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.

Modern Parable

The evil one

believes that he alone

lives in paradise.

He sees his gold and marble halls

fat tables groaning under

feasts unshared,

worships the idol

in the mirror

and he smiles;

whereas the saint 

labors in hot vineyards, 

wipes brows burned by 

the risen sun, 

creases the fertile earth

and with wrinkled hands

fills the bowls

of the poor,

and God smiles.

(2014 March 23)

 

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)

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. 

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)

Disasters of War

Iron soldiers,

astride their power,

grip swords

stand poised

wait for the order

to stain red

the innocent earth

as women,

naked bellies swollen,

watch flashing steel

steal away their children,

those

who play

at their bare feet

and those

who yet swim

in warmer pools.

Hamza al-Khatib (We must not forget why there's war in Syria)

Hamza al-Khatib,

smiled sweetly.

Was he thinking of school

and soccer, or friends

waiting to play

when they caught him,

roughly hauled him into their white van

took him to their station, and demanded

confession

from his glistening tears,

from his tender face flushed

with confusion and fear?

They would make of him

an example

of what happens to those

who pursue happiness

in Assad’s Syria.

But you, weeping parents,

you-tube us your tortured child’s

distorted face, gaping chest

torn arms,  dishonored genitals.

Show us how

Assad destroys your future.

O parents of Syria, rise up

and send Assad 

to cower before heaven’s gate

as Allah

gently cradles

your slaughtered

children.

(7 June 2011)

  

(Image from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_of_Hamza_Ali_Al-Khateeb)

The Homecoming

When you were in Vietnam

we got your letters, two or three at once

and then the whole house buzzed like a nest

of honey drunk bees as we poured over

your every word.

We kids imagined you, strong, tough,

blazing with righteous American fury

cutting down those dirty commies,

but Mom and Dad

read each letter more slowly

glancing at each other

with darker looks.

Then one day we got the recording you made,

tiny plastic reels, shiny brown tape wound

in fragile loops; your voice!

just like you were in the room, speaking

re-assuring, everyday chat about R&R

and shopping in Bangkok. Finally,

the tape nearly spent, you said that

you were coming home soon.

And one bright July morning

you came home! Your hat was rakishly tilted,

a Lucky cigarette carelessly drooping

from the corner of your grinning mouth,

all paratrooper swagger, gold braid running

through your buttoned shoulder loops,

colored ribbons and medals all over your chest.

As you walked through the door

I stood aside, awestruck, shy.

You sat like a visitor in your own home

and we opened the packages you brought for us,

Christmas in July, as one by one we held

our Asian wonders, and watched

as Mom held your hand and

Dad searched your eyes.

But you were tired, so upstairs in my room

you took a midday nap, and when Mom told me

to wake you up for supper, I nudged your shoulder

and you bolted,

breathless,

down the steps,

into the quiet street

and stood at tense attention,

(the neighbors all gawking),

as you waved your M-16

made of air

and memory,

and waited

for the morters

to fall

and kill us all.

Then the light returned to your eyes.

Slowly you walked back to the house

and gently took me by my shoulders

and told me to never,

never

touch you when you were asleep,

and I never asked you why.

(11/11/2010)

Assad Visits Homs

Those who love their own noise are impatient of everything else. ... Our noise, our business, our purposes, and all our fatuous statements about our purposes, our business, and our noise: these are the illusion.

Thomas Merton.

He came to visit today
with cameras firmly fixed
on his perfect
hair. 

He came with his selected throng

to acknowledge their 

devotion

as he surveyed his

demolition.

Those old buildings were such a blight,

rabid rats, full of the noise

of rebellious children,

but now, city leveled, he can see

how beautiful it all will be.

Bright new buildings soon will rise,

and scrape death from the acrid sky; 

and everything will be 

first rate!

....but just out of al Jazeera’s frame

black smoke pours over

Baba Amr;

incinerated hopes;

dark stain.

(27 Nov 2012)

Headline NY Times, 17 Sept. 2016: 

                                    His Grip Secure, Assad Smiles While Syria Burns

Lament for the Children of Syria

I do not seek you

where the children peer

into the burning night;

fire, false dawn

consumes their eyes,

rages through thin skin.

I do not know

where you go when

the gas softly flows

through the shelter;

have you left us here

in this veil of tears, fear-

full and alone?

Oh, where may I seek you

but in this green shade

of whitened bone?

(1 Oct 2013)

Cain

The delicate action of grace in the soul is profoundly disturbed by all human violence. Passion, when it is inordinate, does violence to the spirit and its most dangerous violence is that in which we seem to find peace. Violence is not completely fatal until it ceases to disturb us.    Thomas Merton. Thoughts in Solitude.

Like a delicate wind

your grace shaped my infant soul

filled my emptiness

with angelic form

and I was beautiful

and good

until, jealous for your love, 

I slew my brother.

Now I fear the abyss

that opens beneath me

the grave 

of my sin-withered soul.

