Morning by Morning

Golden Wave

2007-01-31T05:07:00.000-08:00

Heaven’s air, golden, heavy, aromatic.
Sharp tang borne on Eternal Seas
Seemingly so palpable
One could swim in it, drown in it,
Yet in surrender into it,
Is no mere death,
But life giving death.
To breathe such tumultuous waves of air
Brings rhapsody of life,
Unimagined brilliance of consciousness.
O to deeply breathe His breath,
To draw in Love’s breath and thus be Love’s own body,
O to breathe the golden wave of heaven.

Modern Man on the Prowl

2007-01-13T19:38:00.000-08:00

Modern Man On the Prowl

Modern man
squelches down the stairs
searching for he knows not what.
His eyes slowly adjust to the dark.
A soft feeling underfoot,
a feline yowl tells him,
"Not fast enough!"
He staggers into the kitchen
opens the refrigerator, and
stands staring into the glare.
He lifts the block of process cheese,
each slice wrapped so cleverly,
so individually, and
puts it down again.
He removes the cap
lifts the gallon of milk to his nose, sniffs, and
puts it down again.
He runs his hand through his hair,
he scratches,
reaches for a pop top can and pops the top.
He sips and makes a face, and
puts the can down again.
He closes the door.
His eyes begin to adjust to the dark.
Dissatisfied, he wanders through the living room toward the stairs.
The cat, forewarned, moves.
The man squelches up the stairs again.
Whatever he is looking for,
he never finds where he is looking.
In the dark he is looking,
never finding in the dark whatever
he is looking for,
dissatisfied.

The Cat

The cat knows better
but he likes to sleep on the mat
at the bottom landing of the stairs.
Every night
he hears the man squelching down the stairs.
Most nights he fails to move
trusting to dumb luck.
Most nights he yowls and moves too late.
He knows a lot about the man,
what he eats, or doesn't
and what he drinks.
Forewarned he moves when he hears the steps
squelching back from the kitchen.
This nightly bit of attention
is painful
even if it's all he gets.

Lump

Having missed the cat
he squelches up the stairs.
Flicks on the hall light
flicks it off again
rendering himself temporarily blind.
His hands stretch out before him
neatly bracketing the open door.
There is a thud
a muffled curse.
The lump in the bed groans and rolls
burying its head under the pillow.
Light blind he stumbles
over the corner of the bed
and sits heavily upon its edge.
Slowly he raises his feet and
swings them under the covers.
He paws for his wife
his hand upon her rump.
She groans and rolls
knees defensively raised against him.
He shrugs and stares at the ceiling
watching black adjust to grey
as his eyes adjust to the night.

The Cat

The cat seizes the opportunity
leaps softly upon the bed
and lays across his feet.
He straightens a foot
propelling the cat to the floor.
Momentarily satisfied by this tiny cruelty
he drifts off to sleep.
The cat undaunted softly leaps
upon the bed,
settling at the feet of the other lump,
its vibrator engine running
knowing who will kick and who won't
and whose feet to leap upon tomorrow night
like last night
and tonight.
He knows a lot about the man
and sleeps smirking
in his dreams.

Dreams

The man dreams worried dreams
hunted dreams
dissatisfied,
while the cat sleeps
smirking.

Modern Man

The cat sleeps smirking
at the foot of the bed.
Modern man
squelches down the stairs again
searching for he knows not what.
His eyes slowly adjust to the dark.
A figure lurks
in the shadows
of the turning
of the stairs.
He walks through it
noticing the unwelcome coolness
a stranglehold upon his heart
noticing it was this feeling
that roused him from his sleep.
He staggers into the kitchen
opens the refrigerator, and
stands staring into the glare.
He shuts the refrigerator door and
staggers into the den
snaps on the tv
staggers back into the kitchen
gets the whole wheat
high fiber
o so healthy crackers and
the pot of sugarless
naturally sweetened
o so healthy jam
staggers back to the tv.
Someone is watching
over his shoulder
watching hating approving
flip flip flip flip flop
channel channel channel
charnal charnel carnal charon
the boatman poles across the waters.
Four o so healthy crackers
the pot of jam is finished.
Modern man scratches,
snaps off the tv.
His eyes adjust to the dark.
Dissatisfied, he wanders through the living room
squelches up the stairs again.
On the turning of the stairs
no shadow lurks
but nestles lurking elsewhere.
Dimly he perceives discomfit
and rummages through the medicine chest.
Plop, plop, fizz, fizz.
Whatever he is looking for,
he never finds where he is looking.
In the dark he is looking,
never finding in the dark whatever
he is looking for,
dissatisfied.
He stumbles
over the corner of the bed, and
sits heavily upon its edge.
Slowly he raises his feet and
swings them under the covers.
The cat stops smirking
slides quietly to the floor and
heads for the landing
where it sleeps
dissatisfied.

