Warm on the Shore

It had been a long time since she last strolled along that shore in the evening’s failing light.  Her dark jeans hugged her strong legs and her white shirt clung to her youthful and tapering figure.  Around her, a man's gray-checkered flannel shirt ironically whipped in tandem with her graceful hair, as both were caught in the restless and salty wind.  The long dock had been stripped and only its pillars congregated in a mute cluster strewn in the surf.

  

She could almost hear them talking amongst themselves, between the sounds of gulls calling, waves rushing, and her own feet scuffing against the grains of sand.  In the gentle tumult of waves and wind, the buoy bell knelled its lonely ringing weaving across the waves.  Her mouth curled into a gentle smile and then they spoke up, with salty breath out of their black wooden mouths.

            “It’s a bit windy for stroll, isn’t it?”

            “All alone tonight?”

            “Isn’t that shirt a little big for you?”

            “I think you’re growing bigger and more beautiful every day.”

            “Oh come on, Grandpa,” she said as she held his hand years ago, “I’ll always be your little girl.”  She held her shoes in her right hand and his robust yet wrinkled hand in her left as both their bare feet shuffled along the shore.  They would often stop to pick up shells, listen to the music of the wind and buoy, or just to look past the gawking black pillars to the peaceful horizon made of restless waters.

            “It sure is windy tonight isn’t it, sweetie?”  The wind had tickled goosebumps all along her arms and she hugged his belly as best she could with shells and stones in her tiny fists.  He looked down on his granddaughter as the wind blew her locks of hair about and a gentle chill crept in.  He rubbed her arms a bit longer, but then took off his grey flannel and wrapped his princess in a humble robe.  She smiled up at his tired face and wise eyes as he stood in his white undershirt.

            “It looks good on you . . . How about you keep it?”

            “I’ll take good care of it, Grandpa.”

            “Good, sweetie, I’m sure it’ll keep you warm” he said.
                                                'Even when I can’t,' he thought.

            “It’s still warm, Grandpa,” she said with a smile still gracing her face and her arms still lost in its warm folds after all these years.

            “It still looks good on you,” piped up the pillar. The flannel flapped in the evening breeze.  The lonely buoy tolled.  In the rich silence, upon which the wind and waves rushed, the pillars stood black and mute. She hugged the folds more and more snuggly around her.  The flannel held her all these years, still soft, still warm, still saying, “You’re growing bigger and more beautiful every day.”

A Scholar's Altar

We scholars have altars of our own.

Our desks hold the relics of

pens, pencils, and loose change.

Upon this wood

the fruit of thoughtful minds

and work of studious hands

is offered like

the incense of academia;

pipe smoke rising in rings

to meet you out there,

in hopes that your grace

might come down like the dewfall

upon my meager scribbles and

transubstantiate them into an essay,

or a thesis, or in this case a poem,

whose totality and vitality

might nourish and burn

you who read it.

From this humble sacrifice of

spilled ink and shared thoughts,

Let communion grow

between the words on these pages

and those humming in the volumes 

on our bookcases and shelves.

Let communion grow between

all those murmuring words,

be they in books or in minds

         committed to ink or 

         still lingering in thought.

Let love grow between ideas 

and those who love them

and know that in this moment,

when these sounds were on a tongue,

when a poem was greeted by your ears

when your imagination tried

to give these thoughts shape

that indeed

some communion happened.

Pebbles and Marbles: Trey Anastasio

One of my favorites songs for over 7 years now.  Phish is perennially beautiful.

She started the blaze from one tiny spark

She didn't even detect

She loved the light, was dismayed by the dark

The stars though she seemed to respect

A faint light that flutters at night to the earth

Would land in her eyes and collect

Luminous creatures she'd find in the surf

I never thought to inspect

Pebbles and marbles like things on my mind

Seem to get lost and harder to find

When I am alone I am inclined

If I find a pebble in the sand 

to think that it fell from my hand

She gave me ideas, planted the seed

But she never stopped to reflect

The course that she's on, wherever it leads

I never would redirect.

Pebbles and marbles like words from a friend

Seem to hold tight but are lost in the end

When we're alone, we all seem to tend

If we find a marble in dust 

to wish someone left it for us.

Pebbles and marbles like things on my mind

Seem to get lost and harder to find

When I am alone I am am inclined

If I find a pebble in sand 

To think that it fell from my hand

Within Thy Wounds Hide Me

Good Friday Haiku

A nailmark, a palm.

Enter through these narrow gates,

from wounds to wonders.

From Dirt to Dirt

I remember years ago, my theology professor was explaining the significance of doctrine creatio ex nihilo, which states that God created the world out of nothing and wasn't hindered by pre-existing material like we are.  He illustrated the concept with a story about a man who was frustrated with all the suffering and evil in the world.

The man went up to God and said, "What kind of show are you running here?  There's so much violence, injustice, ignorance, suffering, and evil in the world."
"Do you think you could make it better?" asked God.
"Absolutely," the man said, to which God most charitably and politely responded, "You're welcome to try."
So the man rolled up his sleeves and reached down to the ground to start making some bricks and God said, "Nope, stop.  Get your own dirt."

So of course the man realized if he was going to remake the world, he was going to have to use God's dirt to do it.

"And the LORD God formed man (h'adam) of the dust of the ground (h'adamah), and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life and man became a living soul." (Genesis 2:7)

Now imagine this whole business about salvation. God looked at us and, in the words of Wordsworth, his heart was grieved by "what man has made of man."

 So God effectively said, "What kind of show are you running here?  There's so much violence, injustice, ignorance, suffering, and evil in your souls."
"Do you think you could make them better?" we asked him.
"Absolutely," God said and naturally we offered, "You're welcome to try ..."
There's a stillness in the air and then with something like a knowing wink, we tacked on, "... but get your own flesh."

So of course God realized if he was going to remake humanity, he'd have use our flesh to do it.

"And the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us" (John 1:14)

During the Triduum I look at all the wonders he did with the meager flesh we gave him back at Christmas.  God's a minimalist who knows you can always do more with less.  Look at how simultaneously rich and spartan the New Testament is.  Think about it, flesh and blood, bread and friends, water and wine, wood and nails were all he needed to save the world.  He even used the fallenness of our flesh, which tempted and ultimately betrayed him, as the means to save us.  To look at what he did with what we gave him, turns the question back on us.  Now that we see how in the right hands the world can be remade simply using "flesh," what are we doing with all our closets, pantries, homes, libraries, forests, friends, talents, wealth, intelligence, health, suffering?  What are we doing with this "dirt" he gave us?

An Acrostic For April

April is a way for

A wood to awaken

Awarding awe and wonder to those who

Await this arborescence since

Autumn’s absence.

Pascal pelicans peer with peaceful

Percipience toward people

Pricking themselves in their own peccability when

Rain reigns and ricochets like

Rickety rickshas riding

Recklessly over our wretched and

Restless rambling.

Imbibing this invitation

Inamorata and inamorato inevitably

Inspire in each other

Intimate intuitions and invoke

Love as they lie with long legs

Laughing at luncheons on luxurious lawns.

Looking at laburnums and labruscas and

Lacking all lachrymosity as they

Linger until the light also lies down.