What a father teaches

 I recently had a poem published by the Texas Poetry Assignment. The poem is entitled "What a father teaches." It is mostly true, told with a little bit of imagining. My father did talk to me of the blue jays and how they cared for me. I was one of their own.  And my father was a shoe man, a salesman almost all his life. Until he started his lawn care business when he retired.  At 90 he still mows a few lawns (mostly for neighbors).  The poem was originally part of my "Blind man" series, but has now found a life of its own.  

Some thoughts for Lent on insufficiency and the body's theology of need (plus a poem)

The body's theology, is a theology of need, of insufficiency. This is my meditation for Lent; the fact that built into each and every one of us is a need for someone or something else. As a society, we tend to mistake need for a negative thing. But, the fact is that whatever it is I need, whether it is a kind word or a cup of coffee, help changing a flat tire or just help getting out of a chair, that need is an opportunity for someone else to set aside their own plans, their own needs or desires, to lay down their own life for the sake of another. When we see someone in need, we are given an opportunity not just to serve another, but to become more fully ourselves. We are being given an opportunity to share our gifts and become more fully who we were meant to be.  But, even more than that—we are being given an opportunity to enter into the presence of God.  “Whatever you do for the least of these (the hungry, the thirsty, the naked, the sick, the prisoner, the needy), you do for Me.” Matthew 25:31-46. My need, my insufficiency is part of my humanity—it is built into my very flesh--- and somehow in the mystery of God’s grace, that is a blessing we can never escape. And so, I have written this poem as a reminder for myself that brokenness and need are at the heart of  the body’s theology. 

A theology of need

 

Sufficient in

our insufficiency;

this is the body’s theology;

 

an emptiness

within our every effort

where another may find

 

space enough

to be

 

enough;

 

each of us

an empty cup

waiting for

a broken pitcher.

 

To fill a void with our own

is to finally find our home,

 

a place where we belong.

 

This

is the body’s theology.

 

The saints are never

wrong.

Mission Impossible : the Poet’s Protocol

 Mission Impossible : the Poet’s Protocol

 

Every day a miracle unfolds;

it is your job

 

—should you choose to accept it--

to bear witness

 

to it; the truth of it;

don’t let it escape;

 

the truth is a gift 

that will spark like flint

disappear 

like smoke;

 

self-destruct in five seconds

if you let it; but don’t.

 

Take up your pen

(or steal one

 

—if necessary); write

NOW!

 

The world is depending

on you.

 

Grab the inspiration

and get out fast;

 

it may be a trap!

 

The first theologian

 

was a woman

who came seeking

 

nothing

 

for herself;

a day of walking

 

in the heat, in the sun,

she came

 

for her daughter

she came

 

like something wild out of the desert

she came

 

eyes almost blind with fear,

face streaked with sweat

 

and dirt matted hair, she came

crying out

 

until the voices whispered

like demons of her own

 

driving her away

By what right

 

did they say these things

call her a dog

 

to drive her away;

but she would not leave

 

until she received

the nothing she had come for;

 

and when he turned,

it was not to her

 

he said: It is not right

to take the children’s food

 

and throw it to the dogs;

but she knowing only

 

her daughter’s need

accepted even this as gift, 

asking only: How then

are the dogs to be fed?

 

And there it was, 

that he turned and sighed,

Your faith is great. It shall be

done for you as you desire.

And there it was,

the nothing she asked

 

becoming the gift

her daughter received.

 

A theology of need

This is a poem that I can't stop working on. It was published last year (Iris Literary Journal), but I keep going back to it. This summer, I workshopped it at UST with the poet James Matthew Wilson (and several wonderful writerly friends).  I think they helped me see it with fresh eyes. 
The idea for the poem and the main image of brokenness as a blessing came to me while I was volunteering as a chaplain's aid at the hospital.  What I began to sense as I visited patients and sat with families, was that they --in their struggle, in their fear, in their need-- were being transformed into sources of grace.  Often there was nothing I could do but sit by someone's side and hold their hand and listen to their tears, their memories, their laughter--or just the quiet discomfort of their breathing.  And yet, when it was time to go, I always felt that I was the one who had been blessed by the visit. As if  their sorrow, their trial, their need had opened a space for grace to enter into my own life, my own heart, my own soul.  

