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)

How Beautiful (from Isaiah 52:7)

"The inspirations of the Holy Ghost are quiet, for God speaks in the silent depths of the spirit. "Thomas Merton

How beautiful 

on the mountain

are the feet of him 

who treads

bright paths of

freedom!

From winter's

gray day he

sings into being

new life

peace

and eternal 

light!

Angeles

Just before nightfall

your new leaves

softly sway

in the cool delta breeze,

your limbs glint

in flames of

a deeper shade

where rough trunk rises

from clambering vinca,

to violet fire.

Oh! Dance with the angels!

Dance with Lord

of the Trees!

His breath will stir you to passion.

His song will lull you

to sacred sleep. 

(22 April 2012)

Immanence

I know you stroll 
beyond Andromeda
gazing on Magellanic Clouds,
but I cannot see that far. 

I am stardust 
to Earth-fallen.

Yet I seek you in the autumn rain,
hear you singing in the evening wind.

Your breath fills my empty lungs,
your smile lights my darkened eyes,
and my heart overflows 
with your sacred blood —

love spilling,
Earth-fulfilling.

(11 June 2011 - 2/19/2019)

Gloria

Photo, Brian Federle: Pacifica Sunset

Sudden light

flares in the eastern sky.

Bright clouds burst

and consume the void

with glory.

The newborn child,

wrinkled and pink, warms

in his mother’s embrace

and waits for the stunned world

to exhale.

(23 December 2012)

The Obscure Sense of the Presence of God

Walking down a street, sweeping a floor, washing dishes, hoeing beans, reading a book, taking a stroll in the woods-all can be enriched with contemplation and with the obscure sense of the presence of God.    Thomas Merton. The Inner Experience: Notes on Contemplation.


I see how the evening sun lights
the high grass, trees shift in the gentle wind
and small brown birds flit between
outdoor tables as young women
reach for coffee cups
drop sweet crumbs to the rough sidewalk,
to the birds.  Intent on home-work,
office-work, they never look up
to see how the sky
deepens to darker hue;
how day will fade soon
and vermilion night set fire
to the seaward hills.

The west wind will finally drive them in,
and the grateful birds will all fly away.

I see how Your love lurks even in the weeds
that grow on the edge of the most
tended garden; hides in the cries of
the grieving mourning dove;
falls like rain in the tender,
moonless night.

(30 July 2013)

Flow

It flows

over highways
dripping down
lamp-posts
through gutters,
pounding
storm drains,
filling
narrow lanes,
past dark houses,
past high-tension
wires, driving
through
constraining fence,
unfettered
it fills
the green hills
and rolls
through folding slough, past
low bridge and causeway,
ever lower
down to Suisun Bay,
unstoppable
like a swimmer’s blood
pulsing through throbbing vein,
reaching for Gate of Gold
to break free,
to become
one with
One.

(19 April 2011)

In Arching Waters

In arching waters

the black bird dances

with graceless step,

head jerks, probing soft soil,

penetrating wet grass

when rearing back primitive eyes

it raises ivory beak

and offers a shining prize,

living, writhing.

captive

to mother-sky.

(4/28/12)

Winter Tree

Photo Brian Federle: Desert Tree, Palm Springs, 2016

The winter tree 

does not move.

Its wide trunk 

plunges into graven earth, 

unseen roots, grasping hands

feel deeply the living soil,

hold firm anchorage

against the coming storm,

but rising wood, thin

though strong enough 

to paint slender lines, 

trails into purer air, 

gives shelter

to Christmas birds.

They hunch on stems, quietly

waiting to sing open 

the dawn.

(12/23/2011)

America

Deep thunder shakes this warm July evening
and lightning flashes over the waterfront
filling the clear, starry sky with acrid clouds and glimmering rain
falling to the water as children gaze
in shock and awe,
waiting for the next big one to explode.

False bombardment as celebration:

such fits my nation, founded in genocide and slavery,
this nation baptized in the blood and tears
of Navaho and Cherokee and all the tribes of the American holocaust
a nation that devoured one quarter of its sons
in four short, blood-soaked years; my nation,
a nation of efficient bigots and hungry hypocrites,
giving the world Gettysburg and the Trail of Tears
as models for problem-solving;
a nation unlike any other, not able to live up to its promises
because no other nation dares make such promises.

The bright violence of rockets' red glare lights our sky
like the bold Declaration ignited the world, and thunder
rocked mighty kings from complacent belief in their divine rights,
rocked the people of Europe, thirsting for their own rights
and land and a chance to pursue a little happiness;
yes, rocked even distant Asia, deep in its ancient dream
foolish men joyfully following the distant thunder
to seek the fabled Golden Mountain.

