Hours From A Convent

Book of Hours: Convent Vows

2011-05-21T11:33:00.000-07:00

Here we are,

Israel’s covenant measured

and exact,

timed to each convent prayer:

each mass rises high

through the smoke of incense

as we lead the way

through our vows

minute by minute,

hour by hour,

day by day,

month by month,

year after year,

the seasons sifting
joys and sorrows.

Our band of gold rings our world

with newfound hope—

that your chalice of peace

is a graceful doe in a green.

The woman bearing crucifix,

now a Madonna of the streets,

is no myth, her shadow

falling on the old and infirm,

the dying, the diseased—

all reaching toward that one

immaculate hand.

“Salutations from heaven!”

she announced.

II.

The alchemy of morning

translated the dew into

music, simple as a lark’s trill

and darting like a shadow

over the fields,

over the roofs,

it disappeared into the clouds.

You are the one

who covers our heads

as a baby’s face

in the sunshine.

We weep our prayers

when you are grieved,

and sing joyfully

of all you have made.

The height of all creation

is You,

your purity and unselfish

desire for unity in us.

We are one

in the ardent circle of your flame

and it burns to clarity.

Our eyes shining boldly

at our indiscriminate gift

of love: ourselves.

III.

Genuine women

authenticate themselves

by practice of the art

of braiding the hair

of youth, and elder—

the wise transmuting

the lesser

to far greater gifts,

their hair shining

like gold vermilion.

Covered in a robe to the floor,

black and white lattices

cloak the garden in measures

of sound and multicolored light

slated, falls to earth

in unshared moments

of ecstasy and

damper petals.

Each flower opens

facing the sun,

looking for You:

and You are there

moment by moment

unfolding

like we wished for it

a long time ago…

IV.

I grew within your mind—

an embryo in the womb

of time, the starry midnight

moments of shared

nourishment and tranquility,

simple tides of an ocean

with salty breath and tattered air.

Your dark beauty did not

escape my grasp

as I held to you

as a lily in the moonlight,

shaded by night,

and blossoming by day

in fragrant glory.

The sweet white smell

sank under the doorframes,

rendered the other

children innocent,

noticing, reticent,

the burgeoning form

of the mother

and her child within.

I felt birth’s first fiery pangs

and push from dark to light,

when I reached to find you

as the warm smile I

had waited for.

You watched me breathe

the first breath,

and took me so carefully

like the delicate and fragile

ivory crèche.

Your milk

is my sustenance,

my hope rests

in your dark eyes.

Laughing, we taste

our first moments:

minutes and hours

that calm and thrill

our poise, to rise

to contemplate

and bend,

renewed.

VI.

Sight becomes as new as birth,

seeing first your heart, then

the dressing and bathing of routine,

the feeding of a sweeter milk

than time’s first touch—

of berries broached to woodland floor—

shake them as angels on a branch.

The apple orchard has but a reddened rouge,

the spires of late spring rise to tulips

red, orange and yellow as suns

large as lanterns in this land

where seeds are tiny black, and plentiful,

and harvest gleaned

in profusion come autumn.

VII.

The tiniest cry

meets your ears,

and I will find

the meadow that leads to you.

Swaying in the lazy tall grass,

a long haired maiden

with song

wild as the wind, plucking

the seeded dandelions

to blow them for ransom

toward the rogue waves,

to the rambling tides.

An instrument in your hands,

I become the woodwind

like an oboe of Gabriel.

VIII.

The pinnacle of afternoon

wafted sunlight through

the slated panes,

the icons I have observed

since my first renaissance

are kept carefully

in the most treasured

parts of a convent

where love is refined

and truth distilled

to pure

and vivid

water.

How do you show

me the way

on this path

silver and shining

by moonlight,

lit bravely

by saints and legend:

all chanting, they surround me.

I sing of you.

IX.

My heart broke open

and from its hearth stone

a sister took the bread of God,

broken with her careful hands

into pieces.

The warmth of my soul

steeped the tea over the stove,

deep and healing—

then drank the dregs of humanity

with a guilty shiver.

