Simplicity of being

Photo: Brian Federle, Lanterns, 2014.

"....it is of the very essence of Christianity to face suffering and death not because they are good, not because they have meaning, but because the resurrection of Jesus has robbed them of their meaning.” 

Thomas Merton

*********

The moon fades, 

clouds enshroud stars

pale trees glare 

ensnared by winter winds 

blanching at death's edge,  

and yet you whisper 

gently in the rain, 

promise me gifts 

of disease and pain

to strip me clean

and pure again.  

O, make me

your sacrament!

pure essence,

of eternal gain.

(11 Sept. 2011: rev. 5-17-2018)

prayer

Photo Brian Federle: Morning, Washington State, Aug. 2014


deep in my center

lies the
word.

it resonates
softly, it
whispers
in my ear.

its lover,
silence,
embraces
the word
like thick mist
caressing
golden
coastal slopes.

but this crude song is
a metaphor,
an anxious gong,
a poor imitation,
a mockingbird.

patiently,
the word
resists
all explanation.

it just simply
is.

(3 Sept. 2010)

After Christmas

Photo, Brian Federle: Desert Tree, Palm Springs, Dec. 2016.

After Christmas

life persists, though

the bare trees are

dancing with death,

their leaves ripped

from living flesh;

disincarnate,they wait

for the storm.

So how, then, can I endure?

I live that day every day,

clenched fists pounding

my penitent heart, crying

Mea culpa! Mea culpa!

What kind of a father am I,

absent at the hour of your need?

Oh, forgive me, my son!

Surely tomorrow

the rain will come.

(28 Dec. 2018)

Gloria

Photo, Brian Federle: Pacifica Sunset

Sudden light

flares in the eastern sky.

Bright clouds burst

and consume the void

with glory.

The newborn child,

wrinkled and pink, warms

in his mother’s embrace

and waits for the stunned world

to exhale.

(23 December 2012)

Winter Tree

Photo Brian Federle: Desert Tree, Palm Springs, 2016

The winter tree 

does not move.

Its wide trunk 

plunges into graven earth, 

unseen roots, grasping hands

feel deeply the living soil,

hold firm anchorage

against the coming storm,

but rising wood, thin

though strong enough 

to paint slender lines, 

trails into purer air, 

gives shelter

to Christmas birds.

They hunch on stems, quietly

waiting to sing open 

the dawn.

(12/23/2011)

to the center

Photo: Brian Federle, "Night", 2014


the

beat

steady;

constant hum,

music of days to

night fading; the right note, only

song you know; sum of your days, falling, falling to night.

so

go

to the

center, to

the black place to wait

for Him. Don’t call out in fear for

there’s nobody there but you and He, so simply be

and

hear

how His song

fills your darkness with

light; smile at Him, your familiar

bright friend, and no longer will you fear your emptiness.

(23 Dec 2013)

Aubade: Vale of Tears

Photo Brian Federle, Sun in Trees, Russian River. April 2016

Morning fog

caressed

my winter tears

as unseen geese

(noisy gaggle)

crossed the opaque sky.

Things well hidden

confuse

my fragile faith,

so when bright, piercing rays

broke through

this lonely vale of tears

I thought it was only the sun

not the golden light,

desire of my fleeting years.

Night Falls

 

Photo: Brian Federle, "Open Gate" Pacifica 2012

    Night falls

slowly in spring
through trees newly flush
with unfurling leaves.

     Birds rush

through swaying limbs
to newly-built nests,
to lives yet to live

as day fades
to shimmering silk
as stars gleam with
     
       celestial milk.
                                                                                                                                                                                               

The Movement of the Soul

Photo, Brian Federle; In Golden Gate Park, 2013

"All the passions can be reduced to four: joy, hope, fear, and grief. 

These four are so closely connected that, when one is controlled, 

the others all obey.  Consequently they can be reduced to one: joy.  

And desire is the movement of the soul seeking joy."  

Thomas Merton, The Ascent to Truth

Fear

is knowing

how darkness

bears down, how the

storm thrashes

the autumn-bare

trees.

Summer's birds

cannot withstand
the fearful night
so they flee.

Fear

leads to grief

when tumors increase.

Blood grows

thick

until, together

at last, we stand

coffin-side

and wonder

why.

This is the line that splits heaven from hell.

We comb his hair

and shave his face,

carefully fold a rosary

into his cold hands,

and wonder that

his chest is

so still.

But his eyes are safely

sealed against the

terrors of the grave,

so we lay him to rest

and slowly go

our separate ways.

Remember

those cold March days

when we stood, our

backs to the rising sun?

Too bright to see,

we felt the sun stroking us

with a lover's warmth,

rekindling in us

hope's desire.

Thus will it always be.

Death can never win

though the illusion is strong.

The mortal body succumbs

but the soul ascends,

like birds, joyfully rising

to the morning sun.

Rush of Waves

Photo: Brian Federle, Pacific Sunset, 2014

rush of waves, surging

ocean, atmosphere,

west wind filling night

with the sound of earth

careening through canyons

of empty, endless space!

(14 May 2013 - 2 Jan 2019)

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)

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)

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)

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

Lazarus Waiting

Photo Brian Federle: Mendocino Sundial 2016

falling sun, life swarming

in the liquid light

as I gaze west, through trees,

over houses, over slatted-fence,

towards the waiting, unseen sea.

a foraging bird drops to my mown lawn

(taking note of my still form)

and pecks out her meal...and flies away.

My apple-tree bends towards heaven

new leaves unfolding;

surely it will be leaf-full by Easter!

so I’ll wait for the world to turn

yet another slight degree, for the lines

of golden light to lengthen towards me

and then end in gentle night.

Revelation

Photo: Brian Federle, San Francisco Homeless, 2014.

Inside

my secret door

deep in the dark

I face you.

We are

alone.

I have no place

to hide.

I don’t want

shelter

from your steady

eyes.

You see right through

my petty lies--

into the truth of

my shivering

life.

You know me

and yet

you love me!

On the Razor's Edge

Photo: Brian Federle

“Despair is the absolute extreme of self-love.”

― Thomas Merton

Gazing into bright desert space

we see endless highways, distant

mountains we never reach,

sharp hills, steep cliffs

receding

as we move closer,

closer,

to the pacing sun,

creasing dark canyons,

casting amber light

into the gauzy sky —  

yet our dark dreams trouble

the faint stars; the reeling planets

throw wide nets over

our haunted, lost souls

when, morning at last,

we begin again,

pursuing the tumbling edge

of this turning globe

believing that

it will never end, will never

end,

will never

end.