souls, in mortal bod's?
It cannot be denied!
These men were more like manly-gods
Who see and sing with pride!
For from their dusty spirit-box,
Behind their earthy-eyes,
The holy hand of Spirit knocks
And shines the heav'nly cries!
But some times, roaring, in a rage
Their words resound and shout! --
And sometimes, silly, in a word,
They merely peepeth out.

Poverty

Poor man am I, Lord, in all things good,
Barefoot and covered by dirt and daily grime.
I've walked by houses where riches abound,
Felt phantom silk cushions under my head at night,
Gaped at wild strawberries, nuts, and lamb roast,
Tinkling glasses, lovely bowls and spoons,
Fine cabernet, fresh bread lightly toasted,
In large, ornate, well-adorned, softly-lit rooms.
I've dug through trash to find my next meal,
Spent freezing evenings in autumn air,
Worn tired-out wool shirts, rough to the feel,
And wandered about, too tired and lost to care...
I saw, dimly, a well-lit house in the night.
You brought me in, killed the calf, bathed, clothed, and fed me with light.

The Boy and the Poem

Sing, lyric Muse, of a boy of young years --

A bright, rambunctious and promising youth --

The day he learned something that some men still fear,

A dire – yes, awful! yet wonderful truth.

And incomprehensible Word, God's own Son,

Please draw us along, so that, faithful and tried,

When we have endured all confusion and pain,

We may join with your Father in joy at his side.

One day at his homework, and feeling quite bored

With grammar and syntax and long Latin words,

This boy left his books in his cell, making towards

His dear father's room. Careful not to be heard,

For his father, he knew, would want him to go

And to sit still and work, to write and to read.

"Though I want to talk, he'll say, 'Study!' I know."

But youth allows youthful desire to lead.

He stole up the stairs, as quiet as he could

And, thank Heaven! the door was already cracked.

He poked in his head, through dark beams of wood,

And thought to himself, "Should I stay, or go back?"

Though, peaking inside, he promptly withdrew

His question, so puzzled he was by the sight

Of his dad, all alone, in the dark, silent room,

His face with happiness lit very bright.

Bright? Rather, beaming! At what, he knew not!

But beaming as if he'd been given some prize,

Or caught some great creature that long he had sought,

So great was the gladness that beamed in his eyes.

Forgetting his fear, now totally curious,

Into the dimly lit room ran the boy,

For he had to know -- though his father be furious --

What was the source and the cause of his joy.

"Papa, may I take a break for a minute?

I'm hungry and tired and practically through…

I saw the dark room, and your face, bright within it...

Well, you seem so happy… What happened to you!?"

"Good morning, my boy, I thought that was you;

Why back there, all skulking in shadows and cracks?

You noticed the clock, which says ten, and not two,

Or did you, oblivious, simply lose track?"

"Well, yes, dad, I guess, dad. I just want to rest!

I'm sorry I snuck in. Can we break and talk?

I'm learning my Latin… Well, trying my best…

But Grammar's as hard and as dry as a rock!

"Declensions are dreadful, and vocab's a bore!

This syntax is practically stealing my breath!

When I get through this book, you'll buy me two more…

But by then I fear that the price will be death!"

"So tell me, but briefly, sir, if you be kind,

Please give me this one time but one small reprieve.

Just tell me, what joyousness brightens your mind;

Your speech, and my hearing, will be my relief."

"My dear, young, silly, and lovable son
Who taught you so to exaggerate?
An hour of study, and then you are done?
Is that all the Latin that you'll tolerate?

"To lessons to-day, you may claim you're adverse,

But you capture your meaning in a way not half-bad!
How is it you now call these lessons perverse,

Relying so much on past lessons you've had!?

"My son, you will learn to endure more than this,

If I'm not mistaken in what I divine;

Not pain its own sake, like some masochist,

But pain with a purpose, and clear, good, design.

"Pain as a means to an end, glor'ous and high

As the heavens above, yet as near as a kiss.

This pain we pursue, (Yes, us both, you and I,)

Is discomfort that eventually leads up to bliss!

"Come over here, son, and sit down on my knee.

Since it is now just about five after ten,

I'll tell you, if quickly, 'What's happened to me,'

But then to your Latin must you quickly run.