My past was not unformed

in your eyes,

and the land I had known before

was like a root cellar that had

become sterile and empty,

once stocked, now consumed

by envy, jealousy and greed.

I decided to follow you to a new land,

and never leave you.

We walked arm in arm

down a dusty road, my skirts

a plethora of colors

noble and bold,

my hair oiled with perfection,

crowned with English flowers,

white roses revealed their plumage

and spilled perfume

over our necks of silver.

The people hung over their gates

and waved valiantly from their horses,

cheering at the sight

of our staple covenant,

bright as the meat of figs

falling from a ripe tree

with its constellation of seeds.

Ruth and Naomi of old,

we traversed from the land of hunger

to the countryside

where the sea winds blow,

where the winds blow in and out,

and from our sectioned window

watch the salt waves.

Biddings

2011-05-21T11:30:00.000-07:00

Come, as you are

and see yourself

the queen of islands

beneath your starry gaze.

Put down roots

like a cherry tree in spring—

blossom in season

and send forth warm winds of rose.

Knight the evening:

a lad with horse

who thought to win your hand

and cast his laurel wreath.

Winner of the prize

you competed in the most arduous race,

steeling your forehead

to the end of happiness and pride.

II.

Peacocks speak of holy spirit’s love

their fiery plumage expunging

hate and ire,

draping the ground in the foliage,

bright with melodies

of picture-perfect guardianship

over elements thunderous

with melancholy.

We speak in different religions

from our own modest ports.

We cast our own characters,

and dance in our shadows.

The moments tick by,

waiting for a

standing ovation.

Somewhere a theatre

waits in velvet

and purple brocade,

an entrance to a grand world.

It has stone pillars

and an archetypal figure

could resound

into the stillness.

III.

Wheat is a heart

and chaff is a half-hearted attempt.

What is strength,

is not to falter and

give one's life for a fallacy.

I build my altar of stones

and light its fire.

I am its sacrifice,

an Isaac to its flames.

I will burn

in its fire,

holy and precious

as first love

unless,

what is pure

in God’s eyes

intervenes.

Like a martyr

to his pyre,

I stand

in awe

of judgment’s

blaze.

IV.

Spirits of a higher nature

mend the rifts

that unspoken

seem to drift

from you to I.

With silver wings they flutter—

back and forth they fly

into the waterblue sky.

The silent

drips of a faucet

seem to echo

my negligence

toward your well-being.

I wish my caring

had overlooked

the holes in

stockings:

but I noticed.

I looked the other way

instead of speaking out for justice

and valiant drunks

laughed in my face

spewing dark wine.

V.

An ointment

to a feverish brow,

covering the cold,

feeding the hungry,

clothing the naked,

they are still mine,

and belong to me

as poverty belongs to great riches.

I pour the essential oils of

eucalyptus, melaleuca, and rose

over a troubled nation

of hurtful words

and broken promises.

If they are healed,

they will rise again—

leaving behind

the trappings of guilt

and pain, like old clothing

ready for the fire.

Burn, nation

to purity;

let the old notions die.

VI.

Today,

there will be peace in this land.

Today,

there will be justice and mercy.

Today, liberty will prevail over

fear and imprisonment.

For the mind of man

is bathed in a salve

that cleans and cures,

that dreams and thoughtful wishes,

sparking a new decade

where I shall speak,

knowing of its power.

What I say

shall last forever—

as a child who grows

to adulthood,

and buries his mother

with the blessing

of eternal youth.

Love shall burn

here like a candle.

I am the candle

of your love.

VII.

You hear me,

chastened in this room

where myth was once

a chariot and rider

climbing toward the clouds.

You speak,

and your words

are a tryst with love and sorrow,

evermet by diligence and prudence.

A lion and a unicorn

dictate our due process.

I touch you again and again

because you must

become immortal—

as all kings, queens, rulers, and powers

you must make a nation bow.

VIII.

Light and darkness

slip through my fingerings

of the grand piano with

a mighty prelude and fugue.

Dormant counterpoint emerges

breathless at its bearings

like Saturn’s rings

and Mars’s fire.