I find this to be an idea that haunts me.. It may be strange to say about your own writing, but it is true.   

A theology of need

  

Insufficiency

is the body’s theology;

 

an emptiness within

our every effort

where another may find

 

space

 

enough

to be enough:

 

an empty cup waiting

for a broken pitcher.

 

To fill a void with our own

is to finally find a home,

a space where we belong.

 

This is the body’s

theology.

The saints are never

 

wrong.

 

A poem for Holy Saturday 2022

 This poem comes from my book Stations (Wiseblood Books).  

It seems a fitting meditation for this Holy and mysterious day.

Station XIV:  Jesus is laid in his tomb

Wrapped and balmed, anointed

we lay the chill flesh upon the stone;

 

his mother now, released, weeps

silently beside her son

 

awaiting our withdrawal.

It grows dark.

 

And when the stone is moved in place

and when they all have gone,

 

I feel the silence of the unmoved earth

and press my face against the stone.

 

:

 

Make clean my heart, Oh Lord,

that it may be your tomb.

Make clean my heart,

that you may find your rest in me.

A Father's Day Poem

It makes me slightly giddy to think of my dad retiring from retail at the age of 70 and starting his own lawn care business.  Recently --at the age of 87-- he has talked of retiring from his mowing business too.  I think his garden and his porch  are calling...Or maybe it's just the ducks that stop by for bread every morning... Being a Dad involves a lot of responsibility. 

My Father's business was being (a Father's Day poem)

My father sold shoes

for forty seven years

before retiring at 70 

and buying an old truck 

and a couple of lawnmowers 

and now he mows lawns every

 

morning (except Sunday) and comes

home in the afternoon to hose

off the mowers before

 

taking a shower and settling

on his porch with a cooler

and a six pack of Miller Lite.

 

From his chair he can watch

the finches darting

in and out of the shade –splashes

 

of sunlight amongst the leaves,

upon the trellis and along

the porch rail. Sipping 

cold beer, he sighs 

at the world he made

for himself out of almost nothing

but gratitude and quiet 

confidence. And when the warmth 

of evening settles he remembers 

the feel of a woman’s foot

after a day of shopping.

 And reaches into the ice for another beer.

Cooking tofu on the porch in an electric skillet

Sometimes when I am doing a thing that takes me from writing, giving up my "personal time" to do something for another, what I find is that I am still writing. Just not on paper... A saying that is often attributed to St. Francis is this: Preach always; when necessary, use words.  I guess the same goes for writing a poem...  

Cooking tofu on the porch in an electric skillet

 

after marinating it

overnight in a bath

 

of soy sauce, maple

syrup, garlic, chili

 

powder, ginger, and rice

-wine vinegar,

 

I sit here in the damp heat

delicately turning each soft slice

 

ginger and garlic sizzling into the air

trying carefully to singe the edges

 

turning each slice with care

to see that it burns only enough

 

just the way you like

because after 2 weeks of radiation

 

singing the inside of your stomach

with such delicate care

 

it is all you ask for

though the smell

 

of cooking makes you sick

 

When I come inside

plate of browned

 

dominos (we used to call them) still hot

(just the way you like)

 

with delicate care you will

take one and smile

 

(and that will be too much)

And even as you push the plate away

 

you will thank me for them

all

 

 

Here is the RECIPE for the marinade and cooking the tofu... If you are interested in a little vegetarian delight. 

 

A poem inspired by The Immaculate Conception

Here is a brief poem inspired by the Feast of the Immaculate Conception  (Dec 8).  And a note from Encyclopedia Britannica explaining what that term means:

"Immaculate Conception, Roman Catholic dogma asserting that Mary, the mother of Jesus, was preserved free from the effects of the sin of Adam (usually referred to as “original sin”) from the first instant of her conception."

Immaculate Conception

 

 

Undeserved by anything

except the fact

 

that you were chosen;

virus like

 

it infects everything

you are,

 

everything touched

becomes suspect.

 

Because you are

it is to be

 

expected.