The promise was made and broken and made yet again,
and the anger of betrayal torched the cities of the sixties,
and singed our hearts
and in the redeeming pain of change
made them a little less impure.
Yes, we are imperfect,
but we know our sins
and pay for them over and over again,

and to remind ourselves of the debt yet unsatisfied,
every summer we celebrate in the only way fitting for such a nation;
In the starry sky fiercely glowing with liberty -
in the transcendent thunder
of the Promise.

(4 July 2011)

Rose at Nightfall

“God wants to know the divine goodness in us.” Thomas Merton

Red rose flames

in shade of day’s end.

Night sifts gently

through dark trees;

but the rose!

the rose yet blooms;

defies the fall

of night’s certain pall.

7/31/13

Oblation

Photo N Federle: Egrets in Suisun Marsh, 2019

Bathe me in light, with warm

water wash, submerge

my submissive head,

my face, my hands,

my wayfaring feet.

Oh, cleanse me!

prepare me

to walk

into your perfect

day.

Night Falls

 

Photo: Brian Federle, "Open Gate" Pacifica 2012

    Night falls

slowly in spring
through trees newly flush
with unfurling leaves.

     Birds rush

through swaying limbs
to newly-built nests,
to lives yet to live

as day fades
to shimmering silk
as stars gleam with
     
       celestial milk.
                                                                                                                                                                                               

Peter's Report

The Disciples Peter and John Running to the Sepulcher

 on the Morning of the Resurrection by Eugène Burnand

Running all the way,

bent double in breathless pain

we peered and saw

the gaping grave

open to the rising sun.

Slowly we entered, our eyes sun-blind,

when we saw the empty bench,

the bloody cloth cast within.

I try to imagine

the piercing flash,

the sudden shudder

of His broken body,

His sharp breath exploding

like a swimmer breaking the surface,

when I saw John’s eyes

outshining the sun,

and my own face

lighting even death's

darkest place!

(24 April 2011, 31 March 2018)

Morning (Good Friday)

Therefore let me know trust in the feelings of my heart. My hope is in what the hand of man has never touched. Do not let me trust what I can grasp between my fingers.

 Thomas Merton, Thoughts in Solitude.

Young grass

high and thick

drenched

filled to brim,

by morning sun released

a fury of green, trees

believing that golden day

will stay.

Persist, oh life,

in the cold of winter,

and beat, oh heart!

With tender heat

awhile yet

I breathe!

(6 April 2012)

Cold Winds

Cold winds,

the sharp edge

of winter — hard

and solid and blue —

fires dull fields to green

as slate-grey trees

their secret lives

reveal.

Chemin de Jerusalem

“Openness is not something to be acquired, but a radical gift that has been lost and must be recovered.’ Thomas Merton

I walk slowly seemingly without aim or direction, gaze down to flowering tiles, waver, feel lost, yet see the way leads always to the center

(22 June 2012)

Who I Am

“To say that I am made in the image of God is to say that love is the reason for my existence, for God is love. Love is my true identity. Selflessness is my true self. Love is my true character. Love is my name.”   Thomas Merton. New Seeds of Contemplation

Through bone-wrapped eyes, through murky vitreous,
through matter grey, lightning emotions flying
at the speed of light through my
tunnel vision, I focused on what was
just beyond the
end of my
nose.

I did not create that small voice
singing sweetly in
my ringing
ears;

but just before dawn, fingers numb,
hair disordered by the
western breeze
blinding
me
to Your love,

I heard Your voice!

Now the warmth of morning
cradles me
like
open hands.

Now I know
who I am.

(24 May 2012)

The Window of Being

“Actions are the doors and windows of being. 

Unless we act we have no way of knowing what 

we are. “ Thomas Merton

Walk

through the door

and do

not stay

in this dark room,

silent,

inactive

thin soul of

yesterday’s

rain.

No.

Break open the window,

and breathe deeply

the light

of being.

(25 Oct 2012)

Invitation

Come into my night;
the darkness is so cold
that sparrows flee
my winter trees,

so I have closed
my windows and my doors
to horde my little warmth.

Crickets will not sing delight
and stars no longer glimmer
in winter’s dreary night.

O come,
O come, Emmanuel!

I am captive and dull.
I cannot see the flashing stars
that lurk beyond the cloud.

O come into my small house
my meager fire share.

O come, and bring fierce angels
to cut away death’s empty snare!

(30 Jan 2011)