Play for an hour or more,

with time no factor

in the greatness

of a master.

Teach your skill

to us as spoken words:

not uncaring, not unfeeling

sympathy in a crystal vase.

The golden primrose teary

with dew at dawn

shall speak their piece

with all due ceremony.

IX.

With the gardener

tending his flock of orchids

like a shepherd,

leading them to drink,

rain from the sky…

The vale of daffodils:

profuse and bright

yellow, sackloth pistils,

hidden bulbs underground.

The wild spice winds blow,

tangling the pines,

whispering in the prolific fountains—

pruning the hedges,

battering the roses

bright with militant arms.

When the iris break and die,

when their translucent pale life

ebbs away, no one will say good-bye.

X.

I, the angel of seven churches

at long last

will blow my horn: surrender.

Run to win the laurel,

lest our light deceive us,

and the impermanence

of the natural world

drive us to restrict

what is good

from fear of illusion

or splendor.

The far of liberty creates chaos,

the catching of the imagination

to a harness, to a structured poetic device

precludes minimization

of the divine to mere humanity.

Lest humanity become divine.

Lest a cradle carrying godhood

swipe the stars.

Lest some higher being

or farce charge you with manhood

that would imbue power

to the ritual altar.

I will not hold you under siege.

The Alchemy of Purity

2011-05-21T11:27:00.000-07:00

Humanity

is the natural flower of love.

It emanates

the crushed fragrance of God

and delves deep

into the mystery of survival.

Without it

would not exist

the emotion and pathos

of mankind.

The mysterious soul

is in no way limited

by the burdens

of suffering

but rather freed

by its bonds of communion

with holiness.

II.

The soul is the center

of a human being

and protects

the inner sanctum of the spirit.

The spirit communes

and is in intimacy

with a spiritual being,

namely God.

God unites the person

with others in communion.

Communion, in its essence,

is a liberation of the limited mind,

a straightening of focus.

It is the dire opposite of communism.

The passion of Christ

involved communion

in a life-giving way:

the complete emptying of oneself unto death.

This is the highest end of a human being:

to die for another or one’s country.

III.

To indifference

is the mind callused,

for the wells of compassion,

like the deeps of the sea,

are unlimited

and crash onto each new shore

with juxtaposed furor.

The natural thought

is the inescapable future.

The cosmos is regulated

and regular,

unceasing and unfinished,

constantly renewing

and completing itself.

It is designed to be claimed

and cared for,

to create love

and loved ones,

both animals and people.

IV.

To have victory

in the literal sense

is to have money, possessions,

family, and freedom;

in the figurative sense,

it is to be born anew

inasmuch as one

commits error.

To be victorious

is to delay defeat;

for defeat comes eventually

and claims us through death.

This is why death

is our mortal enemy

and steals from us our years

and our joys.

Victory means our antagonist

meets defeat, thus we are in a battle

and have the deadliest of opponents.

V.

Our most severe thunderstorm

emulates the clash of battle.

It is a display of splendor

and power in a warring heaven

and we withdraw into cover.

We are defeated mortals;

we are incapable of controlling the elements.

We can only measure and predict them;

we cannot stop or delay them.

We need to be victorious

in a measured sense,

the ordered war

against our opponent:

the force behind death and decay,

illness, and poverty.

This is why we work,

strive daily to be meticulous,

dress and clean,

renew and replenish.

These opposing forces

cause illness, disease, unrest, and violence—

they maim us to the good and beautiful

so we are disfigured and incapable.

VI.

The hope of mankind

is to be at some point

transformed by metamorphosis

into a spectacular

and advanced species,

unlike the butterfly.

We are designed for expression

and the catharsis of the arts.

We are made both for dance

and football,

to intrigue and to cultivate.

We hope to live longer,

have more, and be stronger.

We shame our frailty.

And the weak suffer;

they need community to thrive.

They need others

to lend them a helping hand.

They need to be spoon-fed.

We have hope to grow,

to have a futuristic outlook,

to reproduce:

what antagonizes its purity

is not our domain.

VII.

