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.

On the Feast of St. Stephen

The Martyrdom of St. Stephen by Peter Paul Rubens 1616-1617

"The life of the soul is not knowledge, it is love, since love is the act of the supreme faculty, the will, by which man is formally united to the final end of all his striving – by which man becomes one with God." (Thomas Merton, The Seven Storey Mountain)

See how wind tears, how

clouds ravage the sky

to shreds…

Can you hear the geese fleeing,

shouting dread

as the savage storm crouches?

Are you afraid?

I know

how the sea sometimes

launches boulders;

but the stubborn land

bows and waits

and, swollen, forgives

with torrents of life;

rivers of joy.

(2013-2017)

Impasse

I listen for you to speak,
to look me in the eye
and simply tell me what
it is that you want
me to do,

but you’re silent.

You’re waiting for me
to speak, to utter
my love, sing
my song to
you.

We are at an impasse

when cold air fills
my hungry lungs,

and exhaling at last
I hear your song
in my fleeting
breath!


(22 Nov 2012)

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)

Night Train (California Zephyr)

The urgent night train,

rushing quite near

calling me, calling me

come away from there.

Listen! the whispering wheels

rumble on;

not a moment to lose,

but in a moment

long gone.

Despairing,

in the dark night I hear

a distant train calling

in another man’s ear,

and wondering

how opportunity’s lost

I feel in the wind

my fear’s cold cost.

(22 July 2010)

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)

Caïn

L'action délicate de la grâce dans l'âme est profondément perturbé par toute violence humaine . Passion , quand il est excessif , ce est faire violence à l'esprit et sa violence la plus dangereuse est celle dans laquelle nous semblons trouver la paix . La violence ne est pas complètement mort jusqu'à ce qu'il cesse de nous déranger. Thomas Merton . Pensées dans la solitude.


Comme un vent délicate
ta grâce en forme de mon âme infantile
rempli mon vide
avec la forme angélique

et je étais belle
et la bonne

jusqu'à ce que, jaloux de votre amour ,
Je ai tué mon frère .

Maintenant, je crains l'abîme
qui se ouvre sous moi
la tombe
de mon péché - flétrie âme.

Pour vous je prie
pardonnez-moi! me ramener
de la paix engourdissement
de négligence , vide
jour .

(1 Février 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.

Crisis

I look for you in winter’s light

but your face I cannot see.

In spring I found you hidden high

in the living green of the tallest tree.

But now in winter's still, grey sky

for you with aching heart I seek.

Where have you gone? Oh, show me your face

and rescue me from my barren faith.

The Quarrel

"Let no one hope to find in contemplation an escape from conflict, from anguish or from doubt." Thomas Merton

* 

Words spoken drift like

mustard gas, doubt burning like

webs, unexpected

spiders brush my ears,

slip into my eyes as blind-

ly I rush away.