Yellow Lab Outside the Coffee Shop

 

The yellow lab outside the coffee shop
today cannot sit still; but instead

radiates the ever-expectant energy
of a thousand hummingbirds,

tail sweeping back and forth
across the gray, littered sidewalk.

Sits without touching the ground,
knowing that any moment

the one who matters most will emerge,
slip his worn leash from the bench

and the day will suddenly fall into
place: every sound, sight, and aroma

discovered anew, the sun thrown
everywhere at once, with a cool lake

of shadow following, following,
as if it had somewhere to go.

Greg Watson, When the Music Remains (Nodic Press, 2011)

Quarantine, 1918

 

There were towns
that knew about the flu before
it arrived; they had time to imagine the germs
on a stranger’s skirts, to see how death
could be sealed in an envelope,
how a fever could bloom in the evening,
and take a life overnight.
A few villages, deep in the mountains,
posted guards on their roads,
and no one was allowed to come or go,
not even a grandmother carrying a cake;
no mail was accepted and all the words
and packages families sent
to one another went unopened,
unanswered. Trains were told
not to stop, so they glowed for a moment
before swaying
towards some other place. The food
at the corner store never came
from out of town and no one went
to see a distant auntie
or state fair. For awhile, the outside world
existed in imagination, in memory,
in books or suitcases, deep in closets.
There was nothing but the town itself,
hiding from what was possible,
and the children cutting dolls
from paper, their scissors sharp.

Faith Shearin, Orpheus, Turning (The Broadkill Press, 2015)

Prayer for the Weary

God, I am weary.
I am worn by my daily tasks,
burdened by all that is demanded of me,
tired of the world's turbulence.
Even my faith, sometimes, is too tired
to get up and go.
There is so much to do.
Restore my energy.
Be my heartbeat, my breath,
the spark of my nerves.
Like a leaf carried on the river of your love,
bear me through this world
by your grace, not my effort.
May your love and hope and courage
rise in me like the sun,
and shine me through this day,
in the love and presence of your Spirit.
Amen.

Steve Garnass-Holmes, unfoldinglight.net, January 25, 2021 

The Game

 

And on certain nights,
maybe once or twice a year,
I’d carry the baby down
and all the kids would come
all nine of us together,
and we’d build a town in the basement

from boxes and blankets and overturned chairs.
And some lived under the pool table
or in the bathroom or the boiler room
or in the toy cupboard under the stairs,
and you could be a man or a woman
a husband or a wife or a child, and we bustled around
like a day in the village until

one of us turned off the lights, switch
by switch, and slowly it became night
and the people slept.

Our parents were upstairs with company or
not fighting, and one of us—it was usually
a boy—became the Town Crier,
and he walked around our little sleeping
population and tolled the hours with his voice,
and this was the game.

Nine o’clock and all is well, he’d say,
Walking like a constable we must have seen
in a movie. And what we called an hour passed.
Ten o’clock and all is well.
And maybe somebody stirred in her sleep
or a grown up baby cried and was comforted…
Eleven o’clock and all is well.
Twelve o’clock. One o’clock. Two o’clock…

and it went on like that through the night we made up
until we could pretend it was morning.

Marie Howe, What the Living Do (W. W. Norton and Company, 1998)

 "On the Pulse of the Morning," written and read by Maya Angelou for the First Inauguration of Bill Clinton, January 20, 1993

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon,
The dinosaur, who left dried tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spilling words

Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out to us today, you may stand upon me,
But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song. It says,
Come, rest here by my side.

Each of you, a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,
Clad in peace, and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the rock were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.
The River sang and sings on.

There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African, the Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheik,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.

They hear the first and last of every Tree
Speak to humankind today. Come to me, here beside the River.
Plant yourself beside the River.

Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveler, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, you,
Pawnee, Apache, Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet,
Left me to the employment of
Other seekers — desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Arab, the Swede, the German, the Eskimo, the Scot,
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought,
Sold, stolen, arriving on the nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am that Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours — your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain
Cannot be unlived, but if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon
This day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.

Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands,
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For a new beginning.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out and upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here, on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister’s eyes, and into
Your brother’s face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope —
Good morning.

copyright 2021 Board of Regents of the University of Wisconsin System

The Laughing Heart

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

Charles Bukowski, The Laughing Heart: A 1996 New Year’s Greeting (Black Sparrow Press, 1996) 

Martin Luther King, Jr.

 

A man went forth with gifts.

He was a prose poem.
He was a tragic grace.
He was a warm music.

He tried to heal the vivid volcanoes.
His ashes are
reading the world.

His Dream still wishes to anoint
the barricades of faith and of control.

His word still burns the center of the sun
above the thousands and the
hundred thousands.

