Wagging Tongue

 She stopped in her tracks.

She looked shock.

Her eyes narrowed.

She turned and walked away.

What did I say?

I tried to think back.

Did I offend?

By her response, yes.

She was hurt, deeply.

If only I could silent my tongue.

Accidents

 I heard this poem today that made me think of the novel "Hare."  The poet, Norman Maccaig ran over a hare.  We have all run over a squirrel, skunk, rabbit, etc.  One time I hit a bird, rather a bird hit my windshield, and once a dog ran into my car.  

This poem, Interruption to a Journey, states simple facts, but relives how I felt. It does this by meter.  At least, that what I think.  This is a simple experience, probably all of us have experienced.  But the way it is written adds depth.  We are forced to think about it.  Only a poem can do justice to this experience. When we harm a living creature, it shouldn't be a small thing.  Accidents change something.  It leaves us in a different landscape.

The hare we had run over Bounced about the road On the springing curve Of its spine.

Cornfields breathed in the darkness, We were going through the darkness and The breathing cornfields from one Important place to another.

We broke the hare's neck And made that place, for a moment, The most important place there was, Where a bowstring was cut And a bow broken forever That had shot itself through so many Darknesses and cornfields.

It was left in that landscape. It left us in another.

Scorn to Delight

We all know God turns bad into good.  In this poem, The Jesus Infection by Maxine Kumin, who is an atheist, religion is mocked.  Her underlying prejudice against religion drips through her choice of animals.  She is driving behind trucks carrying animals and views the backside of picks and cows and sees a bumper sticker to "Honk if you love Jesus."  Good thing she honked.  She cooperates with grace.

 I personally clearly identify with "The Jesus Infection". I remember cruising down the highway to the Cape with "Glory and Praise" music blasting from CD 's, the wind whipping my hair and voice around, and loving it. I think of Jesus being born in a stable, with curious farm animals looking in, and breathing right on him.  The animal smell and natural bodily functions creating an odor and sight that Jesus was born in.  This poem wouldn't bother Him, one bit.  After all, He created it all.

The Jesus Infection
by
Maxine Kumin

Jesus is with me
on the Blue Grass Parkway going eastbound.
He is with me
on the Old Harrodsburg Road coming home.
I am listening
to country gospel music
in the borrowed Subaru.
The gas pedal
and the words
leap to the music.
On throw out the lifeline!
Someone is drifting away.

Flags fly up in my mind
without my knowing
where they've been lying furled
and I am happy
living in the sunlight
where Jesus is near.
A man is driving his polled Herefords
across the gleanings of a cornfield
while I am bound for the kingdom of the free.
At the little trestle bridge that has no railing
I see that I won't have to cross Jordan alone.

Signposts every mile exhort me
to Get Right With God
and I move over.
There's a neon message blazing
at the crossroad
catty-corner to the Burger Queen:
Ye Come With Me.
Is it well with my soul, Jesus?
It sounds so easy
to be happy after the sunrise,
to be washed in the crimson flood.

Now I am tailgating
and I read the bumper sticker
on a Ford truck full of Poland Chinas.
It says: Honk If You Know Jesus
and I do it.
My sound blats out for miles
behind the pigsqueal
and it's catching in the front end,
in the axle,
in the universal joint,
this rich contagion.

We are going down the valley on a hairpin turn,
the swine and me, we're breakneck in,
we're leaning on
the everlasting arms.

Home is Like a Burning Bush

 Moses
     by
Lucille Clifton

  i walk on bones
  snakes twisting
  in my hand
  locust breaking my mouth
  an old man
  leaving slavery.
  home is burning in me
  like a bush
  God got his eye on.

If the title of Lucille Clifton's poem weren't "Moses," I wouldn't have a clue what this poem was about.  However, the more I read it, the more I understand it.  The bones and snakes and locusts represent the plagues; God sent to Pharoah.  Moses was sent by God to free the Israelites from slavery.  They roamed the desert for years, looking for a home.  Home!  That is really the theme of the poem, not Moses. 