"It's not 'What has happened,' but what I have done,

That springs up the gladness that shines in my brow.

The game that I've caught, the prize that I've won,

Is the fruit of long labor, ripening now.

"A gift for my father, the grandpa you love.

And I have been writing for quite a long time!

A draft from the last year was spotty and rough,

But now, like a jewel, it is polished and primed.

"Our God above freely gave the inspiration

And so only gratitude, I pay as a fee,

And sing of my thanks and my great admiration,

For my dad, who's done (and been) so much for me.

It took me much time and hard work, you should note.

God wants our effort and his to agree.

All great writers, indeed, thusly wrote,

God's work and theirs in a sweet harmony.

There. Now you've rested, my tale you have learned,

My boy, my poem to you is revealed.

Just so must my boy to his room now return,

And thus the agreement of ours is fulfilled."

"But no, dad, O please dad, don't leave me like this!

You told me the first part, and neglected the next!!

Disclose, too, the poem! O please don't resist,

At least let me see one small bit of the text."

"There's no room for argument. Simply obey.

The clock kindly tells us its ten after ten.

The poem is not something you would enjoy,

For do we enjoy what we don't comprehend?

"When faculties fully will take in my meaning,

Don't worry, when older of mind, I will share.

But now, before your intellectual weaning,

Though hearing with ears, you'd not really hear!

"Ok, dad, well thanks, dad, for letting me stay."

He said as he hopped down, and made towards the door,

A frown on his face he tried not display,

And a grumble inside him that cried out for more.

This grumble to him seemed to be for the poem,

In truth, all he needed was something to eat,

Almost out, but wanting his father to show him

The writing, he turned one last plea to repeat.

"This story is not for young boys, but for men."

His father pre-empted, "If you need a snack,

Ask mom, but then to your Latin again!

To earn life's rewards, we must stay on track. "

And so did he go, his hopes dashed within,

The interest inside him no less fully piqued.

What were the words his father had written?

O for a snippit! A glance or a peak!

So glumly returning downstairs with some juice

And a snack, the boy tried to focus his thoughts,

But, like shining stars in the sky, bright and loose

As they fall to the Earth, stay in place they would not.

In twenty more minutes or so of attempts,

He began to, reluctantly, settle and learn.

His writing slowed down and became less unkempt,

His lips moved, if slowly, with long Latin words.

But no sooner had concentration arrived,
Than 'twas shattered by furious knocking outside.

A figure rushed in, with excitement in eye,

Strutting into the room looking puffed up with pride.

Our subject, expecting to welcome his mother

Scrambled to gather some work he could show

But looking and seeing instead just his brother,

Just sighed, now leery of his brother's proud glow.

"Little bro, I just visited dad in his room,

You know how he has been writing each night?

Guess what? He's just finished a magical poem,

He showed me the outline! and whoa, what a sight!

While sitting and doing my Logic upstairs

I realized it's time for my break-time with dad

He mentioned that he had some great news to share,

Then pulled out and showed me the poem that he had.

"It's only the outline, the chapters and such,

But it's awesome! I basically got the drift.

I mean, I know he loves grandpa very much,

But that will be such an amazing gift!

"Well, I gotta go, little bro, thanks for the chat.

I'm going to finish my lesson at lunch,

Tuesday's for shopping with dad, you know that...

It was so nice talking. Thanks a bunch."

The pain and dismay that now filled the boy

Could hardly be sung in verse or in prose,

A pain mixed with envy at his brother's joy,

The storm of emotions now inside him rose

And growing so great, did drown out the voice

Of his father inside, "My son, you must wait,"

And so, without wit, the boy made his choice,

For he longed his forbidden desire to sate.

Now, how could he steal by without detection?

He asked as he stood up and made for the door.

Forgetting his studies he made an inspection

Of the hall, "Now, to get to the second floor..."

The youth took a moment to consider the risk.

Thinking and puzzling, he puzzled and thought,

When footsteps rang out pacing heavy and brisk,

From the hallway, "That must be dad going out,"

And out he did go, big brother in tow,

The two left the house and were now in the car.

