Grace

Thanks & blessings be

to the Sun & the Earth

for this bread & this wine,

this fruit, this meat, this salt,

this food:

Thanks be & blessing to them

who prepare it, who serve it;

thanks & blessing to them

who share it

(& also the absent & the dead).

Thanks & Blessing to them who bring it

(may they not want),

to them who plant & tend it,

harvest & gather it

(may they not want);

thanks & blessing to them that work

& blessing to them who cannot;

may they not want -- for their hunger

sours the wine & robs

the taste from the salt.

Thanks be for the sustenance & strength

for our dance & work of justice, for peace.

Rafael Jesus Gonzalez, In Praise of Fertile Land ed. by Claudia Mauro (Whit Press, 2006)

Horse Play

I am floating in the public pool, an older guy
who has achieved much, including a mortgage,
two children, and health insurance, including dental.

I have a Premier Rewards Gold Card
from American Express, and my car
is large. I have traveled to Finland.
In addition, I once met Toni Morrison
at a book signing and made some remarks
she found "extremely interesting." And last month
I was the subject of a local news story
called "Recyclers: Neighbors Who Care." In short,
I am not someone you would take lightly.

But when I began playfully to splash my wife,
the teenaged lifeguard raises her megaphone
and calls down from her throne, "No horse play in the pool,"
and suddenly I am twelve again, a pale worm
at the feet of a blond and suntanned goddess,
and I just wish my mom would come pick me up.

George Bilgere, Blood Pages (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2018)

Desire

The slim, suntanned legs
of the woman in front of me in the checkout line
fill me with yearning
to provide her with health insurance
and a sporty little car with personalized plates.

The way her dark hair
falls straight to her slender waist
makes me ache
to pay for a washer/dryer combo
and yearly ski trips to Aspen, not to mention
her weekly visits to the spa
and nail salon.

And the delicate rise of her breasts
under her thin blouse
kindles my desire
to purchase a blue minivan with a car seat,
and soon another car seat, and eventually
piano lessons and braces
for two teenage girls who will hate me.

Finally, her full, pouting lips
make me long to take out a second mortgage
in order to put both girls through college
at first- or second-tier institutions,
then cover their wedding expenses
and help out financially with the grandchildren
as generously as possible before I die
and leave them everything.

But now the cashier rings her up
and she walks out of my life forever,
leaving me alone
with my beer and toilet paper and frozen pizzas.

George Bilgere

The Feast of Christ the King

Our King is calling from the hungry furrows
While we are cruising through the aisles of plenty,
Our hoardings screen us from the man of sorrows,
Our soundtracks drown his murmur: "I am thirsty."
He stands in line to sign in as a stranger
And seek a welcome from the world he made,
We see him only as a threat, a danger,
He asks for clothes, we strip-search him instead.
And if he should fall sick then we take care
That he does not infect our private health,
We lock him in the prisons of our fear
Lest he unlock the prison of our wealth.
But still on Sunday we shall stand and sing
The praises of our hidden Lord and King.

Malcolm Guite, Sounding the Seasons (Canterbury Press, 2012)

Chemotherapy

I did not imagine being bald
at forty-four. I didn't have a plan.
Perhaps a scar or two from growing old,
hot flushes. I'd sit fluttering a fan.

But I am bald, and hardly ever walk
by day. I'm the invalid of these rooms,
stirring soups, awake in the half dark,
not answering the phone when it rings.

I never thought that life could get this small,
that I would care so much about a cup,
the taste of tea, the texture of a shawl,
and whether or not I should get up.

I'm not unhappy. I have learnt to drift
and sip. The smallest things are gifts.

Julia Darling, Sudden Collapses in Public Places (Arc Publications, 2003)

Perennials

I've betrayed them all:
columbine and daisy,
iris, day-lily,
even the rain barrel
that spoke to me in a dream.

I inherited this garden,
and miss my grandmother
in her big sun hat.
My inexperienced hands
don't know what to hope for.

Still, flowers come: yellow,
pink, and blue. Preoccupied,
I let them go
until weeds produce spikes
and seeds around them.

I never used the rain barrel.
Water froze in the bottom;
too late, I set it on its side.

Now lily-of-the-valley comes
with its shy bloom,
choked by a weed
I don't know the name of. One day,
too late, I'll weed around them,
and pull some lilies by mistake.

Next year we'll all be back,
struggling.

