This yellow striped green
Caterpillar, climbing up
The steep window screen,
Constantly (for lack
Of a full set of legs) keeps
Humping up his back.
It’s as if he sent
By a sort of semaphore
Dark omegas meant
To warn of Last Things.
Although he doesn’t know it,
He will soon have wings,
And I, too, don’t know
Toward what undreamt condition
Inch by inch I go.
Richard Wilbur, originally published in The New Yorker. Accessed
from 32poems.com on October 26, 2021
Blessed are the Merciful
based on
the Amish Schoolhouse shooting Nickel Mines, PA
I didn’t
trust their forgiveness.
Before
the blood cooled on the schoolhouse floor
they held the killer’s widow in their arms,
raised
money for his children,
lined his grave site with a row of patient horses.
Somewhere in town there had to be a father
splitting a trunk and imagining the crush
of the
murderer’s skull. There had to be a mother
hurling a Bible at the wall that received her prayers.
Or is it
just the flash and noise of my own life
that primes me for anger? Does scrolling
through
playlists in traffic fill the spaces
in my mind reserved for grace?
Forgiveness
requires imagination.
Eye for an eye is efficient.
For the
man brought chains.
He brought wires, eyehooks and boards.
He
brought a bag of candles and lubricant
and secured little girls with plastic ties.
Two
sisters begged to be shot first
to spare the others.
He shot
them first. Then the rest.
One child with twenty-four bullets.
Perhaps
they know something I don’t,
something to do with the morning rising
over an
open field. The fathers receive
the meadowlark, the swallowtail,
the good
corn rising into the fog.
The mothers ride their carriages into town,
accepting
the rumbles of the stony road,
tripping into the rough hands of God.
Tania Runyan, englewoodreview.org, May 19, 2014
Someone had to do the dirty work,
spading the garden, moving mountains,
keeping the darkness out of the light,
and she took every imperfection personally.
Mr. Big Ideas, sure,
but someone had to run the numbers.
Then talk about babies: he never imagined
so many.
That was part of his charm, of course,
his frank amazement at consequences.
The pretty songs he gave the finches:
those spoke to his
innocence, his ability to regard
every moment as fresh. “Let’s give them
free will and see what happens.”
he said, ever the optimist.
Connie Wanek, Rival Gardens: New and Selected Poems (University
of Nebraska Press, 2016)
Now you are the body of Christ
and individually members of it.
— 1 Corinthians 12.27
We are not separate things, but all parts of one living Being.
We are no more separate than the fingers on a hand,
the notes in a chord, the words in a sentence,
the flavors in a gourmet dish, the cells in a body.
We are part of one another; we are each other in different ways.
There is one body, and we are all it.
We serve the poor because they are us.
We love the stranger because in them we know ourselves.
We side with the oppressed because they hold our wisdom.
We honor those who are different because they complete us.
We respect those who horrify us, for they are within us.
We bring the Other to our table: it is theirs, for we are theirs.
We include them in our compassion, for we include them.
The Christ that is in you is not separate from the Christ
in the unclean and lepers and drug addicts and terrorists.
Your choosing may be different, but the Spirit is One.
You are not the One, but you are in the One.
This is the mystery of the Holy Trinity, that in all there is
One.
There is One of us, and the oneness, the One, is Holy.
Steve Garnass-Holmes, unfoldinglight.net January 22, 2010
Today, May 30th, Joan
of Arc was burned.
She was 19 and
when she died
a man saw white doves
fly from her mouth.
Joan was born in 1412
between Lorraine
and Champagne. Joan
was raised on legends.
Merlin said France would be
lost by a woman and saved
by a virgin. Joan was
not an adventurous girl, not
a tomboy, but very dreamy,
good, stay-at-home,
the baby of the family.
Joan never got her period.
She heard these voices
in the bells, she saw angels
in colored glass. She believed
the sun moved around
the earth because that’s
what she saw. She believed
God wanted Charles VII
to be King of France
because that’s what Michael,
Catherine & Margaret told
her when she listened to
the bells. Her father
said he’d drown her
if she didn’t stop this
nonsense.
She was 19 years old
when they burned her body in the middle of town
while she was still alive. A white dove
came out of her mouth as she died.
Five hundred and forty-eight years ago today.
A dove leaped right out of her mouth.
Eileen Myles, I Must Be Living Twice: New and Selected
Poems (HarperCollins, 2015)
A room full of seven-year-olds
are memorizing the ten commandments.
They sit, eyes fixed on illustrated
poster-sized pages, bound
with thou shalts and
thou shalt nots printed
in black block letters.
Sister speaks, the class repeats,
“The sixth commandment is
Thou shalt not commit adultery.”
The class echoes back, as she rushes on,
but in the space between
I raise my hand and ask,
“Sister, what’s adultery?”
Furiously flipping the page, she intones,
“The seventh commandment is…”
My cheeks burning, shamed and scarlet,
I study each word
Thou shalt not commit adultery.