In the mountains of the sun,

where the field stretches

all the way

to the rim of horizon,

I have been known

to pass hours

without a particular

goal or care,

but as part of nature

I found that the mystery

of birth and rebirth

played on my sentiments.

There was always

a skylark reaping

a dive from the heavens,

and a silver cloud

which a ray of sun

illumined,

beside the great chronicler

of human nature,

the earth in all its abundance

and gestation.

VIII.

When people find each other

in the great vast universe,

they sense a kinship

between peoples,

and when they separate,

their spirits still converse

over many miles.

For friends do not happily

endorse separation,

but endure it with the goal

of being reunited.

To befriend someone

is indeed a gift of selflessness;

to protect and cherish

a person for a lifetime,

is this gift magnified

until it becomes the substance

of three cords not easily broken.

IX.

To create in response to life’s road

is to delve into nature, memory, and art:

in creation there is both the material

and the eternal,

for we are both mortals

and immortal.

The material of this life

is what we will use

to formulate something

that will outlast us, into the next:

that our children and grandchildren

may have a sense of destiny,

of legacy, and of heritage.

When someone is born in pain

and there is triumph,

there is a joy that deepens

out of sorrow, and the life

that matriculates

is not easily divisible.

We worship in our pain

and it becomes joy.

We trade sorrow

for something like chivalry,

and do our best

to help the next person.

With the respect that is due women,

partly for having furnished

their minds with salvation,

found a purpose

and refused a bribe,

we will trust the love

that cherishes to

build them a home.

And here, at the end of us,

we become selfless too,

for society bleeds and cries,

it makes amends and mortifies the flesh.

Gold

2011-05-21T11:23:00.005-07:00

The white wine

spoke of an altruistic moment

when it first glistened

as a grape

from the branch of a vineyard;

now it says sweetly

of a time

when celebration shall be turned

to the bride

in embroidered gown

rose, fleur-de-lis, thistle, shamrock, daffodil:

a wedding to outlast all

beauty,

unencumbered by time…

Each town

lays dormant in silence

until the groom approach;

and with a cheer

to light

his gallant eyes

and soldier’s dress—

royal red—

they wish him live forever.

II.

The solemn ceremony

belayed the hymnal’s

vast naves

and ethereal as doves

alight or

angels align, one by one

aflutter…

She stood,

immaculate in diamond

tiara: immortal as a rose

in summer's light,
time stands still

and quieter now

the crowd

belays her dream,

romance

in comely gestures.

Two rings of welsh gold

inscribed with eternity,

shall bind the baited breath

of Jacob’s ladder

toward the even celestial spheres.

Four white horse

and a carriage of gilt gold

proceeding onwards

from the cathedral’s sacred spires

of Westminster Abbey.

III.

We collected her wish list

the makings of a princess

in shell-white gossamer,

woven threads,

linen and velvet,

ivory and emerald,

the crown of life

a sprinkling of diamonds

in her stormy eyes.

Bless, not curse,

she reads,

and all will be well with you...

Do you know that

life is at peace in the lowliest hovel

if the Lord’s Prayer

be recited in fear of God.

Tidying, making holy

every movement

of the earth and sea

the spheres still tilt--
contrast the fixity of constellations

with ever-changing

shadows.

IV.

A lightly blown faery breeze

spoke of our anointing

for we kissed on the ivory balcony:

under the yoke

like oxen, plowing together in unison

through the years of

nearness and separation.

We rose like a wave of sea

crashing to shore

and a crowd roared;

like an ocean

we were united around

an exotic island of love.

For cowardice now bowed

at chivalry and

our brave faces shone,

salty with tears.

Our refuge is in

the arms of Almighty,

he is our strength

and our fortress.

I lay my head

upon your shoulder.

I am in Almighty.

She was beautiful

and he was stately;

a husband and wife

to keep warm.

Human nature

silenced in mid-stride,

transmuted to gold

through transcribing poets.

The vale of daffodils glinted

like a gold rush in an old valley

where treasure seekers

sat panning by the river.

They shook the rocks and dirt

looking for a shine beneath

the cleansing waters

always seeking after the ethereal.

