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)

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

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.

Miracle

“Come, dervishes: here is the water of life. Dance in it.”
Thomas Merton

The night looked bad.

Waves towered,

clouds racing

across the glaring moon,

the sea pounding out

all hope for their little boat,

when a ghost approached,

softly glowing,

impossibly walking across the

wet way.

Terror gripped them.

They saw grim Satan

striding across the waves

to take them down

to his watery hell,

But Peter,

truth clearing his fearful eyes,

saw His face, felt His peace

and, radiant with surging faith,

joyfully stepped over the side

to join his beloved Lord.

His feet touched the soft water.

It was like walking

through shallow puddles.

Lifting his legs

he moved slowly forward,

when looking down,

dark doubt

sucked him under

legs first,

then waist deep.

He cried, "Lord, save me!"

and thrusting his hands

to heaven,

he felt the strong grip raising him back

to life.

(28 Sept. 2012)

The Sadness of Holy Saturday

Through the moonless night

clouds choke receding light

and the world descends

into darkness.

Where are you

as winter's chill pierces my hands? 

Oh, where have you gone? 

Do you not care that I decay

without your gentle breath,

that without your light 

I wane like the failing sun?

Why have you abandoned me?

Through my tears I see 

two millennia of agony, 

the six million slain,

all the fallen generations

newly free, heavy nails 

at last released. 

In the Territory of the Gerasenes

Image: Solomon Raj

From deep inside

I heard them,

howling hatred

lashing me with my own hands

gashing the rocky tombs

with my own bloody feet.

Late at night

they cursed and fought

deep inside

my aching skull.

I was their prisoner,

and they were many…

But then I saw Him by the lake

and my soul leapt

even as Legion arose

as with my ragged voice they raged,

“what will you do to us?” 

but my soul cried louder,

“Save me!” 

Hearing us both,

He drove the dark spirits

from my unclean breast

and into the beasts….poor swine.

Madness cast them

into death’s deep pit….

but I could hear only

silence.

Peace

filled me.

My hand moved

only when I commanded,

and what my eyes saw

I clearly viewed.

The people of the village

fearing a man who could

compel demons,

begged Him to leave.

Blind fools!

If only they could see Him

as I do.

As he was going, I begged to go too

and stay forever in the light

of his face.

But this grace

was not

for me alone…

He told me to go

and proclaim without fear

how His love saved me

from my soul’s dark night,

and led me here,

into paradise.

(18 Feb 2013)

The Other Brother

It was a hot day in the field

when, returning at last

bone-tired, sore from

tending your stiff-necked flock,

I saw bonfires,

extravagant blazes lighting

the way to our house,

but not for me

home late from

work,

so I asked your servant

“why such celebration?”

That’s when my anger exploded;

…poor fellow, he bore my rage

and yelping away

cried it wasn’t his fault!

No, it wasn’t.

It isn’t.

It’s You.

You ask me to obey

and obediently I honor you every day.

With sweat and callused hands,

I cajole this stingy land

to give up a little wheat.

With my blood

I water these fields;

but when I wanted to show

my friends a little generosity,

I asked you for a stingy goat,

a meager feast, and

you said “no.”

So here he is, come home at last,

profligate brother…prodigal,

wastrel, drunkard,

sinner!

He’s back

and suddenly the prize calf

I worked so hard to make so fat is slain,

a royal feast for your favorite son

(though somewhat late) come home again!

But,

as always

my anger fades

in the glow of your summer love.

I don’t like this!

but you tell me

that your love does not diminish

but increases with the giving…

and, after all,

it is not every day that one’s brother

is to life recalled.

So for you, father,

I’ll look him in the eye

and let him back

into my life.

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)

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)

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)

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)

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

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

+++

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)

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!