Moses met God in a bush that was on fire, but not burnt down.  That bush drew Moses to it.  Was not Moses drawn to a home?  Does not home give warmth and light and love?  

God is Lonely

James Weldon Johnson wrote the following poem about the creation story from Genesis.  He is a very accomplished and interesting man.  He was a lawyer and diplomat, besides being the executive secretary of the NAACP.  As you see below, he was a poet, and his poem "Lift Every Voice and Sing," became the anthem for the Black national anthem. Here is another of Johnson's famous poems, The Creation, followed by the poem Lift Every Voice and Sing, put to music.

THE CREATION

A Negro Sermon
And God stepped out on space,
And He looked around and said,
“I’m lonely--
I’ll make me a world.”

And as far as the eye of God could see
Darkness covered everything,
Blacker than a hundred midnights
Down in a cypress swamp.

Then God smiled,
And the light broke,
And the darkness rolled up on one side,
And the light stood shining on the other,
And God said, “That’s good!”

Then God reached out and took the light in His hands,
And God rolled the light around in His hands
Until He made the sun;
And He set that sun a-blazing in the heavens.
And the light that was left from making the sun
God gathered it up in a shining ball
And flung it against the darkness,
Spangling the night with the moon and stars.
Then down between
The darkness and the light
He hurled the world;
And God said, “That’s good.”

Then God Himself stepped down—
And the sun was on His right hand
And the moon was on His left;
The stars were clustered about His head,
And the earth was under His feet.
And God walked, and where He trod
His footsteps hollowed the valleys out
And bulged the mountains up.

Then He stopped and looked, and saw
That the earth was hot and barren.
So God stepped over to the edge of the world
And He spat out the seven seas;
He batted His eyes, and the lightnings flashed;
He clapped His hands, and the thunders rolled;
And the waters above the earth came down,
The cooling waters came down.

Then the green grass sprouted,
And the little red flowers blossomed,
The pine tree pointed his finger to the sky,
And the oak spread out his arms,
And the lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground,
And the rivers ran to the sea;
And God smiled again,
And the rainbow appeared,
And curled itself around His shoulder.

Then God raised His arm and He waved His hand,
Over the sea and over the land,
And He said, “Bring forth. Bring forth.”
And quicker than God could drop His hand
Fishes and fowls
And beasts and birds
Swam the rivers and the seas,
Roamed the forests and the woods,
And split the air with their wings.
And God said, “That’s good.”

Then God walked around,
And God looked around
On all that He had made.
He looked at His sun,
And He looked at His moon,
And He looked at His little stars;
He looked on His world,
With all its living things,
And God said, “I’m lonely still.”

Then God sat down
On the side of a hill where He could think;
By a deep, wide river He sat down;
With His head in His hands,
God thought and thought,
Till He thought, “I’ll make me a man”

Up from the bed of a river
God scooped the clay;
And by the bank of the river
He kneeled Him down;
And there the great God Almighty
Who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky,
Who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night,
Who rounded the earth in the middle of His hand;
This Great God,
Like a mammy bending over her baby,
Kneeled down in the dust
Toiling over a lump of clay
Till He shaped it in His own image;

Then into it He blew the breath of life,
And man became a living soul.
Amen. Amen.

—James Weldon Johnson.

Published in The Freeman, December 1920
Also published in Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921)
Also published in The Book of American Negro Poetry (1922)
Also published in The New Negro: An Interpretation (1925)
Also published in Caroling Dusk (1927)
Also published in God's Trombones (1927)

Death is Only An Horizon

 We give them back to you, O Lord,
who first gave them to us;
and as you did not lose them in giving,
so we do not lose them in the return.

Not as the world gives do you give,
O Lover of souls,
For what is yours is ours also,
if we belong to you.

Life is unending
because love is undying,
and the boundaries of this life are but  an horizon,
and an horizon is but the limit of our vision.

Lift us up, strong Son of God,
that we may see further,
Strengthen our faith
that we may see beyond the horizon.