Brimstone

Acrid it tingles
at the back of the nose
rasping the throat.
Learn to recognize
the smell of brimstone.

The Cat Watched

Golden eyed
the cat watched
as the man pulled on his socks
first one foot and
then the other.
The cat smiled
in a superior way
knowing
his own fur muffed feet
never
needed
changing.

FOG

2007-01-13T19:35:00.000-08:00

Milk bottle fog,
opaque glass
cloaks wisps of grass.
Treble monotone
bass and baritone
lonely voices harp.
“My rocks are sharp.
All life is dear.
No channel here.”
On still brine
no sun will shine.
Milk bottle fog.

WHAT I SAW IN THE SECRET PLACE.

2007-01-12T00:01:00.000-08:00

I have seen the edge of your golden crown
Rich gold against the skin tones of your flesh,
and from beneath that edge
at your right temple
a single rivulet of blood
red against your skin
flowed copiously down,
a reminder that beneath the golden crown
you yet wear the crown of thorns for me,
but not for me alone.
I am one.
I am one of many.

Our union,
the communio peccatorum,
common bond,
reminds me
You are one with us.
Forgive us our trespasses.
Mine alone.
Mine as one of many.

Our union,
the communio sanctorum,
common destiny,
uncommon aspiration.
Make pure our hearts and wills.
Your gift to humankind:
We thirst and hear you say,
“Come beloved of My Father.

I see transposed upon my hands, my feet, my side
Your gaping wounds.
My brow is circled with your piercing thorns.
Rivulets of blood flow copiously down.
Through me you suffer for your body,
the Church that you redeem.
I am crucified with Christ.
I am one of many.

Body of Christ
inseparable from the Anointed
even in His crucifixion.
I am crucified with Christ,
Nevertheless I live,
yet not I.
Christ lives in me,
yet not I alone.
I am one of many.

Dom Anselm+

FIVE PASSIONS SONGS

2006-12-27T19:31:00.000-08:00

I

Love is a flame poem.
Its heat sparkles in our hearts.
Brightly leaps its words.

II

Fire embers fanned
By bold, word spat memories,
Quick fierce angry strokes.

III

Hallelujah love!
God fire in your brilliant eyes.
Passion burns our dross.

IV

Bite deep, jab, counter.
Mouth wounds with realistic pain.
Eyes in sorrow mist.

V

Flash fire love again,
Flame rage, love rage, make us one.
Souls meld in sharing.

We Shepherds Three

2006-12-21T09:04:00.000-08:00

We shepherds three
camped in the fields below the hill
our flocks huddled for warmth
in the cave at our backs.

We are the door of the sheep,
with our fire at the cave mouth,
our cheeses, breads, and skins of wine,
one with a flute, and one with a lute
and one with the voice of a frog.

We cast no grand illusion.
We are not pious folk.
Often our wives are glad to see us home,
often they are glad to see us gone,
rough men, unkempt men, smelly men,
“You sleep with the sheep.
You smell like the sheep,”
the townsmen say.

This night was like all other nights
if anything darker, the wind more severe,
We expected nothing except a cold long watch
with the sheep in the cave at our backs,
with our fire at the cave mouth,
our cheeses, breads, and skins of wine,
one with a flute, and one with a lute
and one with the voice of a frog.

I wish I could say we were at prayer
and that incense, not smoke,
filled the night air.
But we sang shepherd songs
of loves long since lost,
of fighting and brawling,
the things we know most.

It was then that the angels came
and the glory of God filled the night air.
To shepherds three, coarse and unkempt
they brought great tidings of joy.
“This day in the city high on the hill
a Savior is born Christ our Lord.
A babe you will find, laid in a manger
and wrapped all secure.”
And suddenly the sky was filled with
thousands of angels singing God’s praise.