"Aha!" Thought the boy, and he lunged out, although

The path up the stairs now seemed somehow so far,

But finally arriving at the large oaken door,

He looked left and right, and though it was closed,

He tip-toed inside on the hard-wooded floor,

But hearing a creak, he suddenly froze,

Then, hearing no sounds coming up from below,

He walked through the room, and avoided the light

That shone in a thin line through the window.

His gaze reached the desk, and even in spite

Of his father's command, echoing, "This is not right"

He snatched up the papers, but discovered one glitch:

He could not see what they said without light!

So he fumbled and stumbled and looked for a switch,

When click! With a flash, and the light was discovered,

The beautiful poem revealed to his eyes!

Eagerly, now did he pull back the cover,

With trembling rapture that welled up inside.

But just then the boy stopped dead, suddenly,

The look on his face of dismay and suprise...

Time passed, but he did not stir.. No, not he...

He rather stared with a horror at his newfound prize,

The words shining up at him from the dark page

Were in Latin, an incomprehensible mess,

The rich, lovely meaning, locked up in a cage,

And hid from the pry of his young eagerness.

Before the new shock of the truth had sunk in,

A creek did he hear, that familiar sound,

A feeling of fear replaced rapture within.

He put down the paper, and turning aroud,

Faced his father, a look of concern on his face,

The hat he'd forgetten was there in his hand.

He stood, a figure of judgement and grace,

Tall, like a king, majestic and grand,

"O dad, I'm sorry, I just couldn't wait,

My brother said you had showed it to him...

For me, I know now that it is too late;

I'll never read it or see it again."

"My son, come to me, wipe the tears from your eyes.

For disobeying, you are right to be sad.

But from sorrow, behold, I make new joy arise.

Hear my words, for they shall instead make you glad.

"Now son, listen closely and never forget

For the words which I speak are words to the wise:

Though soon you will read what you have not read yet

And soon you will see with wonder-filled eyes,

"This poem I hid from your view for your good,

For never will I hold back fun for no reason.

But just as the best cook will eat the best food,

The most fun requires we first work for a season.

"To help you work hard, help you stay at your books

And show you that I will not punish or shout

Of my poem I'll give you a taste and a look

I'll tell you, in English, what it is about:

"A story of grandpa, his love, and his life,

His service to people, his service to Christ,

The untiring care for your grandma, his wife,

And the time and money on us sacraficed.

"There now, my dear boy, cheer up and be glad,

You've had a small taste of my reason and rhyme.

Soon you'll be ready, till then, like your dad,

Be patient, the journey to joy will take time."

Dialogue Between Christ and the Soul IV

August 9, 2006

Lord, you have been with me
On walks at night since I was 17, 16, and on.

You are with me in discussion of great books,
The Sophist, Collosions, the Republic.

You are with me during times of prayer,
in the mornings and just before bed.

These oases are growing.
There are rivers forming,
And soon the ocean will overwhelm all.


Glory to God alone.

Dialogue Between Christ and the Soul IV

August 16

My unstable heart is an inn, O Lord,
There’s room for one, not two.
Let the owner be the tenant, Lord,
And, Lord, O let it be you.

The Lord Is With Me

July 13, 2006

The Lord is with me
And I’m beginning to feel his presence
Driving down the 405
Waiting tables at “the Bar”
Sitting down at night to pray
The darkness of the evening air
The bustle of the dinner-hour
The stop and go of endless cars

The Lord is with me
Washing dishes late at night
Chatting with a friend or two
Searching for the deeper text
The plunging layers, seven thick
The pause between a word and word
The soapy clink of cups and bowls

And I’m beginning to feel his presence
Writhing in a nameless pain
Looking to the five-year plan
Renovating growing souls
The trials of becoming good
The dimness of a future life
The truth of death and solitude
The Lord is with me
And I’m beginning to feel his presence


Glory to God alone.

A Prediction Made at the Age of 23...

A prediction made at the age Of 23 upon reading A.E. Taylor’s biographical sketch of the life and writings of Plato and learning that Plato wrote his Republic at about the age of forty, and addressed to fellow twenty-year old poets or aspiring poets who might otherwise be discouraged and give up trying giving their utmost, or reaching their prime


In twenty more years, God willing, will I
Produce my best work. As I learned this July
Did Plato and those who long did invest
Their coins (one or few), our brethren to bless.
If death takes me first, or God will not give
His breath, then please, these youthful words forgive;
But if, youth, like Christ, all true they will be
Then as I am like Christ, so be like me!