I struggle toward a solid conclusion:
if adult means you are a grown-up,
adultery means you are
pretending to be a grown-up.
A commandment just for children.
With the realization of
my frequent sinning, I begin
examining my conscience:
How often have I played dress-ups?
or pretended to be a doctor,
a nurse, a teacher, a secretary?
Mental tally held
in my memory,
shaking and afraid, I join
my classmates filing into the church
lit only by the red flame
of the sanctuary candle
burning for our sins.
Forty second graders cram into four pews
silently waiting to seek
forgiveness in the
velvet-curtained confessional.
The murmurs of transgressions
like incense fill the air.
I kneel, make the sign
of the cross, then stammer, “Bless me, Father,
for I have sinned. This is my first confession
and I have lied to my parents about 20 times,
fought with my brothers and sisters about 17 times,
and committed adultery 35 times.”
After a brief silence punctuated by a sigh,
Father Riley assigns my penance,
two Hail Marys and one Our Father.
Leaving me to believe in
the truth of my innocence,
he forgives me all my sins.
Ann Bracken,
blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/pick-of-the-week August 15, 2021
Great parent
who must have started out
with such high hopes.
What magnitude of suffering,
the immensity of guilt,
the staggering despair.
A mind the size of the sun,
burning with longing,
a heart huge as a gray whale
breaching, streaming
seawater against the pale sky.
Man god or beast god,
god that breathes in every pleated leaf,
throat sac of frog, pinfeather and shaft—
god of plutonium and penicillin, drunk
sleeping on the subway grate,
god of Joan of Arc, god of Crazy Horse,
Lady Day, bringing us to our knees,
god of Houdini with hands
like a river, of Einstein, regret
running thick in his veins,
god of Stalin, god of Somoza,
god of the long march,
the Trail of Tears,
the trains,
god of Allende and god of Tookie,
the strawberry picker, fire in his back,
god of midnight, god of winter,
god of rouged children sold
with a week’s lodging
and airfare to Thailand,
god in trouble, god at the end of his rope—
sleepless, helpless—
desperate god, frantic god, whale heart
lost in the shallows, beached
on the sand, parched, blistered, crushed
by gravity’s massive weight.
Ellen Bass, journeywithjesus.net, posted on October 17,
2021
– the driven, the diehards
the hardy and hungry
the lifers, high-milers
the ones old enough to know better
or too young and eager to care;
the addicts and regulars
gripped by a habit
hard-wired and hard-won
that nothing and no one can break –
glories in going out there in this
when people with brains and ordinary lives
sit inside tutting and shaking their head
glad of the glass between them and the fear.
Who but us
pits muscles and bones
skin, blood and tissue
against fast-moving metal
the rush and the rage
of a world that would rather we didn’t exist.
Who but us
willingly, knowingly
always takes the longest way round
the hardest road home
spinning it out for a couple more miles
a few more minutes stolen and added to life.
The ones who go further
longer and deeper
not really caring if we’re understood
or that none of this makes any sense.
And while there’s a road
miles to be ridden
air to be breathed
who but us
would we want to be?
gonecyclingagain.wordpress.com August 7, 2021
I've got the children to tend
The clothes to mend
The floor to mop
The food to shop
Then the chicken to fry
The baby to dry
I got company to feed
The garden to weed
I've got shirts to press
The tots to dress
The cane to be cut
I gotta clean up this
hut
Then see about the sick
And the cotton to pick.
Shine on me, sunshine
Rain on me, rain
Fall softly, dewdrops
And cool my brow again.
Storm, blow me from here
With your fiercest wind
Let me float across the sky
'Til I can rest again.
Fall gently, snowflakes
Cover me with white
Cold icy kisses and
Let me rest tonight.
Sun, rain, curving sky
Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone
Star shine, moon glow
You're all that I can call my own.
Maya Angelou, internetpoem.com, accessed on October 9, 2021
Our niece ran the Boston Marathon yesterday,
her ninth marathon; her fourth in Boston.
The marathon is like unto the Realm of God.
Everybody cheers for everybody.
No teams, no sides, no winners and losers.
(One person wins; the other 30,000 just run.)
Andrea wasn't trying to win; she was just running—
though she ran an alarmingly steady eight-and-a-half-minute mile.
One year she nearly collapsed from dehydration,
staggered into the medical tent at mile 22,
and eventually was able to walk the rest of the course.
Yesterday I tracked her, passing the tent, running on.
At the finish line some people raise their arms
as if they've won. Some kiss the ground
as if returning from Mars. They have indeed won.
Every day people around you are bearing unseen burdens,
overcoming invisible challenges,
completing a story you don't know.
You can't judge their pace, or how far along they are.
Your job is to cheer them on.
Heaven, you know, is actually empty.
They're all down here, unseen, crowded around,
yelling like crazy, cheering you on.
Steve Garnass-Holmes, unfoldinglight.net October 12, 2021
At the dinner table, before the thrown
plate, but after the bitter claim,
in that one beat of silence
before the parents declare war
their child, who until now had been
invisible, but who had learned in school
a catechism, speaks: “Would you like me
to help solve the conflict?” Silence.