And while you prepare a place for us,
as you have promised,
prepare us also for that happy place;
that where you are we may be also,
with those we have loved, forever.

Written many years ago by an English Dominican friar, Bede Jarrett, op.

Masked Marauders

As the morning sun appears over the hills,
a young fawn drifts away from the herd,
grazing further to the edge of the forest.

The wolf pack strategically positions,
assessing vulnerability, surrounding 
the doe grazing and foraging along
the grass, clover, and delicate blooms.

The wolves close in coordinated attack,
pounce, fangs exposed, they bite,
dig in, tear, pulling and ripping at
the throat, the head, face, and heart.

The herd falls in paralyzed powerlessness.
like the masked ICE agents swooping in
droves, to purge unsuspecting undesirables,
like teenagers going to volleyball practice.

Marcelo just turned 18, with dreams,
plans, and a promising future in the
United States of America.

or not.

Marcelo Gomes da Silva, center, speaks to journalists after being released from detention on bond in Burlington, Massachusetts, on Thursday. To his right, Rep. Seth Moulton of Massachusetts listens. 

Rodrique Ngowi/AP

The Poet That was Almost Pope

 He was a contender.  His name was mentioned as papabile.  I am talking about Cardinal Tolentino de Mendonca, from Portugal.  He is a poet and writes under the name of Jose Tolentino Mendonca.  He is a priest.  Here is one of his poems.

Eschatology

And, at last, God returns
full of intimacy and unexpectedness
contemplated already from centuries above
humble measure of a verbal silence
we thought destined to be lost

See God climbing the steep path
that we have paced a thousand times
and stop to wait without impatience
meek as a sick lamb

Which one of us is the other’s shadow?
Even if no pity preserves the maps
we’ll come down close behind
rampant and empty
like a tree trunk

© Translated by Ana Hudson, 2012

                  Springtime Drama

                          Watch the heron glide ahead, 

                           Wingspan over five feet spread. 

                           Going home to tree top rookery.

                            A new nest, or last year's memory?

                                

                           Chicks hatch; parents take turns:

                           Peep - squawking, from newborns.

                            Herons' nesting in trees so tall.

                           Spring's drama does so enthrall.

Spring

 Sun and gentle breezes in spring
Wake life alive in everything.
Birds gliding and soaring back,
New nestlings taking wing.

Flowers and trees bounce back.
God sets the table with pleasure
With bounty we cannot measure.
The delights Spring can bring!

The Senior Center in Winter

 The Franklin Senior Center Scribblers Writing Group is making a story walk around the Senior Center Building.  Since each sign is a limited amount of space, we decided that each of us should write a poem.  It should be seasonal and topical (references to places we Seniors would know.)  Here's my first attempt.

Over the river and through the woods
the Gatra Bus does go.
This cold weather might bring snow,
perfect for December, this I know.

My fingers and toes are cold and red.
Maybe I should have stayed in bed.
My car wouldn't start.
Calling Gatra was very smart.

I must get to the Senior Center:
Bingo, Cribbage, and other adventures
beckon me out and into the cold
for activities, food and friends to behold.

St. Mary's Fire

I Am Officially A Grandmother

 

A grandmother:

        white, wispy hair,

                  disregarded as irrelevant.

Experience:

                 lips have narrowed,

                    yet many laugh lines.

Full of love:

                        matriarch of the family,

             sacrificed much.

Prayerful:

                       conversations with God,

           constant prayers.

A grandmother:

    white, wispy hair,

    disregarded as irrelevant.

 

How I Grew Up

 Afraid my friends 

       would find out.

Feel sorry for me.

       judge me.

See him staggering,

       unemployed, again,

       smelling like beer,

       slurred speech,       

cops bringing him home.

               Creator: LCOSMO | Credit: Getty Images/iStockphoto

                                             Copyright: LCOSMO

Mother's Day

 For some reason, I'm sad today.  My prayer partner prayed for his sister who is estranged from her children.  IOW, she spent Mother's Day, alone.