 

 

Giving Thanks This Glorious Gray Morning

Giving thanks

 

I woke early this morning

and the internet was down

 

and the cat was hungry

and the floor was gritty

 

with litter and the glass

of water I left on the counter

 

was cloudy and surrounded

by a puddle and paw prints

 

and finally, when I had a moment

that first pot of coffee

 

poured in my cup was full

of grounds because I forgot the filter

 

And yet I give thanks

for the dampness of air and gray

 

morning light and the squirrels

asking for peanuts

 

even though I told them yesterday

I was out and then

 

my walk

in the quiet just beyond dawn

 

and the phone that kept ringing

and never anyone

 

I knew

would call before 8 which is something

 

the phone itself seemed to know

because it kept announcing

 

each call with the words: Scam Likely

and so each time I answered, asking

 

Hello, is this a scam

Sadly

I was never surprised

No one answered Yes

 

Mostly they hung up

for which I am only partially thankful

 

But, on my way home

the gray lifting from the air

 

I saw an old woman walking

delicately cautiously

 

as if she were crossing something

precarious or shifting

 

And raising a finger to her lips

she pointed

 

to something large stirring

by the curb

 

a great oval of black

bobbing its arcing neck

 

toward the concrete

as if in prayer

 

as if giving thanks

before tugging at the tangled strands of something

 

mounded in the street

It stopped

 

at my approach

to look at me and squawk

 

The woman raised her hand

We stopped

 

all three of us to watch

each other

 

All of us

unexpected

 

A buzzard an old woman

and me (as old as I can be)

 

And each of us set

to protect this moment

 

The vulture tugged

at the possum’s root-like tail

 

anxious to protect

its meal

 

The old woman

her phone out now

 

anxious to protect

her shot

 

and me stirred to silence

and anxious to see

 

This strangeness come to be

an arc of bird

 

tugging at tendrils

pulling at the tail of the lifeless mess

 

trying to find a moment’s peace

with its morning feast

 

until my phone

again

 

startled us with its scam

likely to send

 

wings impossibly wide

opening into air

 

and gasps as we turned to watch

such grace ascending

 

We stood there

joined by a car stopped in the street

 

and head hanging out asking

Did you see that

 

And we did and we did

not know what else to say

 

Until it was gone

high into the trees and somewhere

 

beyond and we shook

our heads and laughed

 

And headed home

in search of something

 

we knew could only be

less than what

 

we now knew this day

to be

 

And so in quiet gratitude

I whisper

 

thanks for the hunger

that drives me out into the day

 

and thanks for the woman

with the delicate step

 

and thanks

for the bird and even

 

the possum who became

the feast for one (to share with all) this day

 

But I think I might

forget that phone at home

 

next time.

In Thanksgiving for Mothers

 A mother’s love is all we bring

 

A mother’s kiss

Her welcome smile

Her gentle touch

Brings forth the child

 

We all were once

This little one

Who needed her

To bring us home

 

It is her love

Heals the wound

Every injury

Her hand has soothed

 

We come to her--

our song to sing--

but find a mother’s love

is all we bring

Two poems for the Fall (or a two-part poem for a different kind of fall...)

The garden and the ants

 

I.

It is good to weed the garden

but we must also sleep in it

 

protect the newness

of the buds

 

from moonlight’s

anxious gaze

 

so many stars

blossoming 

in the stillness of the dark 

earth

below

 

 

 

II.

All summer long

the ants have carried clouds

upon their backs

 

up the mountain’s edge

I watch them

from the grass

 

beneath their feet

watch them

walking up the mist

 

each one a sliver

of morning

 

melting

into the mountains

 

At Autumn’s end

the worms whisper

 

to me

See the melting sun

 

rise

A Father's Day poem

This is coming a little late for Father's Day (perhaps), but I wanted to share it because it kind of goes with my Bible reflection as well.  It is what came from that voice in my head that spoke like my father --a man who liked (and still likes) to make things up...
I guess that is where I got it from.

What a father teaches

My father spoke to me

of birds.

Washing dinner dishes

he would talk

of how they cared for me

when I was young.

I remember the sound of his voice

and the water

stirring in the sink.

The ruffle of suds oozing from

his cloth

as he squeezed it out.

Remember that Chinaberry tree?

And all those jays?

He said.

How they cared for you

so high.

Like you were one of their own.

He said.

In the treetops. You loved

peanuts.

Just like a blue jay.

That was the year your mother

left for Tulsa

with that shoe man

she couldn’t stand.

Must have finally tried him on;

liked the fit.

When he was done, we’d sit

on the porch

with his beer and watch the darkness

disappear.