The word was Justice. It was spoken.

So it shall be spoken.
So it shall be done.

Gwendolyn Brooks, saltproject.org, January 11, 2021

What the Living Do

 

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.

Marie Howe, What the Living Do (W. W. Norton, 1998)

Come and See (John 1: 43-51)

 

   Nathanael said to him,
           “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?”
           Philip said to him, “Come and see.”
                                 —John 1.46

We've already decided
no one from Nazareth should be taken seriously.
Let's confess what I call our cultural fundamentalism:
the belief that there is only one truth, and we own it.
The belief that my group (however I identify it) alone matters,
and we alone are entitled to decide
what is Real, True and Important.
We will not be dissuaded from our illusions by facts,
because it's not the truth but who says it that matters.
If the speaker is one of us and protects our entitlement
(and magnifies our grievance at the loss of that entitlement)
we will believe whatever they say.
But the voice of an outsider simply doesn't matter.
We are entitled to define what's True, Real and Important,
and they are not. No one from Nazareth.

It's the way of religious fundamentalists,
conspiracy theorists, white supremacists,
schizophrenics and other like-minded people.
It's the basis of racism, sexism, heterosexism,
and every form of discrimination,
behind every crusade, pogrom, witch-hunt and genocide.
Whites, Americans, men, Christians—we all suffer from it.

What's the antidote? “Come and see.”
Humility. Willingness to hear another's truth.
Listening. Taking the “other” seriously.
Attending most deeply not to those defending their entitlement,
but to those who have none.

God, help me listen deeply and humbly.
Help me see all people as real, as whole, beloved people.
Bid me always, “Come and see.”

Steve Garnass-Holmes, unfoldinglight.net, January 12, 2021

An Affirmation of Faith for Our Day

 

In defiance of corruption and falsehood,

we commit to truth and integrity

and we pray for honesty and uprightness

to increase in our world.

In defiance of apathy and hatred,

we choose to be proactive in love

and we pray for understanding and peace

to increase in our world.

In defiance of skepticism and cynicism,

we embrace the mystery of faith

and we pray for humility and wonder

to increase in our world.

In defiance of self-interest and human arrogance,

we embrace God's salvation

and we pray for compassion and faith

to increase in our world.

In defiance of all that would oppose God's purpose among us,

we choose again to follow Christ,

and we continue to pray,

not just now, but at all times. Amen.

 

John Van De Laar, (Sacredise Publishing, Cape Town, South Africa)

Worship and Song: Worship Resources (Abingdon Press, 2011)

Leaning Hour

 

Sometimes, in the middle of a crowded store on a Saturday
afternoon, my husband will rest his hand
on my neck, or on the soft flesh belted at my waist,
and pull me to him. I understand

his question: Why are we so fortunate
when all around us, friends are falling prey
to divorce and illness? It seems intemperate
to celebrate in a more conspicuous way

so we just stand there, leaning in
to one another, until that moment
of sheer blessedness dissolves and our skin,
which has been touching, cools and relents,

settling back into our separate skeletons
as we head toward Housewares to resume our errands.

 

Sue Ellen Thompson, The Golden Hour (The Permissions Company, 2006)

A Prayer for Our Nation

 

And then all that has divided us will merge

And then compassion will be wedded to power

And then softness will come to a world that is harsh and unkind

And then both men and women will be gentle

And then both women and men will be strong

And then no person will be subject to another's will

And then all will be rich and free and varied

And then the greed of some will give way to the needs of many

And then all will share equally in the Earth's abundance

And then all will care for the sick and the weak and the old

And then all will nourish the young

And then all will cherish life's creatures

And then all will live in harmony with each other and the Earth

And then everywhere will be called Eden once again.

 

Judy Chicago, saltproject.org, October 6, 2020

The Beloved

 

It was a voice out of nowhere.

It was a voice from everywhere.

It was the voice of love.

It was the voice from above.
.

“You are my beloved,” came the words;

“You are my beloved,” was what they heard.

“You are my Son;”

“You are the One.”

 

The words were spoken at the river

By One, who of all life, is the giver.

The words were spoken to identify Jesus;

The words were spoken that God might touch us.

.

Down through the centuries of life,

Through war and pestilence and strife,

The faithful lose all fear,

When “You are my beloved” is what they hear.

.

The words are meant for all;

The words are God’s call.

“I love you without reserve.”

“I love you more than you deserve.”

.

And then there comes a time in each soul

When we embrace our God and commit our whole.

We say we will follow Jesus’ way

And in his path we will stay.

 

Robert McDowell, pastorrobert-nikos.blogspot.com, January 7, 2012

14 Degrees Below Zero in the Grocery Store Parking Lot

 

A dog and I stare at each other
from our separate cars, waiting for our people to return.
He’s a shepherd mix, big head, big ears,
like me, he’s riding shotgun.