We shepherds three penned up our sheep
and went up the hill to find him asleep.
Mary, and Joseph with Jesus the child.
We gave what we had to the baby so mild
our cheeses, and breads,
and skins filled with wine,
And we sang him a lullaby
one with a flute, and one with a lute
and one with the voice of a frog.

Abuse!

2006-12-18T07:06:00.000-08:00

The child was bothersome,
So she slapped it up
the side of the head
and it yowled,
which bothered her
even more
challenging
her control
which she barely had.
So she slapped it up
the side of the head.
Then the child grew up
never understanding
why it bothered her so much
when her child was bothersome.
So she slapped it up
the side of the head
and it yowled
which bothered her
even more
challenging
her control
which she barely had.

A Christmas Poem ~ Gloria

2006-12-14T08:00:00.000-08:00

GLORIA

Gloria!
Birth moans
in strawed stable.
The King has come,
his lusty wailing
rends dark night.

Gloria!
Birth bloody
as his death,
the King has come.
His reality
mouth and mother's breast.

Gloria!
Birth starlit
in musked air.
The King has come,
God swaddled
in human need.

Gloria!
Birth starlit in musked air,
The King has come,
God swaddled in human need.
Gloria!
Jesus Son of God Most High.
Gloria in Excelsis Deo!
Gloria!

Two Wind Songs

2006-11-27T15:00:00.000-08:00

The Wind

The wind frets along the edge of the roof
heavy handed, clumsy, batting at shingles,
baffled by their resistance,
with mindless persistence
tugging, pushing, pulling
in a stolid stupid sort of way.
It has played the game for hours
having nothing better to do.

The Wind Sings

The wind sings
through meadow grasses
whispers dry leaves
along wooded edges
raps broken branches
on bare trunks
rap tap
it plays myriad melodies
thrumming wires
clanging trash lids
down deep fenced alleys
kicking cans
slamming doors
battering eaves
stealing small boys caps
sending them
shrieking
laughing
down city streets.
The wind sings.

Appalachian Summer Song

2006-11-27T14:49:00.000-08:00

The road winds listening
single lane beneath
overhanging fronds of giant ragweed
along valley bottoms.
Hills loom listening
old lumps of tired mountains
weather worn, time worn
embracing narrow valleys
embracing narrow people
with shadows
stillness,
air close,
warm
horizon close
sky remote
shacks
woodpiles
hungry heavy jowled dogs
deep chested barking,
mufflers barking,
whine of chainsaws,
whine of babies,
drone of bees
lilt of dulcimer
roll of thunder
and the cleansing
plash of rain.

Chivalry

2006-11-25T03:03:00.000-08:00

CHIVALRY

"Cast away, then, all cowardice out of thine heart,
and with knightly valour ride with me in the lists:
for it becomes not the squire to hesitate,
where his lord goes forward with gallantry and courage.
. . .
No vicarious atonement, then,
will satisfy the instinct of the true lover of reality.
He desires life with all its accidents and misfortunes:
the high heroic life of the chivalry of God."[1]
. . .
My Lord,
so often have I gone out with thee into the lists
not knowing wither I go,
sometimes armed and sometimes not,
sometimes consciously to do battle,
sometimes oblivious of the battle at hand.
Lord, I recognize the lists
as one of the themes of my life.
I praise Thee,
that has called me,
and kept me company.
. . .
Now my liege Lord
I place upon me the panoply of God:
I gird my loins with truth and integrity
and place upon my chest the breastplate
of Your righteousness.
My feet are shod with the Gospel of peace
and I stand ready to bear witness to You
in the midst of the fray.
I hold secure the shield of faith,
its colors the red of your shed blood
its white the purity you purchased for me,
its insignia the rampant Lion and the Lamb.
I fear not the fiery darts of the wicked one.
On my head I place the helm of salvation
its golden plume the sign of
Your victory over death and the grave.
In my hand I grasp the blade of the Spirit
which is the Word of God
sharper than any two-edged sword
piercing even to the division of soul and spirit,
joints and marrow.

My liege Lord
I stand by your side.
I hear the rumble of drums.
My ears ring with the trumpet call.
Lead me, My Lord.
I follow you to battle

[1]John Cordelier, The Path of Eternal Wisdom, (London: John M. Watkins. 1922), 17.