God's Breath

                                                         God breathes life into Adam.
                                                         Newborns scream that same breath
                                                                           into their lungs.
                                                         Resuscitation breathes that same
                                                                           breath to life.  Again
                                                                           and again.
                                                         

We pray.

Senior Citizen Haiku

 Help me up, my friend.

I want up, my bones say no.

Glory Be! Gravity!

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)

Still Missing Chris

My best friend, soulmate, and late night bon-vivant, Christine, died in October of 2022.  At that time, I couldn't really understand the scriptural reading, at her funeral Mass. 

"Death where is your sting?" This is from Paul's letter to the Corinthians 15:55.  "Death where is your sting?"  "Are you serious?" I thought.  The sting is in my heart, in the tears in my eyes, and in the lump in my throat blocking my speech. "Death where is your sting?"  "Didn't you feel it, Paul?"

(sigh)

Of course, I'm not that obtuse to know that Paul was referring to the resurrection and not thinking of the physical death of a dear one. Now that I think of it, Paul wasn't there, when Jesus died.  No wonder he could so blithely ask, "Death where is your sting?" 

(sigh)

Again. I'm thinking of a dear one whom I once physically touched, hugged, kissed, and laughed with, and Paul is preaching the Resurrection. The physical world versus the abstract theological world.  It's good thing we humans have both, or we'd be wallowing only in the physical with no hope for anything better.

S-o--r-r-y.  I'm doodling.

I was talking about my friend, Chris, who although she has been gone, for going on three years, I still am reminded of her when I have a spinach artichoke appetizer, a strawberry marguerita--salted, or I see a mutual friend.  I still miss her because I still love her.  Love still lives. 

When she first became sick almost 20 years ago, and she had been gone for a while.  I wrote this poem:

Missing Chris

Happy is he who find a friend and he who speaks to attentive ears. Sirach 25:9

My soul mate, Chris would help with my mess,

over spinach artichoke dip, nachos,

ice tea, girl-talk, dope slaps, and laughter;

deftly would your perspective fix my problem;

snap smooth wrinkled excuses and cobwebbed thoughts,

as we share late night secrets and pray for grace.

 But she became well, not completely healed, but well enough for us to hang out together, again.  She was a football fan.  Living a town away from Gilette Stadium, she cheered for the New England Patriots.  Tom Brady, the quarter back was an obsession.  If she couldn't get to a game, she went to a sports bar right in Gillette Stadium and in that charged atmosphere she watched her team play on the big TVs.  She would have loved the movie '80 for Brady.  This movie is about four octogenarians who love the Pats and Tom Brady just like Chris did.

Myself, not being a fan of elderly ladies talking dirty and acting sexy, I would never have even entertained the thought of seeing the move, '80 for Brady.

Now, if you don't believe in heavenly intervention, then listen up.  The Senior Center had a raffle to go see the movie.  I thought to myself, "OK Chris, if I win, I'll go for you."  

I won a ticket to go. 

I had the best time.  It was "wicked awesome!" Thus, I was inspired to write another poem for Chris: 

Cheering for Chris

My friend, Chris, who loved the Patriots,

       would have wanted to see “80 for Brady.”

And so I went for Chris, to see, to laugh, and maybe

       to lessen the feel of my grief laden cross.

Chris would have howled with laughter,

      and so I watched for the two of us.

Cheering, clapping, enjoying, plus

      thinking of your happiness ever after.

So now is the sting gone?  Depends. When I need a confidant, I feel

 the sting. But when I have a 

spinach artichoke dip, or a margarita, I smile and send love up to 

Chris because love still lives.  Now, another poem is composed: 

Still Missing Chris

Twice this morning I went to text you

about a thought or two, I knew

you would enjoy.  But then.....

Then my mind halted

and I erased my words.

Of course, I know it's necessary to have an ending before you can have a beginning.

But love doesn't end.

That's proof of God, you'd say.

Life goes on for both of us.  Mine is here and yours is there.

But Chris, I can't text you there.

Sure, you can.  No words are necessary

when you speak from your heart.

I finally get it, Paul.  Love doesn't end with death.   Death doesn't win.  Love conquers all.  "Oh Death, where is your sting."

Poets Have No Authority

 Poets have no authority.  They don't.  Well, their readers kind of give them authority, in that what they have read touches them.  Sometimes, that's more important than scientific facts.

I think that's why I like the Psalms so much.  Prayers, too!  Psalms and prayers from the devoted believers are from the heart. They are true to some.  They are understood by some.  They suggest to all.

BTW, the picture below is Jesus praying for us.  It is His last prayer at the Last Supper, before He goes out to be arrested.  John 17: 20-26

             Jesus Prayed for You – John 17:20-26 | Steve's Bible Meditations

Dear Lord and Father of mankind Hymn - Westminster Abbey (with lyrics)

When I was a child, the family usually went to the beach on summer weekends.  Driving Route 110, we passed a house in Haverhill that had a sign that read it was the birthplace of John Greenleaf Whittier.

