Winter Garden

Winter garden, rows

leaning low to mud, cold,

promising nothing.

The pale sun, lingers...

Are You still here? I saw You 

in spring, green breezes 

singing in the trees,

lusty crickets shouting grace!

Oh, why did You leave

this place, defiled?

When will You turn Your holy face

again to your unholy child?

(1/15 /13; rev. 1/14/19)

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.

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.

Ordinary Time

Counting 

numbering days and nights

calculating the length

and breadth of

our alloted

breaths

we live

by the numbers.

It starts in a split second

of passion

in the darkness

plunging headlong

to a date certain

when savage lights assault

our tender eyes

and we see

how it will be

in this clock-

work world.

Time orders All.

Class bells 

church bells

the grandfather clock

in the hallway

heavily chimes 

as our lives sway 

in the diurnal dance, 

we wake and sleep

laugh and weep

and it is all very ordinary

until it is not;

then the chain breaks

and heavy weights 

crush our vision's

persistence 

and at last we subside

into inordinate

existence.

(1 March 2012)

Psalm for the 4th Sunday in Advent

In the morning mist

the coastal hills wait, 

waves fixed, sea frozen

to solid rock, 

smooth

as rippled silk.

The mountains wait too,

but, closer to the sun,

they know more, 

and do not despair.

Soon heaven

will beckon them

to proclaim His peace

and plenty

for then will the poor 

have their fill

of justice.


(24 Dec 2011; 5 Jan 2019)

Rush of Waves

Photo: Brian Federle, Pacific Sunset, 2014

rush of waves, surging

ocean, atmosphere,

west wind filling night

with the sound of earth

careening through canyons

of empty, endless space!

(14 May 2013 - 2 Jan 2019)