Pure Hope

Ukraine mourns its dead; scores of empty strollers were lined up in the cobbled central square of the city of Lviv on Friday to commemorate the children killed in the country since Russia's invasion.

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“We are not perfectly free until we live in pure hope. For when our hope is pure, it no longer trusts exclusively in human and visible means, nor rests in any visible ends. “ Thomas Merton

Close the gun’s edge

life is sharply

defined.

Clarity is achieved

when you have nothing left

but hope.

That’s when you realize

that your life stands

without any visible

means of

support;

like a high-

wire walker,

you are

pure.

That’s why

you have the freedom

to stand between

the red rage

and the children.

Evening Meditation

Our apple tree is exuberant tonight,

its white blossoms flare within emerald shades

of our big cottonwoods,

and the flashing red finch descends

busy among the bursting white flames,

when suddenly, by a small boy enraptured,

it poses as the guardian halcyon.

Love in April is like this,

measured in flashes

of red wings in trees

and scored in lines of

molten sunlight, pouring

through our knotty fence

into the silky darkness

of our star-drenched night

(4/5/2010)

Memorial

Summer

He worked nights, leaving as we climbed
the tall narrow staircase to our shared room,
up into the summer heat, the steel fan
in the hallway window
pulling cool, leafy breezes
from our waving trees.

We heard the kitchen screen-door
slap shut, the Pontiac roaring to life,
and watched as slowly he backed down
the dark driveway, and was gone.

And gladly we glided through our misty dreams,
flying over tree-tops, baseball games
and cool swimming pools,

when finally the robin’s enthusiasm
and the fresh morning sun
flashing through green leaves
woke us as we heard the car stop
and Dad call cheerfully, “I’m home!”

The air already scented with bacon and coffee,
we flew down the groaning stairs,
two steps at a bound,
and eagerly started another golden
summer’s day.


Winter

One winter day I did something wrong, and
he got angry and drew his worn leather belt
from the loops of his grey, stained work trousers
To teach me a lesson.

Terrified, I ran upstairs to the big closet
and trembled behind coats and sweaters,
as heavily he came up the steps,
righteous anger ringing in his voice,
tears flowing down my cheeks;

when my big brother, teenage and strong,
called defiance to him and drew him down
into the back yard to fight him
and save me, angered by his
memory of so many other beatings,
determined to stop it now!


But facing his own father
he could not fight back, and
weeping, I watched my dad
pummel my brother’s defenseless face,
far worse than any beating
I would have gotten.

From kitchen window,
I screamed to them both
to stop!

That was when my father saw,
in the kitchen window’s glare
his own father’s angry eyes,
and felt his father’s fists
landing hard on his own face,
and he stopped and
embraced my brother.

Spring

Seven years after my father died
my first child, my son, was born in spring,
and in the gleaming, sterile room
I first held him in my arms
as, with his impossibly wide, blue eyes
he calmly gazed right into my raw soul,
and I felt in a sudden rush of warmth,
a timeless love
and at last discovered
the reason for my life.

It was then
I understood my father.

In my son’s face I saw my own
and felt my father’s eyes gazing
in warm wonder on me
as I glowed with
unconditional love for my son.


(30 Jan 2011/ 2017)

Photo: Steven Federle holding Brian Federle, March 1986

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)

Kentucky

Image: Fancy Farm, Kentucky

Summer steam

washes us clean

like a warm bath

as we wade through young fields, 

new corn waist high 

to where blue sky 

meets the rustling green sea.

We navigate by dead-

reckoning to the red barn. 

Wary of snakes, 

with flailing stick you flush 

out the tall, quick hares.

Feathers flashing, quail

burst heavenward at 

our clumsy approach, 

but in the dark barn 

we find 

forgiveness.

God's own light streams down 

into fragrant stalls

as wise eyes

regard us.

We reach out to touch.

They nod, 

first in warning,

then with bright approval.

(6 Feb 2012)

At the Death of a Young Girl

"We cannot find Him unless we know we need Him."  Thomas Merton

I see its raw fury clawing at her hands,
Kissing her sallow face with lies so perfect on silk pillows,
Concealing raw, gaping wounds inside, the insult
The harsh silence, the enforced peace.
I have seen all this before, this beast, this darkness, this indifference
To waves of anguish washing through the room
As her mother weeps, and her father strokes
Her dark, perfect hair.
I see her, and
I know.

But what am I to say to their terror? These children
Look at me, questioning … after all,
I am their teacher…
But why did she die?, well, asthma… breath denied… but why?

I know this insistent knot, this question piercing my gut,
And I want to hide in silence, but questions will not be denied,
And I know their questions, all of them…
So what am I to say to calm their red, flowing eyes,
These, my poor, dark flowers, piercing me with their tears?

Faith.
Yes, read the book to them…Lazarus found out… faith…
Promises were made, now to be made good.
Yes, faith… what else is there but
Faith?
And so we say the rosary,
And we go on.

(12/15/2012)

Thanksgiving

Full from the feast

table laded

with fragrant dressing,

steam of onion and celery,

tender turkey and

five kinds of pies

The family gathered.

My parents smiled

at our busy banter

brothers

and sisters nudging and

teasing,  beaming

in the glow

of that happy day

so long ago.

