Poem Sort

Berrigan (2) Berry (1) Bishop (1) consumerism (2) culture (3) Eliot (1) friends (7) god (8) gratitude (3) Hafiz (1) latin america (6) loss (8) love (27) music city (2) nature (9) north america (5) Oliver (2) question(s) (17) religion (4) Rilke (1) run-on (2) sanneman (5) scene(s) (21) science (2) spirit (11) study (4) travel (6) united states (3)

22 November 2012

Long time

Inspired by Tamara

He vanished for a long time
hopped aboard a train to who-knows-where
like a vagabond or perhaps
like a monk seeking solitude in movement
I wondered where in who-knows-where
he learned to see that way, in the silence
Then one time after a long time
we met again in passing and
abandoning our silent ships for a moment,
He thanked me for the eyes I gave him.

It was then when I really
heard music for the first time
in a long time.

"Miracles," Daniel Berrigan


Were I God almighty, I would ordain,
rain fall lightly where old men trod,
no death in childbirth, neither infant nor mother,
ditches firm fenced against the errant blind,
aircraft come to ground like any feather.
No mischance, malice, knives.
Tears dried. Would resolve all
flaw and blockage of mind
that makes us mad, sets lives awry.

So I pray, under
the sign of the world's murder, the ruined son;
why are you silent?
feverish as lions
hear us in the world,
caged, devoid of hope.

Still, some redress and healing.
The hand of an old woman
turns gospel page;
it flares up gently, the sudden tears of Christ.


"Come Dance," Hafiz


Every child has known God,
Not the God of names,
Not the God of don’ts,
Not the God who ever does Anything weird,
But the God who knows only 4 words.
And keeps repeating them, saying:
“Come Dance with Me , come dance.”

-- Hafiz

"Lament," Rainer Maria Rilke


I would like to walk
out of my heart
under the wide sky.
I would like to pray.
One of these stars
must still exist.
I believe I know
which one
still lasts
and stands
and stands like a city, white
in the sky at the end of the beam of light….

– Rilke

08 November 2012

Marigolds

Assembled from scraps of prose:


I wonder about the saints around this time of year.
I wondered about your Mama, about your sisters and your Papa.
I wondered about your house and the marigolds.
I went to the cold church, but I only shivered in the cold pew.  
In there the pews were cold and the air was hard in there.
Marigolds on every year the day means more.
I never really knew you, Salvador.