The Baptism

I walked down from Nazareth with the crowd, 

nudged on by their excited chatter

and rumors of a crazy man by the river

shouting God at sinners,

thrusting them into the Jordan

like so much dirty laundry

to be rinsed clean and pure.

These are my people, 

hungry people

seeking new wine and

new bread, lepers

yearning to be cured,

But deep within me

silence grows,

and somehow I know 

that I am closer to Home,

though so far away 

from my father's workshop

and my mother's kitchen.

When John sees me

he takes my hands and gently 

pushes my face into the stream

befouled with the sins 

of the people...

I cannot see.

I struggle 

to rise and breathe,

from this watery death 

I want to be free,

and as I break through

I see His fire, I hear

His voice like a flash of wings

falling down on me,

calling me His Beloved Son,

telling the stunned crowd

to listen to everything

I will say.

In silence, 

I hurry away; 

into the empty desert 

I stray.

(7 Jan 2012)

Wildfire Close to Home

“The whole idea of compassion is based on a keen awareness of the interdependence of all these living beings, which are all part of one another, and all involved in one another. “ Thomas Merton

Night streaks the afternoon sky.

Smoke pours through trees
riots through suburban streets,
flames snarl, snap in the meadow,
the red beast
just beyond the fence.

I feel its glare
as wild heat brushes my brow.

Crossing arms, I walk
quickly, first to the corner,
then to the threatened house,
where my young neighbor
clutches her baby
and wonders
when will it be time to flee,
leave home,
abandon furniture, new carpets, tv
dreams of
safety.

We watch and wait
for the calm firemen
to arrest this marauder,
cool its rage,
restore to ordered life
this blue July day.

2012 - 2017

The Homecoming

When you were in Vietnam

we got your letters, two or three at once

and then the whole house buzzed like a nest

of honey drunk bees as we poured over

your every word.

We kids imagined you, strong, tough,

blazing with righteous American fury

cutting down those dirty commies,

but Mom and Dad

read each letter more slowly

glancing at each other

with darker looks.

Then one day we got the recording you made,

tiny plastic reels, shiny brown tape wound

in fragile loops; your voice!

just like you were in the room, speaking

re-assuring, everyday chat about R&R

and shopping in Bangkok. Finally,

the tape nearly spent, you said that

you were coming home soon.

And one bright July morning

you came home! Your hat was rakishly tilted,

a Lucky cigarette carelessly drooping

from the corner of your grinning mouth,

all paratrooper swagger, gold braid running

through your buttoned shoulder loops,

colored ribbons and medals all over your chest.

As you walked through the door

I stood aside, awestruck, shy.

You sat like a visitor in your own home

and we opened the packages you brought for us,

Christmas in July, as one by one we held

our Asian wonders, and watched

as Mom held your hand and

Dad searched your eyes.

But you were tired, so upstairs in my room

you took a midday nap, and when Mom told me

to wake you up for supper, I nudged your shoulder

and you bolted,

breathless,

down the steps,

into the quiet street

and stood at tense attention,

(the neighbors all gawking),

as you waved your M-16

made of air

and memory,

and waited

for the morters

to fall

and kill us all.

Then the light returned to your eyes.

Slowly you walked back to the house

and gently took me by my shoulders

and told me to never,

never

touch you when you were asleep,

and I never asked you why.

(11/11/2010)

Old Simeon's Blessing

Blessings

on this radiant child.

I'll smear his head 

with bitter oils, cool 

his brow with the waters

of paradise, 

and with sweet incense

raise to heaven

his soul!

...but I fear for the life

my failing eyes foresee

how the rich of this land

will fear him, strike him down,

covet even the air

he breathes,

and you, daughter,

the soldiers will pierce 

your tender breast

with heavy swords

tear an open wound

deep in your heart, 

to be a sanctuary

for all the mothers

of all the children

yet to be slain.

Most blessed

are you, my child, most holy

is your name.

        

 *

ref: Lk 2:34-35

(7 Jan. 2013)

The Vine

The ugly stump, desolate, dead
and too deep to pull, waited for my saw,
but I, lazy and pre-occupied, lingered
as winter inundated
the mud and rock desert
outside our kitchen window.

Then spring came, and all excuses spent,
I slogged out, grim executioner,
ready to cut and pull,
when I beheld green, craggy fingers praying
for just one more chance;
so putting the saw back into our messy garage,
we began the project,

raking, hoeing, cutting, digging
(hard work for a lazy man)
and soon sod to lay
and bricks to haul for a patio,

when, bushwhacked, we spied
the truant stump
proclaiming itself a grape vine,
stringy runners running rampant
through the little garden we built around it,
hooked fingers grabbing for anything
to pull nascent leaves up,


up to the warming April sun,


out of the dark winter earth,

and alarmed we cut it back, fearful vintners,
afraid for threatened geraniums
and knock-out roses,

but a treaty agreed upon, the vine settled
for one corner and left the rest
to more delicate flora.

Life will not be denied
in our backyard.

(4/10/2009)