Glory to God alone.

Haiku

A house on a hill
In the warm July evening
Quiet, safe, at rest


Like a new womb
Moisture, darkness, peaceful heat
Showering in the dark


Slowly or quickly
Raid sets in while his friends watch
The lone cockroach dies


This cool July 4th
The smoke emerges from mouths
Remnants of fireworks


A verse from the Word
The dead sinner is made new
Holy Book indeed!


Hidden feelings lie
But this music wakes them up
Resonance is truth


Symphonies complex
Speaking to the complex soul
Simplify and sooth


Knowingly she smiles
A long day almost over
We sit on the bus


In Vermont Autumn
A dead man with bright red socks
Farewell, sir Hitchcock


With a book or friend
I turn off electric lights
and light a candle


Fortune’s fickle
Fame deceives, beauty fades
Charity endures


The wealthy man laughed
The poor boy said his small prayers
to a great rich king


Glory to God alone.

Wisconsin Winter

Written from the perspective of a women spending a year in Wisconsin while her husband finishes graduate school
June 23, 2006

Snow falls as I stare out the window
of my small Danish cottage,
on a street of fellow renters,
fellow transients,
fellow wives and their wayfaring grad student husbands,
my eyes passive, transparent, receiving but not welcoming,
receiving the calm vision
of patches of snow that emerge from the asphalt,
stolid trees accepting their chilly fate,
a fire hydrant,
the blur of red cars, white cars, blue cars,
quickly passed and out of focus.

The room is filled with winter air,
the aroma of reheated pasta, chicken,
the steam of a steamy cup,
a stiff carpet, scratching my itchy feet,
a half-filled bookshelf,
The Iliad, notebooks,
forgotten knick-knacks from previous tenants,
too weird to be used,
too maybe valuable to be thrown away
without that subconscious sting
of trashing something someone maybe loved

I notice how pale this light makes me look,
as I look for Aloe Vera
for my finger
which I burned
swirling coffee to keep it warm,
as I find a Band-Aid
and return to waiting for my husband to return.

The heater is expensive
I sit in the unpleasant winter air,
the outside air inside,
in the living room,
wrapped in an old blue blanket,
holding an old book,

of a Russian mystic
who speaks of the way of negation
through darkness to light,
through pain to joy,
through separation to unity,
the way of loss,
the way of rejection,
the way of confusion,

a real lover of God, she,
a real wife,
a sweet companion,
an international lover,
an interlunar, interstellar, intergalactic lover,
wrapped in old papyrus,
wrapped in the arms of old gods.

I wait,
wrapped in old blankets
that still smell like So. Cal.,
Elizabeth at daycare, Michael at the library,
a wife at home,
a home away from home
Wisconsin,
where the four seasons play out,
the sun shines, the leaves die,
the flowers bloom, and the snow falls.


Glory to God alone.

"Vocatus Atque Non Vocatus, Deus Aderit."

June 10, 2006

Every once in a while, a flash of insight comes.
"Insight" of course, being sight in to the nature of things,
a moment, a relationship, a lifetime, a struggle, a choice...

Every truth disguises itself with a patchwork of falsehoods
and every falsehood attains this remarkable status by gathering about
truths like silken strips of fabric, purple, gold... enchanting, but mixed.

The passing through these things (or the struggling to do so)
Through words, through relationships, through conversations with friends and brothers,
This passing is life. Life passes as we make our way through this quilt of truth and lies.

And every once in awhile, the hard work pays off, observing and comparing colors,
Noting truths and keeping track of its graceful disguises, as well as
Tricking falsehoods to undress and show themselves as the nothing they are.

It is these moments, through the sweat-stained sheets through which we've been swimming, alone,
as on a late Saturday morning when summer is starting to make the days hot,
that we see something... Oh, God! The sight!

The patch behind the patch! This for that; what was is no more; what was not suddenly comes to be,
and I... see... you... see... we, each staring at the nature of things through thin, worn-out sheets.
The moment passes, and again we are lost, swimming, searching, but recalling,

Wondering: "Did 'hard work' really pay off, or did the insight come in a flash
like lightening, unbidden, from the realm of unknown?
Do I keep going with this tiresome and endless vanity?