Each year on Father’s Day I rise

early,

take a pocketful of peanuts

to the stump of a tree I never climbed

and spread them

for all to share.

After opening a beer, I sit

motionless, in the shade

listening

for my father’s voice to fill

the air.

On Mother's Day We Remember

On Mother's Day we remember A mother’s love opened the world to everything new Take my hand she smiled

Let us cross together And so it began

The blind man gardens (another poem for the pandemic)

The blind man gardens

My father said, I believe

in trees

wildflowers blooming

in the shadow of the falling

fence

And these little yellow

blossoms

five tiny petals

opening each tender stem

A twiggy thing

green leafed

See

How many of them now

Count them for me

He said, Son,

they are my beloved

Mow around them as you go

Scentless prairie flowers

the ash of what

once blazed

Imagine the world

without us

Poem for the pandemic #6

A Mother’s Advice

I should have known

my mother’s advice

would save the world.

Wash your hands, she said.

Cover your mouth when you cough,

she said. Stay home

if you are sick, she said.

But here I am, much too old,

finally listening.

What else,

I can’t help but wonder,

did she get right

while I was too busy to listen.

Poem for the pandemic #4

"Fearing crowds, Harris County to close parks for Easter weekend..."

--Houston Chronicle 8 April 2020

The parks now are closed

and yet Ralph, the old man

who wears a name tag

(because sometimes he forgets)

and prays on his fingers

(counting his Rosary),

still walks the path

--nothing to stop him.

And the ex-marine

in his bandana

still runs the edges

of the fence steadily

solemnly nodding

to Ralph as they pass.

And Mary –who always stops

to chat with someone--

is pushing her daughter’s pug

in a stroller because

he’s too old to walk

but we all still need to get out.

She waves to me

out in the street.

I return her greeting

but continue to walk alone

unwilling to break the rules.

The parks are all closed

but inside one of them

a blind pug sits in a stroller

waiting to see, as a bird

hiding in a cypress

begins to sing.

Poem for the pandemic #3

This year for Lent

My desert is a kitchen

chair on the porch

and a neighbor

who calls from the curb

like an angel:

Need anything?

Quite sadly, I say, No.

I have everything.

And that is my biggest

problem.

And yet, if you’re going,

toilet paper is always

nice and why not pick me up

some Shiner.

Of course, if you’re getting beer

how about some chips?

And, since you asked,

I’m almost out of bean dip.

This year for Lent

I think I’m just

giving up.

Another poem for the pandemic

Today it was announced that we are under a "stay at home" order. Only the essential are to be leaving for work and out and about... Thank God we can still go to the park--as long as we keep our distance.

On the last day before the last day of the world

the leaves were green

and a breeze stirred the sunlit shadows.

A single brown leaf dropped

from somewhere high

only to stop

midair

dangling,

glistening as it turned, catching

the light and the shade.

It hung there as if a sign

that the first thing to go

would be gravity,

until I realized

it must be caught in a web

now broken.

On the last day before

the last day of the world

a spider rested; its work finally done.

Yet even now it descends,

gathering broken strands,

to begin again.

A poem for the pandemic

I called this poem an "etude" because I liked the sound of the word. I had to look it up to find out what it meant. It is French for 'study," and I it works. This little meditation on small pleasures and quiet reassurances is a kind of "study." Kind of like a still-life drawing...


Etude for the pandemic



The world is afraid
and so am I
but this morning I woke
early and walked to the park where
I met a woman pushing a stroller
and as we chatted
(from an appropriate distance)
her little boy climbed
out and chased a squirrel
into a tree under which
he stood shouting up into
the high branches: Hello! Hello! Hello!
We laughed
and his mother said: He’s in
charge of waking the squirrels.
All of them.


And then I came home
and sat on the porch
at the glass topped table
with the rusty frame
and sipped my coffee
and watched the pollen
stirring like golden dust
and the sunlight slicing
a leaf with shadow and
the breeze stirring a fleck
of incandescent orange
and black into the air where it
fluttered round the yard,
hovering over
the table like a dove
while I sat with my cold coffee
waiting for the world to end.
But nothing happened except
a bee settled on the lip
of my cup and wandered the edge
of this solemn morning
with me.


The world is afraid
the bee hummed,

but filling the cup
it reminded me: we are alive
and that is enough
if only we live.