        Invariably, my father would turn to me and say, "You may be pretty smart, but the man that lived there was wittier."

       He was a poet.  Here is a hymn made from Whittier's poem, "The Brewing of Soma."

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!

Fido is Back

Remember when I used to write short stories about my fictional cat, name Fido, well he disappeared, as cats often do. But they have nine lives you know. He's shown up in my rendition of Pangur Ban.

Since the invention of the internet, there is a plethora of cat videos.  People just love their cats.  From Egyptian statues and paintings to today's cat videos, cats are shown to be much loved.

In fact, it is not uncommon, that when I am on a zoom meeting, a cat will meander in view of the camera's view.  There are also medieval manuscripts with ornate letters, beautiful colored script, yet faint paw prints running across the page.  This is what must have happened to a monk in the 8th century, who had a cat named Pangur Ban.  This monk was doing his work, and he was distracted by the work his cat was doing.  Upon reflection, the monk realized that both he and Pangur Ban, were plying similar trades. In his poem Pangur Ban, the monk compares the cat's concentrated skill to his own focused composition.

The following poem is a translation of the 8th century Old Irish poem, Pangur Ban, by the Irish poet, Seamus Heaney.  There is no way on earth that I could match Seamus Heaney in verse, never mind my cat, Fido, to Pangur Ban.  Fido is not a mouser.  He plays with the mice he catches.  Hubby rescues the poor mouse and brings it outside, to be released.  Where upon the mouse finds a way to come back in, I'm sure.  It's a version of the game "cat and mouse," but now it's "cat and mouse and human." Anyways, so be it.

Pangur Ban translated by Seamus Heaney

Pangur Ban and I at work,

Adepts, equals, cat and clerk:

His whole instinct is to hunt,

Mine to free the meaning pent.

More than loud acclaim, I love

Books, silence, thought, my alcove.

      Happy for me, Pangur Ban

Child-plays round some mouse's den.

Truth to tell, just being here,

Housed alone, housed together,

Adds up to its own reward:

Concentration, stealthy art.

Next thing an unwary mouse 

Bares his flank: Pangur pounces.

Next thing lines that held and held

Meaning back begin to yield.

All the while, his round bright eye

     Fixes on the wall, while I

Focus my less piercing gaze

On the challenge of the page.

With his unsheathed perfect nails

Pangur springs, exults and kills.

When the longed-for; difficult

Answers come, I too exult.

So it goes.  To each his own.

    No vying.  No vexation.

Taking pleasure, taking pains,

    Kindred spirits, veterans.

Day and night, soft purr, soft pad,

Pangur Ban has learned his trade.

Day and night, my own hard work

Solves the cruxes, makes a mark.

Now, here is my poem, mimicking Pangur Ban.  

Fido and I at work,

Not equal, cat and clerk.

His whole instinct to hunt,

My words, alas, only to punt.

More than loud acclaim I love

Yet across my desk I shove.

Happy for me, Fido's a cat

Content to play with this and that.

Truth to tell, just being here,

Housed together companionship dear,

Adds up to its own reward-

Fido's rhythmic purrings heard.

Next thing I take the laser pointer,

His eyes open, my brave hunter.

Next thing my lines held

But my words blur and then meld.

All the while, her slitty green eye

Fixes on the laser light, while I

Adjust my glasses and gaze

At the messiness upon my page.

With her sharp, perfect claws,

Fido springs, swipes with empty paws.

When the longed-for, proves difficult,

I laugh, I enjoy, I loudly exult!

So it goes.  To each his own.

Love and fun and pleasure shown.

Taking a break refreshes the mood,

Kindred spirits, words are food.

Day and night, I stroke soft fur.

Fido rewards with contented purr.

Day and night, my own muse is chased.

Fido hopes some day to catch, not just chase.

Anyone who has ever had a cat can relate, which is why the original, found in 724, in a monastery of Benedictine monks, is still read and enjoyed.  It is written in Old Irish and found in a book containing other poems written in Old Irish, and Old German, some Latin hymns, astronomical tables, and Greek declensions.  And thirteen hundred years later, Pangur Ban is still copied and enjoyed.  For example, a cat named Pangur Ban appeared in the 2009 animated movie, The Secret of Kells.  As in the poem, the movie has Pangur Ban as a white cat belonging to a monk. There is also a chidren's book The White Cat and the Monk, by Jo Ellen Bogart and sydney Smith.  In 2018, Eddie Reader released a song titled Pangur Ban and the Primrose Lass.  Finally, I'm closing with the song Pangur Ban and the Primrose Lass by Eddie Reader.    song https://youtu.be/S9uFoUhpo28?si=aI5O0S-qoEAm_nbS