Tuesday, December 25, 2018

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)

Monday, December 17, 2018

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)

Saturday, December 15, 2018

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)

Monday, December 10, 2018

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)



Wednesday, December 5, 2018

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)


Saturday, December 1, 2018

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)

Thursday, November 29, 2018

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)

Sunday, November 25, 2018

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)

Tuesday, November 20, 2018

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)

Thursday, November 15, 2018

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)

Sunday, November 11, 2018

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)

Thursday, November 1, 2018

Contact

ham_radio

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)

Saturday, September 29, 2018

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