Just look at these flowers
I've done nothing to deserve:
and still, they won't abandon me.

Kathleen Norris, Journey (University of Pittsburg Press, 2001)

Bear Witness

Among the chaos and evil of the world
you bring something different.
You are not tainted by the world's fear and hatred.
You bear love to the world.
To nations in warlike frenzy
or to neighbors afraid
or to families upset and struggling
you bring peace.
You bring trust in God.
Their resentment and resistance
is your opportunity to love.
Their craziness is deadly.
Hold steadfast to love;
that's how you stay alive.
"By your endurance you will gain true life."

Steve Garnass-Holmes, unfoldinglight.net

The Phone

There are things you can't learn over the phone,
like how each day your mother's losing weight.
Her hug has turned to a burlap sack of bones.
You imagine it sharp and cold. Her heart beats

jaggedly. There's dark beneath her eyes.
You know she cooks herself three meals a day,
but over the phone you cannot see what lies
behind her silence: she throws the food away.

She yawns and says she is a little tired,
while exhaustion settles ashen on her face.
You can't see how the neatness you admired --
the dishes clean, everything in its place --

has disappeared. The kitchen's out of order.
She doesn't make her bed. Her clothes smell bad.
And you keep moving further, moving forward
(after dad left you thought she'd drive you mad):

first Tennessee, then Arkansas, now Texas.
She's back home in the Carolina foothills
while the tumor near her cardiac plexus
grows. You can't see her refuse the pills,

but you hear it in each hesitation, in every
sick, quiet hanging on the line.
So when she says she's "feeling better, very,"
it sends the worry ringing up your spine.

After the dial tone dies away,
you stand in the sunlight of your own kitchen.
You know she's dying, that she'll never say.
You know you will never be forgiven.

Chad Abushanab, The Last Visit (Autumn House Press, 2019)

Re-Seeing the Obvious

When pregnant it was clear
I was along for the ride with a miracle.
Sure, I could eat organic broccoli,
walk and eschew caffeine,
but that was just taking care
of the vessel. Life itself
was doing the real work.

Imagine my surprise today
to realize I'm still along for the ride.
How did I ever kid myself
that I was in charge?
And oh, the bliss today
to notice anew these hands,
these eyes, these feet!
What joy to see them again
as the miracle they are,
to offer them in service to life.

Rosemary Wahtola Trommer, ahundredfallingveils.com

Nourished

I worry seriously
about only a handful of things.
Eyes to the ground
furrowed brow
beating heart
sleep.

Then I remember
that I am here right now.
Here -
with good work and a big bright love.
With a dog who just had a bath
after running in the mud.
With a mother who gardens and does yoga
and a father who makes rosaries and reads books.
And my brother, my friend, with a sweet baby daughter.

And I have my legs
and they walk for miles when I am worried.
And I have my soul
and it is vast and kinder
than this wild world.
And I have books
with their strong spines and medicine.
And music, all the music
and there is the mailman
who delivers mail almost every single day
bless him.

And the market with wine and radishes.
And the flowers falling through my hands
trusting me to make bouquets.
And there is the green earth and the tall mountain
the water birds, seedlings, snowfall, the sound of rain, sun finally
spring!

The bed and the water.
The paper and the pens,
The bathtub and the salt.
And the food he made me
and the letter she sent me
and Spain, San Francisco
your bedroom, this kitchen.

It's all been so much beauty among
the worry.
And I have kept nourished
and alive
this way.

Jeannette Encinias, jeannetteencinias.com accessed on August 24,2019

Canine Grace

Donnie attends church every Sunday morning.
He guides Chuck to a back pew,
lies down at his long-time companion's feet.
Sunlight through stained glass windows
gilds his blonde fur with rainbows.
He enters into an hour of silence,
his own realm of meditation,
or sleep. Just before the benediction
Donnie stands, shakes his harness,
his unique practice in the ringing of bells.
His expression is hopeful
as the two of them head toward
the Fellowship Hall. Will there be
a cookie, or perhaps a bit of left-over
communion bread?

Lois Parker Edstrom, Glint (MoonPath Press, 2019)

dharma

The way the dog trots out the front door
every morning
without a hat or an umbrella,
without any money
or the keys to her dog house
never fails to fill the saucer of my heart
with milky admiration.

Who provides a finer example
of a life without encumbrance --
Thoreau in his curtainless hut
with a single cup, a single spoon?
Gandhi with staff and his holy diapers?