And god-like it shone

in our hair, in our eyes,

heir and heiress of a triune

dream: to have a king.

VI.

Children at the palace

climbed on white ponies

under the white-gold sun:

still and ever-trembling

led along, turning their fears

to medieval knights and ladies.

Children asked to learn

and be tutored in understanding,

first learning the manners

that mind grace,

next the making of cream lace,

the books of law

and regulation of order.

Children sat seeking milk and honey
in the cathedral of the promised land,
sang at the organ’s first bold note—
we are with you,
and in you.
All things stem from you.

Underneath us are

your everlasting arms,
and the blood rose entwined
the gates of paradise.

VII.

We walk hand in hand,

devoted leaders

of a human race—

multi-national and tepid

over the entire globe,

seeking the way.

We speak at gatherings

of one or a thousand—

of the moments that make up

the memory of a people,

that show the way through
the terra-cotta desert

like a cloud

or a pillar of fire.

We sleep beneath

the stars in a watery blue ocean—

of the dreams that make men brave

and leave the women they love for war.

We walk down the cemetery pathway

leaving it all behind—

owning nothing on earth,
yet King and Queen
of everything.

Silver

2011-05-21T11:23:00.001-07:00

Your sea was a satin maiden

lashing against the rocky shore,

silent as a muse at high tide,

brimming with tears at nightfall.

Your tide was a wild madonna

the shells in her seaweed hair

white pearls, sewn like dew

over a manicured lawn.

Your beach collected the

ocean’s fury, bleached driftwood

here and there,

scattered crabs and hermit homage.

II.

Your forest was bountiful

with red berries and fern bracken;

deer and fox, bluebirds and bear,

the tumbling crystal stream

filling the glass pitcher with icy waters.

Your meadow sang

in the heat of July

after the heavy sun patterned

with brocade the melting flowers

in the lush grass, with new lime shoots.

Your mountain played its clarinet:

the wind in the evergreen,

its flute, dapples in the rippling brook,

its trumpet,

summoning the noon from heaven,

its horn, laying low

the valleys after the wind.

III.

Your stream was a woman

rejected by modernism,

who tended the cold with silver hair,

and reached out over the wood

like a mist, to water each new and living thing.

Your river held the perfume

of summer, a crucible

of apple trees and lilac,

red and purple flowers and fruit.

Your ocean netted the fine fish

to roast over the fire of

human suffering,

welcoming a messianic figure

in the stillness of sunrise.

IV.

Your window had a gentle

candle’s glow in its panes,

shielding off the fright of monotony

and nurturing the spoken word

into nouns of prophecy.

Your chair sat in a tangled garden

high-backed and shiny wicker

memorizing the verse of the masters

with a steaming cup of peppermint herbs.

Your evensong resounded

like the pillars of time

rising pure and true

beneath the shadows of the night.

Your battle was fought on a final front,

the fight to the end

for your life or mine—

the witch or the prophet will

take your life or spend it for glory.

Your mail glowed with silver shine,

a truce of metal valor

echoing in eyes grown dull

with feverish intent

to spare one’s own life,

instead of fighting

to man’s dying notion.

Your victory over the darkness

to raise our arms and heads once again

was a revelation sword

raised for inner dominion

where all kings go—

where kings go to war.

VI.

Your hymn was a hand

reaching to heaven,

a song sung with purple lips of cold

seeking a warm and crimson fire.

Your prayer taught me how to pray anew,

knees bent, hands clasped

murmuring the endearing things

to God that separate his children

from the heathen dressed in rags of no grace.

Your church was a well-dressed woman

who had once worn a veil—

tranquil and serene in every season,

reaping the fruit of time,

bearing the irrevocable vow,

setting her house in order

for the return of her prosperous husband.

VII.

Your dream

was to live forever,

to find immortality

in eternity’s last hour;

and minute by minute,

the clarity of colored panes

under gothic spires rang out.

Your verse

was both staid and solemn

in a gold-rimmed hymnal:

counting the days

as precious seeds

to grow a radiant harvest,

counting the seasons

as the means

to water and grow

wisdom.