Now you and I gather

our sons around us;

again we pause, pray

and eat the bounty

of this bright Thanksgiving Day.

They say that some things,

kind hearts,

hearty laughs,

enduring love

are so good

they persist long down  

the thankful

generations.

-----------
(for Brian we are so thankful)

Alone

“There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief.”— Aeschylus 

Alone

on this 4th of July morning

the sounds of sleep,

peace surrounds me.

Birds call, content

in the gentle, warm wind

of this summer day

dedicated to remembrance.

I can see you now

when I close my eyes.

I took you to the parade!

You were just two then,

clasping my hand

as the big firetrucks rolled by!

Amazed, smiling, happy.

Perhaps later today

I’ll find some flowers

red, and white, and blue

to cover your marker

to make you smile

and take my hand.

Lovesong

I will be there always
even though you don't know me.

My life will shine in your eyes,
O child of my child.

With your small, quick breaths
I will breathe again,
and when you cry
my faithful heart will again break.

So look for me in the still, high trees;
the green brilliance of the winking sun
will be our secret signal.

You don't know me, but
your soul, your golden love,
your fears and hopes
I will keep safe in my heart,

and in the soft wind will I sing to you
O beautiful child.
I will guard you
as you play.
 
Look up at dancing spring clouds
and shout your joy skyward
to me!

(8 December 2010)

In the Cold

In the cold

there's no room

for old fears; tears

that freeze on your

cheeks are

useless.

Lying under narrow eves

on porch or sidewalk grate

waiting for sleep 

or death

to ease your pain, 

you cannot remember

how you got this way;

for thought, like water, 

congeals to solid rock,

and you can't 

even pray.

(12 Dec 2012)

*******

Author's Note: Estimates of the numbers of homeless in the US today range from 200,000 to 500,000, many of whom are unsheltered children.  This is a national disgrace.  Update 3/2017: President Trump's new budget inhumanely slashes poverty programs while increasing military spending.  He thinks this will make us more safe.


**********


В холодное


В холодное
здесь нет места
за старые страхи, слезы
что мораторий на ваш
щеки
бесполезно.

Лежа под узким кануны
на крыльце или тротуаре решетку
ожидания для сна
или смерть
чтобы облегчить вашу боль,

Вы не можете вспомнить
как вы получили таким образом;

для размышлений, как вода,
застывает в твердые породы,
и вы не можете
даже молиться.

***

Автор отмечает,
Оценки числа бездомных в диапазоне сегодня США от200000 до 500000, многие из которых являютсянезащищенных детей. Это национальный позор.

Binary

A young child falls

and, laughing, rises to

his mother’s arms.

Rivers of youth

cut canyons

from ancient

bones.

(16 Nov. 2011; Rev 2/15/2017)

On Viewing Inferno of the Innocents

Poised on the edge of the bed

she sits in sharp light,

pointed feet barely touching

the dim floor.

Through fear-filled, furrowed brow

she stares at the encroaching shadow.

I want to protect her, reach into the canvas

and take her home,

adopt her

make her my grand-daughter

hold her safe and warm

make her whole

watch her dance

fearless

in the golden morning.

As I despair

another little girl approaches the painting,

and broadly smiles in recognition,

nodding to this new-found playmate.

She knows how morning light

always pushes back

the black night.

(24 April 2013)

Author notes

to see the powerful, heartbreaking works of Gottfried Helnwein, visit his website athttp://www.helnwein.com/

Hamza al-Khatib (We must not forget why there's war in Syria)

Hamza al-Khatib,

smiled sweetly.

Was he thinking of school

and soccer, or friends

waiting to play

when they caught him,

roughly hauled him into their white van

took him to their station, and demanded

confession

from his glistening tears,

from his tender face flushed

with confusion and fear?

They would make of him

an example

of what happens to those

who pursue happiness

in Assad’s Syria.

But you, weeping parents,

you-tube us your tortured child’s

distorted face, gaping chest

torn arms,  dishonored genitals.

Show us how

Assad destroys your future.

O parents of Syria, rise up

and send Assad 

to cower before heaven’s gate

as Allah

gently cradles

your slaughtered

children.

(7 June 2011)

  

(Image from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_of_Hamza_Ali_Al-Khateeb)

The Poetry Lesson

I’ll turn off the classroom lights

and open the windows wide

so you can see.

Look deeply

as the sun shatters

our rainy world

into rainbows.

Feel how cold wind,

flooding through open doors,

drops to the darkened floor

your poems,

like seeds

piercing fertile soil -

can you hear it?

the steady whisper

of God?

(26 March 2011)

Transition

The generals line-up, war-plans

in withered hands, ready to strike

the children.

But do not fear this transition!

For above the black clouds, know that He lingers,

Ready to strike!

Then will the blind see and the deaf hear.

Then will we leap for joy

As the mute break forth

In song!

Isaiah 35: 1-6A - 10.

(10 Dec 2016)

Lament for the Children of Syria

I do not seek you

where the children peer

into the burning night;

fire, false dawn

consumes their eyes,

rages through thin skin.

I do not know

where you go when

the gas softly flows

through the shelter;

have you left us here

in this veil of tears, fear-

full and alone?

Oh, where may I seek you

but in this green shade

of whitened bone?

(1 Oct 2013)