The Minister

 

  I mastered pastoral theology, the Greek of the Apostles, and all the difficult subjects in a minister’s curriculum.

          I was as learned as any in this country when the Bishop ordained me.

          And I went to preside over Mount Moriah, largest flock in the Conference.

          I preached the Word as I felt it, I visited the sick and dying and comforted the afflicted in spirit.

          I loved my work because I loved my God.

          But I lost my charge to Sam Jenkins, who has not been to school four years in his life.

          I lost my charge because I could not make my congregation shout.  

          And my dollar money was small, very small.

          Sam Jenkins can tear a Bible to tatters and his congregation destroys the pews with their shouting and stamping.

          Sam Jenkins leads in the gift of raising dollar money.

          Such is religion.

Fenton Johnson, public domain, published as Poem-of-the-Day, April 7, 2019 by Academy of American Poets

Skinny-Dipping on Sifnos

 

Above the azure inlet of the sea,
the path was steep, carved out between
the thistles, thorns and wind-blown rock.

He left her at the top to find a sheltered place
they wouldn’t be seen descending to the shore.
She waited, fully clothed there,
till, looking down, she saw his gleaming skin
and upturned face above the churning deep,
as if he’d changed from man to seal
and loved this transformation.

She shed her clothes and picked her way
as far down as she could on tender feet—
then took a leap of faith, exchanging rock
for empty air, a rush of cold and bubbles
in her hair. Her toes touched seaweed
as she swam toward her selkie mate.

Two naked, slippery people,
seventy and sixty-five,
feeling so alive and filled with joy,
treading water side by side in the extra-salty,
turquoise blue Aegean Sea, rich in iodine,
with the power to heal
all kinds of wounds.

They tasted salt and kissed,
two shipwrecked sailors
who’d managed to survive.

Barbara Quick, The Light on Sifnos (Blue Light Press, 2021)

The Vacation

 

Once there was a man who filmed his vacation.
He went flying down the river in his boat
with his video camera to his eye, making
a moving picture of the moving river
upon which his sleek boat moved swiftly
toward the end of his vacation. He showed
his vacation to his camera, which pictured it,
preserving it forever: the river, the trees,
the sky, the light, the bow of his rushing boat
behind which he stood with his camera
preserving his vacation even as he was having it
so that after he had had it he would still
have it. It would be there. With a flick
of a switch there it would be. But he
would not be in it. He would never be in it.

Wendell Berry, Heron and Egret Society, dallasegrets.org

The Magnificent Frigatebird

They’re bullies and the way they feed is gross,

forcing the smaller fishers to disgorge

their catch in flight, then swooping down to snatch

it for themselves. Along the beach they court

in gangs, frenetically, lacking the charm

of strolling balladeers. Absurdly they

all clack their curious bills and flap their wings,

fluttering for the females overhead,

and then fly off with them to strange lagoons.

Honeymoons there are brief because the males,

like feathery Casanovas, soon decamp,

eager for more romance, stranding their mates,

who contemplate the need to rest alone

in what magnificence the marsh affords.

George Green, Bright Wings, Billy Collins, editor (Columbia University Press, 2010) 

Lead

Here is a story
to break your heart.
Are you willing?
This winter
the loons came to our harbor
and died, one by one,
of nothing we could see.
A friend told me
of one on the shore
that lifted its head and opened
the elegant beak and cried out
in the long, sweet savoring of its life
which, if you have heard it,
you know is a sacred thing,
and for which, if you have not heard it,
you had better hurry to where
they still sing.
And, believe me, tell no one
just where that is.
The next morning
this loon, speckled
and iridescent and with a plan
to fly home
to some hidden lake,
was dead on the shore.
I tell you this
to break your heart,
by which I mean only
that it break open and never close again
to the rest of the world.

Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems – Volume Two (Beacon Press, 2007) 

Pinup

 

The murkiness of the local garage is not so dense
that you cannot make out the calendar of pinup
drawings on the wall above a bench of tools.
Your ears are ringing with the sound of
the mechanic hammering on your exhaust pipe,
and as you look closer you notice that this month's
is not the one pushing the lawn mower, wearing
a straw hat and very short blue shorts,
her shirt tied in a knot just below her breasts.
Nor is it the one in the admiral's cap, bending
forward, resting her hands on a wharf piling,
glancing over the tiny anchors on her shoulders.
No, this is March, the month of great winds,
so appropriately it is the one walking her dog
along a city sidewalk on a very blustery day.
One hand is busy keeping her hat down on her head
and the other is grasping the little dog's leash,
so of course there is no hand left to push down
her dress which is billowing up around her waist
exposing her long stockinged legs and yes the secret
apparatus of her garter belt. Needless to say,
in the confusion of wind and excited dog
the leash has wrapped itself around her ankles
several times giving her a rather bridled
and helpless appearance which is added to
by the impossibly high heels she is teetering on.
You would like to come to her rescue,
gather up the little dog in your arms,
untangle the leash, lead her to safety,
and receive her bottomless gratitude, but
the mechanic is calling you over to look
at something under your car. It seems that he has
run into a problem and the job is going
to cost more than he had said and take
much longer than he had thought.
Well, it can't be helped, you hear yourself say
as you return to your place by the workbench,
knowing that as soon as the hammering resumes
you will slowly lift the bottom of the calendar
just enough to reveal a glimpse of what
the future holds in store: ah,
the red polka dot umbrella of April and her
upturned palm extended coyly into the rain.

Billy Collins, internetpoem.com, accessed on May 15, 2021

Democracy

 

Democracy will not come
Today, this year
Nor ever
Through compromise and fear.

I have as much right
As the other fellow has
To stand
On my two feet
And own the land.

I tire so of hearing people say,
Let things take their course.
Tomorrow is another day.
I do not need my freedom when I'm dead.
I cannot live on tomorrow's bread.

Freedom
Is a strong seed
Planted
In a great need.

I live here, too.
I want freedom
Just as you.

Langston Hughes, internetpoem.com, accessed May 15, 2021