The earth itself made pinnacle pulpit
holds the pull of tides and troubles,
looms, tolling— stark and steadfast—
over fluid lands.
Those at mercy of an elemental war
took visibly shifting, volatile soil,
for a voice— bellowing, breathless giant—
singing of a steadier hand.
Here we enter, bask in light and piped song,
look on a reframed world and give thanks;
take in hand triumph—elements broken. Here,
beauty, from Beauty, pleads mercy.
You are close to mind
as near as quilts are cozy
as nutmeg smells.
You are warm in memory
as joyful as a ginger snap crunching
in the toothy smile, of
me, long ago.
You would love my child
like a mother, but more treats;
like it was what you were made to do.
“The truth is, men were more inclined to avoid the death of the flesh which they could not avoid, than the death of the spirit; that is, they shrank more from the punishment than from what deserved the punishment. Few, after all, care— or care very much— abou not sinning; but they make a great fuss about not dying, though it is in fact unobtainable. So then, in order that as by one man came death so by one man there might come the resurrection of the dead, the mediator of life came to show us how little we should really fear death, which in our human condition cannot now be avoided anyway, and how we should rather fear ungodliness which can be warded off by faith. And to do this he came to meet us at the end to which we had come, but not by the way we had come. We came to death by sin, but he came by justice; and so while our death is the punishment of sin, his death became a sacrifice for sin.”
Augustine, On the Trinity, Book IV, 13
By the cross of Christ which brought us nigh
to God that we might see,
the coming fullness of all hope,
we know this joy will be.
By the love of God who did not withhold
such gift of life to those
who suffered long the death they chose,
this faith we’ve come to know.
Now all the power manifest to worldly eyes and hearts,
turned some to flesh, led dark to light;
God himself new life imparts.
Those he offended, Christ will shame
when in pow’r he returns,
but you who hope, abide in love;
His child he will not spurn.
Upon technical difficulties with a friend.
Tall-tale fears I’ve heard them tell:
man’s fate at the hand of rogue gadgets.
Ne’er had I worried for myself, I admit,
but none ever told of such foibles!
Our petty phones— nay, pocket nymphs!—
have worked such rascal mischief
to keep far friends yet further still.
What joy could be found in such plots?
On Repentance, a hymn
With every edging of the sun
must I repeat, “I’ve been undone”
to meet what lofty ledgers need
to know my sin lords not over me?
But I over that, by another’s power
do wield might, each moment, each hour.
How might I tire, save that grand sight
is given simply for delight!
What vision is this blinding day,
but he who stood in judgment’s way?
In memoriam: of a baby crane
Sweet was the sight of the three of you,
wandering comfortably through our yard.
Calm were your steps, and your calls were familiar;
when noticed, your love brought us joy.
To see you now is to see you alone,
to wonder why death couldn’t wait.
I selfishly hope never such for myself,
and shirk duty, that age-old mandate.
The Dinner Party
The aftermath was overwhelming:
piles and stacks, greasy and stuck.
The consequences would be lasting.
Everyone saw it; they all watched him leave.
Lemon rinds in coffee cups,
highballs upside down in bowls,
not quite regretting
—but that word came to mind—
and never remorseful, though certainly sad,
She considered just walking away.
Out the blue door, down the sidewalk,
in sunlight, miles take moments,
yet street lights grow dim.
A glint makes her blink and
she’s back, elbow-deep.
While beams dance on billowed suds,
she sips old wine.
…
But why me? why’s it for me to sing so much of humankind’s misfortunes?
The ache exists for each one of our race.
It’s not by me that the earth goes unshaken, the gales batter the seas;
and the hours give way to each other in a rush:
night’s laid rest to day, the air’s grown thick with cold.
The stars by the sun and the sun by a cloud
find their beauty expunged: and the moon revives.
Again, this heaven, full of stars, is half as bright.
And you, Lucifer, were once among the angelic choirs,
O evil-eyed! But you’ve dropped now shamefaced from the heavens.
Be merciful to me, O Trinity, cherished kingdom: not even you
entirely escaped the tongue of senseless mortals.
First the Father, afterwards the great Child, and then the great God’s
Spirit is attacked by scurrilous words.
Where will you stop while carrying me further, bad-counseling worry?
Stop. Everything is secondary to God. Give in to reason.
God didn’t make me in vain. I am turning
my back upon this song: this thing was from our feeble mindedness.
Now’s a fog, but afterwards the Word, and you’ll know all,
whether seeing God, or eaten up by fire.
Now, when the beloved mind had sung for me these things,
it digested its pain. And late from the shady grove I headed home,
now laughing at this self-estrangement, then once again
heart in anguish smoldering, from a mind at war.
O Lord our God, whose beauty beckons,
bring us in to know your light.
You’ve made us so to want to see you,
yet you alone can give such sight.
Hope you gave in songs and visions,
telling truth you laid in law;
Christ you came, our love apparent,
we looked on you and God we saw.
Endless joy to seek your face,
glimpses fuel yet more desire.
Meant to know you as your own,
to nearness raise us ever higher.
Give us grace, make us more like you;
give our minds what your heart seeks.
Tune our every contemplation,
that what we love we might now see.