Heat blares inside my car,
exhaust plumes from the pickup truck he’s in,
so I know he isn’t freezing but I don’t know
if he’s a he or a she, so I just think he.

He watches doors slide open and closed, open and closed.
So do I.

We look at each other, then back to the doors and I wonder
who will come back first—his owner or my friend?

I watch the doors, then the dog. I watch
two girls walk to their car, chuck frozen A-Treat soda cans
out of the dented trunk, make room for beer.

I look back to the doors, then the dog, and I see
a man in the driver’s seat—his owner has come back!
He’s won!

But I can’t see the dog.
I want to see the dog.

I want to see that he’s happy he won,
even though he didn’t know there was a contest,
even though he might not be a he,

I want to know he loves his owner, even though
I am assuming all this, I assume things, I assume, I do.

I assume he’s a he, I assume his owner loves him,
I assume my friend is coming back,
(milk, she said, just milk).

The man in the truck sits head down, cap down,
rolling a smoke, or checking his phone but
something’s not right. I watch.

I see the stripe on what I think is the man’s cap
turn into the collar on the dog,
and I realize it’s the dog in the truck, not a man in the truck,

it’s still the dog, like it’s still me, waiting,
only he moved over to the driver’s seat. If he’s a he.

I’ve confused a dog and a man. Oh god, I think,
I’m getting carbon monoxide poisoning from a faulty heat vent,

but that’s when my friend gets back in the car
with milk, bread, jello, toothpaste, laundry soap.

She begins a story about some guy at the checkout counter
as she backs the car away from the dog
and the truck and the doors and I’m suddenly sad now,

that churned-up-torn-inside-the-chest-feeling sad
because we’re leaving and I wish I hadn’t won,
I wish he’d won, but he didn’t, I won,

and he might not be a he, and I keep twisting, looking
back, hoping for a glimpse of the owner,

but no one’s walking toward the dog in the truck
who could get carbon monoxide poisoning,
and there’s nothing I can do

but watch as long as I can,
because I need to know that he’s all right,
because we were the same back there,
we were the same.

Hayden Saunier, How to Wear This Body (Terrapin Books, 2017)

Epiphany

 

On Epiphany day,
     we are still the people walking.
     We are still people in the dark,
          and the darkness looms large around us,
          beset as we are by fear,
                                        anxiety,
                                        brutality,
                                        violence,
                                        loss —
          a dozen alienations that we cannot manage.

We are — we could be — people of your light.
     So we pray for the light of your glorious presence
          as we wait for your appearing;
     we pray for the light of your wondrous grace
          as we exhaust our coping capacity;
     we pray for your gift of newness that
          will override our weariness;
     we pray that we may see and know and hear and trust
          in your good rule.

That we may have energy, courage, and freedom to enact
         your rule through the demands of this day.
         We submit our day to you and to your rule, with deep joy and high hope.

Walter Brueggemann, Prayers for a Privileged People (Abingdon, 2008)

Again, Again

On a day when the world
asks too much of me
and I don’t know how to give it,
I think of the squirrels
at the feeder when I was a girl.
 
Dad hung the feeder
on a squirrel-proof wire.
Dad set the feeder
on a squirrel-proof pole.
Squirrels found a way.
 
Surely there’s some squirrel in me,
some chattering tenacity,
some bushy-tailed resolve.
If I can’t be courageous and brave,
then let me at least be stubborn.
 
Surely inside this aching heart
is a scamperer willing to try again,
to try again, to meet disappointment
and failure and exhaustion
and try again, again.

Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, wordwoman.com, December 31, 2020 

Another Road

 

   Having been warned in a dream
              not to return to Herod,
              they left for their own country by another road.
                                          —Matthew 2.12


The star behind us, a new year rising,
just when we thought the search was over
and the treasure found, we hear a warning
to repent, to change our ways,
to embark on a new unknown
off the road where we're at home.

But we welcome it.
This old one was awful.
The year was hard, the way was rocky.
For all the danger and cruelty
we're glad not to return to
we give thanks for this gift, so needed, from God:
another road.

Thank you. We'll take it.

___________

Friends, I pray the new year brings you
stronger connection with the Divine,
deeper trust of your belovedness,
greater will to love,
and hearts more full of gratitude, wonder and joy.
Welcome, 2021.


Deep Blessings,
Steve Garnass-Holmes, unfoldinglight.net, December 31, 2020

When the Song of the Angels

 When the song of the angels is stilled,

When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and the princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flocks,
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace between brothers and sisters,
To make music in the heart.

Howard Thurman