Morning

when the sky is still black

and stars glitter

like there's no

tomorrow,

the overblown moon

luxuriant

above seaborne fog...

this is the time

of magic

when birds,

startled by dawn's

first spark,

raise sharp beaks

and sing

the first song of

morning.

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.

Greenland

sheets of ice

cascading to the sea,

plunging in the summer sun

like kids cannon-balling into the deep end.

global warming

spawning new islands and bays,

a lush new age of water,

green-house gases rising

in a great belch

from the man's

energy binge.

But what is the cause?

Hydrocarbons burning in roaring cars?

The unseen dead rising

into the innocent stratosphere?

Jungle trees are burning

as, wild-eyed, the panther

prowls the Amazon village

hungry for her own energy fix.

We could blame it all on Fulton and Watt:

their steam-punk monsters spitting fire,

as trudging workers descend

into the industrial-grade darkness

and the misery of the money hole.

But one bright student

suggested  a more somber cause

from which there is no escape

in cap and trade.

Gaia, walking with large swings,

slings up

volcanos and glaciers and men

while, deep in her brooding, iron core,

she shrugs,

and, most inconveniently,

takes her own sweet time

smiling

as she contemplates

her next move.

(20 Oct 2013)

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!

prayer

Photo Brian Federle: Morning, Washington State, Aug. 2014


deep in my center

lies the
word.

it resonates
softly, it
whispers
in my ear.

its lover,
silence,
embraces
the word
like thick mist
caressing
golden
coastal slopes.

but this crude song is
a metaphor,
an anxious gong,
a poor imitation,
a mockingbird.

patiently,
the word
resists
all explanation.

it just simply
is.

(3 Sept. 2010)

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)

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)

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)

The Russian Army Gathers at the Ukrainian Border

armies in the night, steel

wheels scrape

the sacred earth.

Gogol once rode here, troika

flying over drifts, wind

blistering his open lips

as laughing he drew in

the Russian cold.

So many dead souls,

to be bought and sold . . .

fodder

for Russian tanks.

Suisunes Woman

when waters were clear

and elk foraged, fearless on 

high bluffs, she waited

for her husband

flowing swiftly 

with catch of salmon

he rode the western wind 

as her eyes guided him

while high above 

gathered the feathery 

souls of the old ones,

returned from sea, 

honored guests,

to the evening feast.

The People of the West Wind

Suisunes once lived

beneath the Twin Sisters.

Ascending beyond the vineyards and twisted oaks,

they still drift through morning mist,

and walk the sacred paths

of their fathers.

Guardian oaks still embrace the People.

Meandering branches lean low,

give clambering children

an easy climb

high to where acorns

fall in the western wind

to feed

their hungry

souls.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: 

The Suisunes people, called The People of the West Wind, lived for over 10,000 years in the area where I now live... but they nearly died out within a generation of exposure to European missionaries seeking to save their souls. They would have eluded the attention of the Spanish longer had they not given refuge to escaped mission Indians.  In 1810 several dozen of these gentle people committed  suicide rather than submit to the Spanish.

If you listen carefully in the morning breeze you can still hear their laughter.

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)

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)

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.

North Wind

 North wind 

rushes and blusters

in the bright March sun,

scatters 

winter’s chill,

hints of the heat 

to come.

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)