September 11th

“At the center of our being is a point of nothingness which is untouched by sin and by illusion, a point of pure truth, a point or spark which belongs entirely to God, which is never at our disposal, from which God disposes of our lives, which is inaccessible to the fantasies of our own mind or the brutalities of our own will.”  Thomas Merton

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Rushing from shower to sink, I heard the TV
blare its usual chatter of news and advertising
as we made our hurried preparations
for another busy day,
when I saw it:
dark smoke rising into the blue New York sky.

And I stopped, all schedules forgotten, transfixed
by high flames scorching glass and steel.

Calmly, the newsman speculated
about airliners and tragic accidents,
when the passive camera caught it, the black spot
flying straight and sure as a bullet, piercing
the second tower in a shower of orange flame and shattered glass.

This was no accident,then, this morning violence, and I wondered
how many people were already at work when,
pinned by burning jet fuel and melting steel, their busy day
suddenly ceased in searing red pain and numb darkness?

I wanted to go on with my own day,
to hide in the comfort of my routine,
but I could not turn away when I saw jumpers
drop to merciful deaths;

I saw a suited businessman,
pale in white dust, slowly plodding
through a deluge of drifting memos,
clutching his briefcase like a life preserver;

I heard the shrill, muffled
sirens of ambulance and fire-trucks,
lost in the dirty fog of terror.

And I knew in that moment
that we all are New Yorkers,

we all are falling into our dark, quiet center
where, sinless and without fear,
we encounter God, Yahweh, Allah,

The Eternal,  

as our shattered bodies rise
through flames of anger
into the pure, cool, forgiving
September air.

(9/11/2011)

The Abyss of the Soul

“The truest solitude is not something outside you, it is an abyss opening up in the center of your own soul.” Thomas Merton

When night rushes in
and tightly presses
my fading eyes
and even the faithful wind
fails,

with breathless prayer
will I call you.

Your strong hand
will catch me as I fall
beyond my failures
beyond the
brutality
of my will,

down to my truest solitude
to the abyss
of the soul.

(9/9/2013)

Psalm 9-11 (dedicated to Fr. Mychal Judge)

I hear your soft voice

In the hushed evening breeze

as gentle wind fills 

these tall, murmuring trees.  

For you're never too far;

your soft breath I can feel.

My soul stirs with faith

that no anger can steal.  

Through the cold, empty night

you fill my dark soul.

Your brilliant light breaks

death's harsh, ancient hold.  

In the morning I'll hear 

your clear voice proclaim

my life you've restored,
bitter tears wiped away.

(7 March 2014)

and fell the crane

painting, September 2001 by Hung Liu

rising high

godlike I gazed

from where the crane flies

unconcerned, over
the placid waters of

the harbor of

the world,

when, driven to madness

it pierced

my throat.

I burst

and burned

and to earth

fell,

and fell

too

the crane.

Days of Infamy

The day recedes into peaceful night
spreading gentle darkness
over wide California fields,

the flames of history
nearly forgotten
but for the ember glow
In the wrinkled cobalt sky.

But we remember
bloody days

when war-planes roared
into the rising Pacific sun
and ripped it
into sanguine strips.

Bombs pierced polished decks,
and amazed sailors dove
into crimson waters,
as the Rising Sun spread darkness
Over half the globe

seventy-one years ago. . .

. . . yet just say the date
and silence fills any room.

We remember movies we’ve seen
Of dive-bombers and chaos,
heroes rising in fighters to
stave off the improbable wave.

We see old men in service caps,
Tossing wreaths into
bright Hawaiian waters.

They weep
as old wounds
again bleed.

They gaze into the sad eyes
Of buddies who
didn’t make it.

And we think of our own losses,

Korea and Vietnam,
torrents of blood
flowing through fertile
Asian valleys,

and the obscenity of 9-11,
insurgency raping
Iraq and
Afghanistan,

and we ask, “When will it end?”

Nodding slowly,
we know.