Consoling Mary

Freely flow her tears;
a dam so brimful
cannot contain
such towering waves.

Wondering that
my words fail
to give peace,
I reach out
and take her trembling hands.

Tearful,
I brush away
all her
bitter tears.


(13 April 2011)

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)

Quiet Morning, March 24

 

You’re painting in the kitchen

as John Denver sings his misty, old love songs

while by the shed

spring flowers burst into red and purple and white,

as the March sun rises and grief declines

to memory.

So here I write, our dogs

nuzzled close and warm

and contented.

Marshall

I heard the game was tough, and they lost,
despairing in muddy jerseys,
turf jutting from face guards and heavy cleats.

Sweat-stained and sore, they showered,
and the camaraderie of the locker room
broke through the stern silence with boyish laughter.
Weekend plans made, they climbed into the chartered bus
and drove slowly through the misty night
to the airport, to go home, back to West Virginia.

The plane gleamed reassuringly, like technology always does.
The power of the lift, the whine of competent engines
flinging them into the clouds, driving them high beyond the storm
into the clear, star-filled night. But the flight was rough, and
nearing their goal, it happened; a jolting shudder,
surprised looks, and amid the confusion of savage g-forces
suddenly nothing remained but flames
and twisted metal
and silence
on the charred mountain.

This is when I first became acquainted with death.

These were my friends, my old team-mates;
two years before we jogged in the hot August sun
and ranged through snowy October backfields;
like dangerous tigers we hunted quarterbacks,
thinking we were forever young and strong
and invincible.

Jack Rapasy, Bob Harris, and Mark Andrews:

Jack was the joker, but he could catch a bullet
six feet over his head, and leave two defenders
to slam into each other as they met, mid –air,
where he was,
while he ambled smiling to the end-zone.

And Bob could throw that bullet, his baby-face
And million dollar smile belying muscle-thick arms,
rocket launchers, splitting Friday nights with their fire.

But Mark, gentle giant of a linesman, was like my
big brother; he taught me how to shift and pull and trap,
and admired my fierce tackle, my willingness
to sacrifice clarity to stop a power-sweep.

We grew up together, but Mark died far from home.

Their three caskets in our high school gym lay,
while I, staring at glaring metal,
stood silent and amazed
that never would they run,
or throw, or tackle, or smile, or laugh,
or again be.

(6/23/2014)

The Connecticut Effect

devastating velocity,
blood thirsty, fresh death-
dealing NRA
lies fly super-
sonic flesh thud-
ing ragged rounds
slamming into
stunned souls,
dreams
die.

(26 Feb 2013)

The knot grows tight

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

The knot grows tight

when I think of you

gone to that bright,

unseen place.

I long to hear your voice

on the phone,

at dinner,

at home

when darkness fills

me deep inside,

and for no apparent reason

I cry.

A Father's Lament

Photo Brian Federle, Hawaii, 2016

Spring fills this dry land

With life, yet

I cannot see your face

or embrace you with a father’s love

as I did when last you filled our lives

with your easy laughter

and beautiful eyes.

Shall I speak to you, tell  how

small birds gather

in the budding apple tree

hungry no more,

filled with joy?

I cry out to you

and the startled birds

fall into silence,

Let me tell you, then,

Of my new life without you.

Deep in my side I feel endless pain

where my heart once beat;

now I merely breathe

emptiness.

My son, oh, where have you gone?

Call to me from the brilliant heights,

for deep in darkness I lie

crying to see you just

one more

time.

(for Brian Federle, 3/4/86 - 3/25/17)

The Goodness of March

Photo: S. Federle, Little Pink

The goodness of March,

rain, strong winds,

buds swelling —

the everyday

resurrection.

The tree

we planted last year

on the first anniversary

of your passing

is blooming,

its small, pink bursts

quietly exploding

in the green glow

after the storm.  

I smile to see it —

thin, wavering limbs

climbing to the sky, defiant

in the March wind.

Are you smiling too?

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.

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)

Fountain of Fire

“Just as it is impossible for a man to see his face in troubled water, so too the soul, unless it be cleansed of alien thoughts.” Thomas Merton

Closing in
the ancient wind sweeps
still waters, turns clarity
to confusion, joy
to primal fear.

I seek my face
but see only a blush
on the river’s edge,
red betrayal seeping
from deep within,
from a wound unseen.

Cleanse me, O Fountain of Fire, 
still my fears
and again I’ll see
my face
washed clean
by grateful tears!

To My Wife in Mourning

bright day,still birds, black
spots on the blue sky, slightly
sway in trees, and wait

for winter to stay
or summer at last to come
like we’re waiting for

the pain to stop, death
to give way to the winter
sun’s soft, warm embrace.

(for our son, Brian, 3/4/1986 - 3/25/2017)

Mercy

Night sways.

The lilting tree fills

with mercy.

Raging day,

blue-jay’s anger,

dolor of

rose petals

softly falling

to tender

grass

forgiven

as whispers

the fading tree,

“do not

forget me.”

(22 July 2012)

Faith

Photo Brian Federle: Overcast in Oregon, 2008

Faith

is seeing my blood

coursing through

shut eyelids

and feeling

blood pushing down

into my arms and legs,

believing

it will soon return

to my darkly

beating heart.

But faith is more than

seeing

or believing.

Faith shines

like the cloistered sun

concealed by thick

autumn clouds.

Faith knows

all my childish lies,

and gently laughs

at my innocence.

Faith stalks me,

deep into my desert

where, trembling,

I wait for her famished arrow.

I love faith;

in her passionate embrace

I fall into my

darkest night.

I fear faith;

slave to her lacerating truth

reluctantly I walk

into her relentless light.

Bridge at Montezuma Slough

We drive to see

where the twisted road will lead.

Salty river, winding slough,

dark water

rising to frothy cap

slapping concrete pier,

moon driven waves race

back to beckoning bay.

Finally we must decide...

cross the low bridge

or turn back,

but the flood is so close to the deck!

We feel tidal vibration,

basso profondo,

rattling sub-sonic

in our ears

as together

we face our fear,

and slowly cross,

eyes always ahead

til again we feel sure earth

solid beneath our tread.

(2013  - 2018)