I do not know. So in the meantime, I keep sleeping in this bed,
dreaming of the next vision,
passing the time flipping through quilts with friends.


Glory to God alone.

Later in the Day

May 19, 2006

I have forgotten my past. Not by any intention of mine,
but by omiting to refresh my memory on a regular basis.
All I have our flashes: a blue pool, a half-blind border collie, pain.

Love is learning to let go. Robert Puff said, “I knew what to give up.”
Each choice eliminates infinite possibilities once open, fresh, vital.
How, then, can we choose, and stay happy? Christmas morning is so sad.

Does my past belong to me? How could it? I did not choose it,
I did not prepare the way for it, and, now, though I carry it with me,
it is shrouded in darkness; “My” past is not mine, but in relation to me.

When I sit still, I hurt. My mind starts remembering for me,
The slow drain of loneliness, being teased by my brother's friends,
Or (darkly) the terror of waking up, 6-years old, alone in the house.

When does the human race ever sit still? Do Buddhists get together and do nothing?
Children are sometimes at peace. The West loves to plan ahead
Working ahead, looking forward to the day of rest.

Keith, the pain will go away, in time. Joy is not merely in memory, nor soley momentary.
If “our body is our sub-conscious mind,” then these pockets of darkness
are presents, waiting to be unwrapped in the quiet morning light.

Glory to God alone.

A Dialogue On Domestic Life

March 2006

A series of poems between Thomas Ward and Keith Buhler regarding the virtues and limits of the life of managing an estate, raising a family, etc.


I once unsuccessfully tried to help Keith feel my enthusiasm for domestic life. Here’s another shot. - Tom

A Poem for K.E.B. (By Thomas Ward)

God is will and intellect
Three speak holy dialect;
God’s the Type of other things
Red grapes, girls, and Saturn’s rings.

God is golden, God is green
Let’s thank Him for everything!
God is silver, God is blue
Give Him all that is His due!

Look at all He did create
Joy and sorrow gravitate;
Everything within the world
Is a God-flag far unfurled.

Daddy sweeps the floor for fun
Mother hugs her wounded son;
Lashings on the broken fence
Soon the roses will be dense

Brother knows it’s time for bed
Sister spells her name in red;
Snowdrops came up late this year
Beech leaf buds dispelled all fear

Brother strokes the tired face:
Bearded Dad who laughs with grace;
Husband’s life is in the brook
Wife returns the open book.

Colored Lord of starry choir
Shadowed in the heart of fire;
We rarefy you far too much
Divinize our sense of touch!



A Poem for Tom

Father wills to gaze on Truth:
(See Him see'ng himself, for proof!)
He enjoys himself and us --
A Type of heav'nly Narcissus.

Plato said, "They circled 'round,
And, unlike us here on the ground,
Feasted eyes on things which are,
Above the shadows where we "are."

Just as he from Kempis said
"Forsake the company of men;
Only pour out prayer devout.
Be ye pure within and -out."

And, (finally,) it once was said
By Endurance (Italian-bred):
"Diverse light in diverse spheres,
Down here, quite diverse appears."

Touch is great, but I just might
Prefer a holy sense of sight.
(That's not to say that I am sure;
But, God help me, it seems more pure.)

Perhaps my nature I resent...
"Your non-angelic bod' present..."
Living feels like sacrifice
When I could just be seeing Christ.

But, then again, Adam has seen
His girl with God in gardens green;
And Logic once became a man,
And slept and drank and used the can.

And we were bade to think and eat
(And drink the wine, the bread and meat.)
"Be ye faithful in things small," and
"Let them come, the young and all."

Perhaps I don't yet understand
That holy Scriptural command:
"Whatever you do, sweep or pray,
Do it as unto Yahwah."

Brother writes a happy poem;
Good friend finally comes home.
Dishes washed, just one to go,
Waiting for an herb to grow.

Golden God, and mottled Son,
Teach your small and pinkish one
To see all colors hid in white
To love the low, high, dim, and bright.


Glory to God alone.