They can’t look at each other. A glance
would sear the soul. A wall of fire plots
this Maginot line across the butter plate
splits salt from pepper, him from her.
So their child speaks: “Three rules, then:
One—you have to let each other finish.
Two—you have to tell the truth. Three—
you have to want to solve the conflict.
If you say yes, we will solve it.
I love you. What do you say?”
Kim Stafford, Singer Come from Afar (Story Line Press,
2021)
We didn’t say fireflies
but lightning bugs.
We didn’t say carousel
but merry-go-round.
Not seesaw,
teeter-totter
not lollipop,
sucker.
We didn’t say pasta, but
spaghetti, macaroni, noodles:
the three kinds.
We didn’t get angry:
we got mad.
And we never felt depressed
dismayed, disappointed
disheartened, discouraged
disillusioned or anything,
even unhappy:
just sad.
Sally Fisher, Good Questions (Bright Hill Press, 2015)
I spend part of my childhood waiting
for the Sterns County Bookmobile.
When it comes to town, it makes a
U-turn in front of the grade school and
glides into its place under the elms.
It is a natural wonder of late
afternoon. I try to imagine Dante,
William Faulkner, and Emily Dickinson
traveling down a double lane highway
together, country-western on the radio.
Even when it arrives, I have to wait.
The librarian is busy, getting out
the inky pad and the lined cards.
I pace back and forth in the line,
hungry for the fresh bread of the page,
because I need something that will tell me
what I am; I want to catch a book,
clear as a one-way ticket, to Paris,
to London, to anywhere.
Joyce Sutphen, Coming Back to the Body (Holy Cow!
Press, 2000)
Of course now children take it for granted but once
we watched boxes on a conveyor belt, sliding by,
magically filled and closed, packed and wrapped.
We couldn’t get enough of it, running alongside the machine.
In kindergarten Miss Haynes walked our class down
Stuyvesant Avenue, then up Prospect Street
to the hot dog factory the girls got to go
as the boys were too wild.
We stood in line, wiggling with excitement as the man
talked about how they made hot dogs, then he handed us
one, and Jan dropped hers, so I broke mine in half.
This was the happiest day of our lives,
children whose mothers didn’t drive, and had nowhere
to go but school and home, to be taken to that street
to watch the glittering steel and shining rubber belts moving,
moving meats, readymade. I wish I could talk with Jan,
recalling the miracle and thrill of the hot dog factory,
when she was alive, before it all stopped—
bright lights, glistening motors, spinning wheels.
Grace Cavalieri, Writer’s Almanac September 24, 2021
The gifts God gave were that some would be apostles,
some prophets, some evangelists,
some pastors and teachers,
to equip the saints for
the work of ministry,
for building up the body
of Christ
—Ephesians 4.11-12
And some would be listeners, and some good humorists,
some lovers of babies, some survivors, some singers.
Some are hopers, some healers, some encouragers.
Some are dreamers, some organizers, some workers.
No two sets of gifts are alike. None are inferior.
All are for building up, not tearing down,
all for the whole body, not themselves.
And no one is without. To be is to be gifted.
They are not talents, skills, privileges, or obligations.
They are gifts. To be received. To be given.
Listen, believer, for the echo of your own calling,
the song of your own gifts. Listen, and follow.
Listen for the voice of one another's gifts,
for everyone you meet is gifted.
We equip one another for love.
Steve Garnaas-Holmes, unfoldinglight.net July 29, 2021
I have not really, not yet, talked with otter
about his life.
He has so many teeth, he has trouble
with vowels.
Wherefore our understanding
is all body expression —
he swims like the sleekest fish,
he dives and exhales and lifts a trail of bubbles.
Little by little he trusts my eyes
and my curious body sitting on the shore.
Sometimes he comes close.
I admire his whiskers
and his dark fur which I would rather die than wear.
He has no words, still what he tells about his life
is clear.
He does not own a computer.
He imagines the river will last forever.
He does not envy the dry house I live in.
He does not wonder who or what it is that I worship.
He wonders, morning after morning, that the river
is so cold and fresh and alive, and still
I don’t jump in.
Mary Oliver, Evidence (Beacon Press, 2009)
You are holding up a ceiling
with both arms. It is very heavy,
but you must hold it up, or else
it will fall down on you. Your arms
are tired, terribly tired,
and, as the day goes on, it feels
as if either your arms or the ceiling
will soon collapse.
But then,
unexpectedly,
something wonderful happens:
Someone,
a man or a woman,
walks into the room
and holds their arms up
to the ceiling beside you.
So you finally get
to take down your arms.
You feel the relief of respite,
the blood flowing back
to your fingers and arms.
And when your partner’s arms tire,
you hold up your own
to relieve him again.
And it can go on like this
for many years
without the house falling.
Michael Blumenthal, Against Romance (Pleasure Boat
Studio, 2006)
