Resurrection Day: Once

So..it’s been a while since I posted, so Easter is as good a time as any.  Each year, I try to spend some time reflecting on Christ’s death and resurrection and what this whole Gospel thing means to me.  That being said, I have been delaying it and didn’t really start working on a poem until a couple days ago – but here is a product of my mulling:

Once there was despair
a void, a darkness
Now the Word spoken into being
brings hope, filling, light

Once there was the law
the “do”s, the “don’t”s
the punishment for crimes
Now there stands the cross
a reprieve, one word
“PAID”

Once a command to sacrifice our “Isaac”
Our nearest love to prove
our faith
Now replaced by
the last-moment lamb
“Stay thy hand”
there is a greater sacrifice

Once the wrath of God
a necessary answer to that choice
in Eden long ago
Now poured out on His Son
A promise fulfilled
a plan completed
Death’s sting: gone.

Once a forbidden room
the Holy of holies
the throne of God
Now open to all
a curtain: ripped
the High Priest: broken
the distant God
brought close.

Once the law
Now the blood
Once brokenness
Now healing
Once fear
Now presence
Once chasm
Now confidence

Once…me.
Now Christ.

The Star

Wrote this last year, Christmas 2010

300 years of silence

Waiting
A star, millions of lives away,
Preparing
Revealing
A path to a manger
Waiting
For all who are seeking
Truth.

Autumn on the Light Rail

Now Winter – the seasons are passing too fast – not sure why this year, it seems so much more so – here is my Autumnal poem:

I have fallen into
Autumn missed the summer
for enjoying the spring before winter

suffocates
I will try to let the colors
paint my soul
the veins of the leaves
imprinted firmly upon

- a druid’s dream -

Now in sweaters
now in hats
now in coats and gloves
they move on by
they move on by

I have failed Autumn for the longing
of the summer
Winter’s layering over spring
the great year’s causeway

Block letters
- strength against the grey -
I am Helvetica Bold

Watching bystanders
swoosh on
plaid coats
fall scarves
glowing cigarrettes
they move on by
they move on by

into a bus station’s silence.

The priestess and the stirfry

The mundane isn’t always…sometimes there is something holy about even the most everyday moment.  I’ll have to try a similar poem where I actually mention the cook  

The path
between the sacred triangle

sink
refrigerator
stove

circles the steady rhythmed
chop, chop of celery
the length of the knife
slices crisply through
cabbage
scrape, scraping

gleanings
into the wok
every remnant startles
static music
sizzling expletives
scooping, stirring,

scooping
each fresh piece
wilts into opaque clarity

careful preparation
quick tearing into

bitter onion
more scrapes
anointed in soy sauce

raw into ritual

My Why

Recently, I was asked to give my “Why?” I work at World Relief.  Here is part of my answer. Kind of similar to the first poem I posted (Hope)  (Also – shameless plug: visit World Relief at www.worldrelief.org)

Why? (Because I don’t know the meaning of the words ‘hunger’ ‘hopeless’ ‘persecuted’) My life – This very gift of breath (before I could do a thing) This very gift Of an able life lived with Abundant Hope Calls for only one response - Christ’s call to Truth Eden returned ‘Shalom’ renewed Justice for pain for oppressed for the shaken Hope for the frightened the empty the fallen Love for the lost the lonely the hidden HIM -          to the broken.

 

Sugar Cane

This was a bit of an exercise – my sister sent me a topic, and this is the first draft

Sugar Cane Nine Seven Years old we feel grown up but the sugarcane rises tall above us the sun beats hot on our bare shoulders machete in hand we take turns chop at the bamboo stalk as if our lives depend on it sharp leaves cut into my fists the effort it takes       – to chop back the bark           – to chew the sweet wood                  - to spit it all out Overpowered by the sweet sweet juice dripping down the chin The sun stops moving green grass glares emerald-bright sky covers my sister and I’m the sweet sweet juice, dripping down down on the machete on the ground next to us

The Busker at the T (Boston)

Visited Boston in May and rode nearly every line –  (and btw – a “busker” is one of those guys who plays music or sings for change). 

The Busker at the T

The rumbling of the train receded
in the background
the voices filtering out and in
faded
almost fervently
as one
note struck
plucked

a lingering mouthfeel

hanging, rendering
into Boston’s
cavern

Silence
to the people
Silence
by the people
We the people
give you silence
as Minuet in G
dances a weave

 through the busy lines
a p a u s e between
reports and runs
a sync-
o-
pated step
between clock-
outs and cop-
outs.  Listen.

Listen to
the dance
of the busker’s song.
Listen to the trance
of the riders’
(the Newbury buyers, the Fenway flyers, the Globe sighers)

full-STOP

at an empty guitar case
opened, ready for pennies
but the busker’s
just playing
just closing his eyes
and the listeners all
do the same.