Holy Friday

22 April 2006, 8:13 AM

I wonder if this is death
following the crucified Christ
having gone to His voluntary death
(O great heavens, have mercy—He is dead!)
now carried to His voluntary entombment

And we follow singing
alone
knowing whither we go
knowing there is no return
to the life we knew before
knowing also there is life truer
more beautiful and alive
than we have ever known
but not until we have followed Him
followed Him
followed Him to death and burial

I wonder if this is death
as I follow the corpse of the Living God
through the doorway of the Temple
through the Narthex to pass beneath Him
to the Nave

On this side of Him
Darkness

Passing underneath I cross myself
preparing to die
preparing for anguish
preparing for dark despair

On the other side of Him
(that which cannot be conquered by darkness)
light and beauty and faces of loved ones
Gold and fine vestments
beeswax burning, incense rising
olive oil aglow with light
recalling the Light that will come
again

I wonder if this is death
body, mind, spirit
overflowing with brightness
which cannot be contained
within a purely human frame
for the Spirit of Peace
will flow forth from us
having collected in these clay basins
the Faithful, filling us
to so much more than capacity

II.

Today the earth is robed in white
Trees and men walk in shadows
as clouds descend to venerate the Living God
Laid in a tomb by purely human hands
grieved by purely human tears
lamented by purely human tongues
He makes our purely human lives
desires
pursuits
accomplishments as nothing
compared with the surpassing beauty
the endless faithfulness
the wellspring of tenderness and love
even as He lies dead in our midst

III.

Yet only for a moment
does the Son of Man descend
for it takes but a word from His lips
to conquer the gates of the Hell of hells
to reclaim the keys
nay, to wrench those gates from their hinges
to tear them bar from bar
and hurl them into the Abyss
that no created being may retrieve
the full recompense owed humanity

Silence

19 April 2006, 10:43 PM

Truth spoken in malice, spite or pride
it is no more honorable than a lie;
more often than not, silence is a virtue.

Peace kept in fear or insecurity
disdains edification of a brother
where love dwells not, even silence is a vice

Redemption

10 April 2006, 12:10 AM

I’m not self-flagellating

I’m soberly looking at what I’ve handed you
and my heart is broken for you
even at your tender age of five
when you really can’t comprehend
what you will never have

But someday you will

And when you do I want you to know
you can tell me and you can be angry
You can wish out loud that things had been different

God knows I have

I never wanted to hand you two homes
one with a mother, one with a father
two distinct remnants of a family
and all the wounds you may someday discover
in your person, the deficit you may experience
in your sense of self and safety and belonging

I have great hope for redemption

If God can make good of the evils I’ve seen
if He can turn my heart
so that I am bent on loving you rightly
first and foremost
with or without my husband

if He can redeem my sin as I’ve seen Him do

perhaps He can protect you, heal you
guide you toward redemption in His time
for His glory
and for our salvation

Fisher Boy

5 April 2006, 11:29 PM

Sweet little fisher boy
you had the time of your life today
being a boy with a man who could stand
for those moments
in the place of a father or grandfather
baiting and tricking fish
into thinking your hook was a feast

You’re such a clever little fisher boy

and I can just see that moment
when the first one bit
that moment when your joy was too much to contain
within your sweet little five-year-old frame
and I wish I could have seen your face
Though I’ll never take a father’s place
I wanted to be there

The best I could do was give you the moment
arrange for the circumstance
where you’d find a new voice
a smile too big for your five-year-old cheeks
and soppy wet tennis shoes
you’ll never wear to school again

Sweet little five-year-old fisher boy
mommy loves you more than you can know
as I kiss your sweet, unconscious brow
and you drift off to sleep and dream
of your day in five-year-old fisher boy Paradise

Rhyme

5 April 2006, 6:30 AM

It’s not that I don't ever rhyme- I do
I’ve even written a sonnet or two

It’s just that sometimes a rhyme can sound tortured
like gorging oneself on a walk through an orchard
minding not season nor firmness nor color
considering each fruit just as good as another
and stuffing them down till one’s hunger is met
then eating beyond til the stomach’s upset
and the eater forgets (or never quite knows)
the pleasure entailed if she dared to propose
a restriction upon her walk through wood

A boundary would be
in the end
for her good

My Own Shalott

2 April 2006, 10:10 PM

Precious are the gifts entrusted to me
though I set aside their joy in a moment
to grasp for shades beyond my reach

I grow weary of shadows
Clearer grows my vision
when I see the thing I look upon
and not another
the beauty alotted my eye
and not a reflection in my mirror
my own perception
of that which I do not have