A gray old woman sits all alone,
Unloved, uncherished, and unknown.
Sitting beside her broken door,
Dreaming of days passed long ago,
When children played about her knee
Filling the air with childish glee,
Tended by her with loving care,
Knowing the blessing of a Mother's prayer.
But now they have gone, each to his life.
A girl to her husband, a boy to his wife,
Forgetful are they of her who sits here,
Silently wiping a tricking tear.
For striving for things in a life so brief
Blind their poor eyes to a dear Mother's grief.
But does she upbraid them in word or in mind.
Nor does their neglect to her seem unkind.
She'll forgive and forget all unkindness they've shown
This poor old mother who sits alone.

Ruby Latimer Edwards. "The Forgotten Mother." Family Friend Poems, November 11, 2006. https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/the-forgotten-mother

Sisterhood

 Sisterhood

Two girls, who like to play sisters.

Both wear different headscarves.

One is a hijab.

One is a tichel.

Will we grow old?

Will we see the sun set today?

Will we see the sun rise tomorrow?

Will we remember we are sisters?

Will the open dead eyes of the Palestinian corpses,

and the gaping holes of bombed homes by IDF

go away?

Will the ground ever be green again?

Will you feel your mother’s hands

saying “May Adonai make you like Sarah,

Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah?”

Will you hear your mother’s call to Salat

prayer, and bow and prostrate at her side?

Will we grow up to be soldiers

and will we fight each other?

Will we grow old?

Will we see the sun set today?

Will we see the sun rise tomorrow?

I’m afraid we won’t be able to forget.

Do What You Can.

 Oscar Romero was a martyred priest from South America.  No way could he have prayed this prayer.  He was dead.  It must have been written about him.

God put you here, at this time, in this place.  Do what you can to make things better.

A Prayer of Oscar Romero

It helps, now and then, to step back and take a long view.
The Kingdom is not only beyond our efforts,
it is even beyond our vision.
We accomplish in our lifetime only a tiny fraction
of the magnificent enterprise that is God’s work.
Nothing we do is complete,
which is a way of saying that the Kingdom always lies beyond us.
No statement says all that could be said.
No prayer fully expresses our faith.
No confession brings perfection.
No pastoral visit brings wholeness.
No program accomplishes the Church’s mission.
No set of goals and objectives includes everything.
This is what we are about.
We plant the seeds that one day will grow.
We water seeds already planted,
knowing that they hold future promise.
We lay foundations that will need further development.
We provide yeast that produces effects far beyond our capabilities.
We cannot do everything,
and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that.
This enables us to do something,
and to do it very well.
It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way,
an opportunity for the Lord’s grace to enter and do the rest.
We may never see the end results,
but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker.
We are workers, not master builders;
ministers, not messiahs.
We are prophets of a future that is not our own.

Amen.

Love Is Spanking

 Love or the spank
Falls on shy and bold
I draw a blank
And choose control

For this child is contrite
No need for wrath
The hand will be light
I take the gentle path

The other bold stump
Defiant and proud
Gets a heavy pound
May his head be bowed

Discipline can't apply
Same to all children
Some regret and cry
Others defy again and again

What can be correct?
Love can be a spank
Is there any affect?
Love can be a spank

The Shadow Grows Long

 The worst day of his life has descended,
            like the setting sun.

A inconsolable cry from a little girl,
           heartbreaking.

Over what, my child?

Her scoop of ice cream has
          fallen off.

Audacity!

Crying over spilled ice cream.

Words Hurt

My friend Bill, had his feelings hurt, yesterday.  He expresses himself better in rhyme that he does in reality.  This is what I mean: 

 Words Hurt by Bill Wyllie ..

Sometimes words hurt,sometimes words sting. But oh my god the hate they bring. A sarcastic word it gets me going. I try yo calm myself so it's not showing. Tho sometimes it hurts, I let it pass. But sometimes I want them to kiss my ass. But I digress I'll show the love. In God we trust from heaven above. The memory lives on but I think good thoughts. Or sometimes I'd rather not.