On the Feast of St. Stephen

The Martyrdom of St. Stephen by Peter Paul Rubens 1616-1617

"The life of the soul is not knowledge, it is love, since love is the act of the supreme faculty, the will, by which man is formally united to the final end of all his striving – by which man becomes one with God." (Thomas Merton, The Seven Storey Mountain)

See how wind tears, how

clouds ravage the sky

to shreds…

Can you hear the geese fleeing,

shouting dread

as the savage storm crouches?

Are you afraid?

I know

how the sea sometimes

launches boulders;

but the stubborn land

bows and waits

and, swollen, forgives

with torrents of life;

rivers of joy.

(2013-2017)

Atonement

"There must be a time when the man of prayer

 goes to pray as if it were the first time 

in his life he had every prayed."  Thomas Merton

Grey mist

rises and falls

enfolding parched hills

easing autumn’s harsh pain

saturating the spreading valley

with gathering rain

and mercy.

(1 Oct. 2012)

The Window of Being

“Actions are the doors and windows of being. 

Unless we act we have no way of knowing what 

we are. “ Thomas Merton

Walk

through the door

and do

not stay

in this dark room,

silent,

inactive

thin soul of

yesterday’s

rain.

No.

Break open the window,

and breathe deeply

the light

of being.

(25 Oct 2012)

Invitation

Come into my night;
the darkness is so cold
that sparrows flee
my winter trees,

so I have closed
my windows and my doors
to horde my little warmth.

Crickets will not sing delight
and stars no longer glimmer
in winter’s dreary night.

O come,
O come, Emmanuel!

I am captive and dull.
I cannot see the flashing stars
that lurk beyond the cloud.

O come into my small house
my meager fire share.

O come, and bring fierce angels
to cut away death’s empty snare!

(30 Jan 2011)

Magnificat

The poor still wait

for bolted doors to open

hunger to be filled

and concern to replace

the deep scorn

of the rich, who believe

God is on their side,

who offer golden chalices

and cathedrals of crystal

to purchase

eternal life

with God, who remembers

the poor 

will fill their every

need

but sends away the rich

with nothing

no things to carry

in their powerful, sleek cars

to their empty houses

silent houses 

stony, soulless

mansions, 

nothing

but their names

on fine marble 

engraved,

yet the poor watch

and still wait.

(24 March 2014)

I, John

Photo: Brian Federle, Desert Sunrise, Dec. 2016


I, John, declare.

Listen!

Can you hear?

Open your eyes and see.

With outstretched hands reach and

proclaim to the world of endless strife

the Word of peace,

eternal Life!

*

ref: 1 John 1:1-4

(23 December 2011)

Advent Wreath

The pale sun, gliding low,

refuses to rise into leaden

grey skies, so bleak night

inters our sinful souls.

Oh! break out the candles

and place them around!

See how their fires

consume the dark ground.

Bouquet of flame!

devour our sins,

and ignite winter’s night

in holy conflagration.

(12/1/2010)

Ascension

“Deep contemplative silence communicates prayer.” Thomas Merton

Your voice

sings

words 

suspended

mid-flight

like apples 

falling

in a 

dream.

I hear

my soul

breathing,

ascending

to your

voice.

(11 Aug. 2012)

Three Poems for My Father

Photo: Brian Federle, Overcast in Oregon

…on the 40th anniversary of my father’s death

i

When I last saw you
Your hands were clenched
With a rage foreign to your voice
And you were rushing inward
Away from the moon, beyond the glowing
night
Of my grief.

Yet on my way home
I saw the moon rise.

Where have you gone, then, If not
to that land behind the moon?

ii
In the emptiness above the earth
In the terrific clashing of jet with atmosphere

I heard your new voice
I saw your new hands

Tearing at the cold, hurtling steel,
Casting off silk shroud

For dark soil
And even darker rivers.

iii
If stars loom too large
Is not my window too small?

(11/24/1978)

Winter's Tree of Leaf and Bird

Winter's tree, of leaf and bird, 

of mystery stripped

silent and spare

where living glade

with leafy trunk and fragrant limb

once hid mockingbirds 

as they played

through drowsy summer's 

longest day.

But now in winter's brittle chill 

all is silent, all is still

as death works out 

his hollow will.

(28 Dec 2011)

Blue Days

Photo: Brian Federle, Sunset at Pacifica Seawall, 2013

Blue

days race

to starry

grace, candles plunging

to panting dreams. Power is brief.

The mounting sun with youthful stride lusts for noon’s brightest

heights, but ennui runs deep gently

recedes sun’s fading

fire to

rising

pyre.

(12/21/2013)

My Sister's Birthday

We watch as toddlers
run squealing through the house,
laughter bounding through bright halls,
a knee-level storm of pure joy.

They punctuate our grown-up conversation
as the slide-show begins.

Now you’re the bright eyed infant!

Mom was so young and pretty
Holding you close
in her strong, gleaming arms,

as the cousins, delighted, cry
“Look! Grandma’s a baby!”

In wonder we watch
the years of youth and school
love and weddings
and bright new babies,

pause on the haunting eyes
of those gentle people
whom we’ve loved
then lost
to the good night.

As your party continues,
I see in the eyes
of four generations,
a century’s worth
of smiling for the camera
a cloud of love
transcending both years and death.

So don’t worry about your age, dear sister.
clearly
we never really grow old.

(5/11/2014)

Contact

I search the narrow rooms of memory
through steep, childhood hallways
under high ceilings, past dim, flowered lamps,
when, trembling, I hear echoes calling me
in deep tones of summer thunder
to our willow tree out back
just as the blinding lightning
contacts
and shatters the still-living wood.

Afraid,

but compelled by my father’s gentle voice,
I retreat
to another room
in my mind.

In the kitchen, at the top of the long, painted staircase,
I hear small, shrill squeaks and low, electric hums
coming from your ham radio set,
and walking down, I see you,
hunched in the red glow
of your magic box, calling softly
into your silver microphone,
“W8PNW calling CQ, calling CQ, calling CQ”

O lonely angler, you cast gossamer lines into the eternal, black sea
looking for a catch, any response, any acknowledgement,
but I’m with you! Standing by your shoulders,
I hear the distant human voice respond
“K8QJZ to W8PNW, receiving you loud and clear!”

I feel your joy of connection
as, quickly you fill out your special postcard,
(American Bald Eagles triumphantly unfurling your call letters)
to mail to your Newfoundland friend.

This, too, is contact.

Another soul found, identified, and filed
in your list of ham-buddies, and I grin with you
as you sign off
and resume your patient search.

(7/14/2010)

Cry Aloud

\

Photo Steven Federle: Conflagration at Clear Lake, 2018

A voice said, "Cry aloud!"

and I said, “But what shall I cry?”

Shall I sing to the people 

a song of spring,

hills aflame with green,

dry grass igniting 

with joy?

In darker days, 

when the high meadow fell fallow

and flowers of the valley 

dried to dust, 

I thought you'd turned

away, took your giving hands

to other lands.

Despairing, I wept, 

stung by tears

from angry Hell, 

and doubted 

your love. 

Oh, forgive me, pity your child

and make your enduring rain fall

on the riotous grass, 

on the bold crocus

and passionate 

rose.

Photo Brian Federle: On the Pacifica Path, 2014