Off she goes into the material world
with nothing but her brown coat
and her modest blue collar,
following only her wet nose,
the twin portals of her steady breathing,
followed only by the plume of her tail.

If only she did not shove the cat aside
every morning
and eat all his food
what a model of self-containment
she would be,
what a paragon of earthly detachment.

If only she were not so eager
for a rub behind her ears,
so acrobatic in her welcomes,
if only I were not her god.

Billy Collins, Poetry (August, 1998)

Airport Security

In the airport I got wanded,
though not by a fairy princess.

I had to remove my shoes,
prove they were not twin bombs.

But the strangest scene I saw
that day was where random checks

delayed the suspicious --
the gray lady in her wheelchair

and the toddler boy tugged
from his mother's hand, pulled

through the metal detector's arch.
She tried to follow but was

restrained by two guards who grasped
her arms as she yelled, "But I told him

not to talk to strangers!"
The child wailed bloody murder.

A female guard patted the boy
all over, although he did not giggle.

I myself went on profiling terrorists.
                   They were so obvious.

David Ray, The Death of Sardanapalus: and Other Poems of the Iraq Wars (Howling Dog Press, 2004)

The Death of Marilyn Monroe

The ambulance men touched her cold
body, lifted it, heavy as iron,
onto the stretcher, tried to close
her mouth, closed the eyes, tied the
arms to the side, moved a caught
strand of hair, as if it mattered,
saw the shape of her breasts, flattened by
gravity, under the sheet,
carried her, as if it were she,
down the steps.

These men were never the same. They went out
afterwards, as they always did,
for a drink or two, but they could not meet
each other's eyes.

            Their lives took
a turn -- one had nightmares, strange
pains, impotence, depression. One did not
like his work, his wife looked
different, his kids. Even death
seemed different to him -- a place where she
would be waiting.

And one found himself standing at night
in a doorway to a room of sleep, listening to a
woman breathing,  just an ordinary
woman
breathing.

Sharon Olds, The Dead and the Living (Alfred A. Knopf, 1984)

Stroke Patient

Someone came in to ask
how are you

only I couldn't
quite hear the words,
I thought he was asking
who, who are you?

so I started to say
my name's Jordan
only I never
got past the vowel

I'm Joe
just Joe
call me Joe

then I stopped to think
maybe I really am
someone else
maybe all this never
happened

my friend looked so strange to me
till I felt his hand --
his hand took mine
and my hand shook.

Rochelle Ratner, Someday Songs: Poems toward a Personal History (BkMk Press, 1992)

For Those Who Walked With Us

A Poem for All Saints' Day

For those
who walked with us,
this is a prayer.

For those
who have gone ahead,
this is a blessing.

For those
who touched and tended us,
who lingered with us
while they lived,
this is a thanksgiving.

For those
who journey still with us
in the shadow of awareness,
in the crevices of memory,
in the landscapes of our dreams,
this is a benediction.

Jan Richardson, paintedprayerbook.com

The Sun

Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful

than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon

and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone --
and how it slides again

out of the blackness
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower

streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance --
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love --
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure

that fills you
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you

as you stand there,
empty-handed --
or have you too
turned from this world --

or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?

Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, Volume One (Beacon Press, 1992)

Ablution

Because one must be naked to get clean,
my dad shrugs out of his pajama shirt,
steps from his boxers and into the tub
as I brace him, whose long illness
has made him shed modesty too.
Seated on the plastic bench, he holds
the soap like a caught fish in his lap,
waiting for me to test the water's heat
on my wrist before turning the nozzle
toward his pale skin. He leans over
to be doused, then hands me the soap
so I might scrub his shoulders and neck,
suds sluicing from spine to buttock cleft.
Like a child he wants a washcloth
to cover his eyes while I lather
a palmful of pearlescent shampoo
into his craniotomy-scarred scalp
and then rinse clear whatever soft hair
is left. Our voices echo in the spray
and steam of this room where once,
long ago, he knelt at the tub's edge
to pour cups of bathwater over my head.
He reminds me to wash behind his ears,
and when he judges himself to be clean,
I turn off the tap. He grips the safety bar,
steadies himself, and stands. Turning to me,
his body is dripping and pale and pink.
And although I am forty,
he has this one last thing to teach me.
I hold open the towel to receive him.

Amy Fleury, Sympathetic Magic (Southern Illinois Univ. Press, 2013)