To you I pray

forgive me! bring me back

from the numbing peace

of careless, empty 

days.

(1 February 2013)

Do You Want To Know God?

Do you want to know God? Then learn to understand the weaknesses and imperfections of other men. But how can you understand the weaknesses of others unless you understand your own? And how can you see the meaning of your own limitations until you have received mercy from God, by which you know yourself and Him?       Thomas Merton. No Man Is An Island.

(Fifth Sunday in Lent)

How can I forgive
the man who
consumes childhood
like cheap wine

who hides behind priestly collars,
wears his holiness like a
circus costume,
to fill young lives
with piercing guilt?

Is there a man
to whom you will not
bend your brow?
who,  face-to-face at last
sheds tears of sorrow,
shocked to learn that
in the end,
indeed
you are?

and if you forgive
the man who pulled
levers in Auschwitz,
to release the gas
that made holy martyrs
by the millions,

if you give a second, third
chance to the arrogant man
who slayed the children
of Norway
because he feared Islam,

If you permit even the presence
of the greatest of haters
Der Feurhrer, Der Ubermensch,
drawn, at last, like a moth, to your
golden glow,

where is justice?

How can I forgive?

My cheeks bloodied
shall I strive to be
what I cannot be?

But if my vengeance
becomes my god,
then how could you ever
forgive me?

(23 April 2012)

The Only One

"The only One Who can teach me to find God is God, Himself, Alone."

Thomas Merton, Seeds of Contemplation.

The only one

who can fill black night

with interior light,

who can lead me

past the gun-shots, 

thump and thud,

hate filled percussion,

of hidden mines,

the death of 

children

is God,

Himself,

Alone.

(26 Jan 2013)

We Must Believe

We must all believe in love and in peace.
We must believe in the power of love.  Thomas Merton

Peace fills this house
as I alone awake and hear
the sounds of easy breathing,
the morning birds, striving
with rising dawn, singing
in the sun with piercing song,

while in the great distance
beyond the gentle flame of sunrise
anger rages.

The birds of Homs are silent.

Waning day swells
with the wails of
mothers.

They cradle the innocents,
caught in the fire
of a Assad’s withering greed.

Thy will be done.

Though I cannot understand
I must believe
in your powerful love,
your infinite
Peace!

(25 July 2012)

Air Show

Cloudless thunder                                                  

splits the sky

as white planes rise

on red fire.

Vertically

to apogee,

they rocket

then fall

screaming

back to ground-

zero

to soar again in glory

as the cheering crowd

shrieks for more!

From my backyard,

I see small birds reel,

made awkward  with fear

when the fighter steeply banks

just past my line

of defiant trees. 

The afterburner’s thrust

can both exhilarate

and annihilate.

Proud simians,

faster than eagles

dropping like

thunderbolts,

we are perfect

raptors -

we are masters

of gravity.

(3 May 2014)

Breech-mender

I cried out for help

and in the silence  

I heard a voice,

like my voice

but from deep in a dream, 

ringed in song and sleep.

I heard Him declare, 

"yes,  I am here."

and so I cried, 

"Lord, I am deprived,

have become

the afflicted one

you once saved!"

but He replied, 

"Be quiet. For 

In the silence

of your soul 

I'll make

a cool river flow.

Water-gardens will spring forth

as I lift you, fortify you

until with your strong arms

I'll raise the shattered walls,

mend the breaches

that separate men, 

and restore to life 

the peaceful lanes

for the innocent 

children of Homs 

to play.

ref: Isaiah 58:9-12

(15 Feb 2013)

War Rages

“All men seek peace first of all with themselves. That is necessary, because we do not naturally find rest even in our own being. We have to learn to commune with ourselves before we can communicate with other men and with God.”  Thomas Merton


War rages
in secret places,

cold war,
shivering bones
firing stones into
the hidden nests
of the
enemy

until war ends
in collapse
or
annilhilation;

but simply speak
and soon words
like sweet rain
will ease your
desert pain;

reach out,
hand to trembling
hand
and find
new strength:

friendship
and sacred
peace.

The English Teacher

When I told them how Jim Crow
made prisons of
bathrooms, restaurants,
candy stores, schools

and how the school bus forced
colored kids into a ditch,
(too black to ride)
and justice finally failed
even Sunday school girls,

they looked askance,
narrowing their eyes
and asked how people
could be so unfair,

so I showed them.

Six million gone
with the careless wave
of the Kommandant’s baton,
and Anne, discovered and reduced
to words on a page.

Their eyes grew suddenly old and grave.

Now
asking them to write April poems,
I say,
look at the cold spring day…
wind blowing
through restless trees,
rain filling the land to
make it green,

but instead they sing dirges,
of children who murder,
and children who die.

So why should I be surprised ?
They did not make this world
and I cannot lie.

Author notes

(after reading Billy Collins’s poem, “The History Teacher”)