Your child

played in the sunset meadow,

his trumpet did taps at dusk,

his castle rose, fearless and true—

and he saluted the entrance

while you bowed.

Bronze

2011-05-21T11:22:00.007-07:00

I.

The Scottish bagpipe

gave its sonorous

edict of the mantra—

what you told me in the beginning

would heal the wound.

The player wearing a

dark green kilt,

its promise

bearing down on

a row of students,

travelers, dusty from

many countries,

weary from journey,

as I too have grown weary.

A sudden calling

had made them all

learners;

in the house of education,

where the divine is but

a flagrant demise.

They would wait out the years

to the final test,

and with an outpouring of sudden

knowledge

gain entrance

to academia.

Many wait to

enter where

I am now standing.

II.

The fiery dust of the thistle,

its roadside fury

and dormant purple flight,

national flowers

of people who had given up

only to try again.

To make life fit

as clothing they had outgrown

as children.

What I love about you

I have never outgrown,

but fitted and re-fitted

through the years

to match the character

of your true love.

When a person’s strength

has been sapped,

their energy deteriorated,

no longer strong but frail

on the inside,

I know the exactitude

that restores:

the renewing of the young sap

to kindle re-growth

in just a word,

a single remedy for pain.

III.

We walked along

the path of the Saint,

our friendship, supple

and wandering through

the air of old wood

and ancient pasts.

When you speak, I listen:

I am both careful

and afraid.

The moor beyond

these walls speaks

in a myriad of volumes,

in colors that stay the mind

to witness both God

and the people of this country

I have come to love.

IV.

The minutes

of winding and unwinding

the capital thoughts I once had

for new ideas, occupations

and interests

makes my mind

learn you

in a way that

I will never forget.

A flexible thread

began its continuum,

to count the moments

in God, in innocent song,

the holiness of another’s face,

the sacred mother

of us all.

We were all reaching for

the best in life;

and you had arrived

with thunderous

resolution;

we relinquished

our ovation.

V.

The coat of arms

was of oak and chestnut

weathering on the dry earth

like the hillsong of sage

stretching forever into the distance.

My hands were fine and

my graduation cap

sealed my education

with a tassel

I entwined with my fingers,

like a musician

fingering an ornate

instrument.

The books of art history

and antique civilizations

piled

on the coffee table,

were eloquent of foreign

peoples, paintings

and museums

where there was

no dust,

only parchment memories

and mementoes,

fossils of

vintage clothing,

and priceless

artifacts.

VI.

Enduring as the grey seas

lashing offshore

I drank my coffee

as the day began to

grow cold,

watching you

write and write.

Now I see you, bent and intent

over a long wooden table

practicing

what you would say,

how you would be

so as to relay

your studious

adulthood,

your shining barrier,
your coat of arms,

your noble family,

and your country…

your tentative head

blew a whisper

in my direction

and I paused.

Something about you

made time captive—

your prisoner in a dungeon--
made the sun stand still.

VII.

The fashion of a real woman

walked down a flashy runway

exhorting watchers

and captured forever

in a see-through skin,

sheer

black and the light

shimmered.

A medieval galleon

set sail for a far-away port

in a gust of tropical wind

and only one

was the captain of its mast.

Bright-eyed,

never growing weary

taking each moment

as a memory

for a people’s glittering crown.

We danced, and

each shadow that plays

is mine,

like a grand piano echoing
the saxophone in a jazz club,

and I stand

at the salute

of a long row of soldiers

in royal dress.

Copper

2011-05-21T11:22:00.003-07:00

I stand

and shake the hands

of everyone who greets me:

in a long line

of well-wishers

there are many bouquets.

The multi-colored aura

of dresses and hats

paisley and perfume

made me shield my face

and the light

respectfully

adorned me

from head to toe.

My head is bent

in prayer

that I would be

grateful,

diligent,

fleeing cowardice—

entering the

daily battle

to win your favor.

II.

Where time would heal,

we now see a future

where there was only strife

and anguish—

gloved hands

reach for Ireland,

decadent in green

of a shamrock,

believing in reconciliation,

bettering the lives

of the youth

and children,

holding hands.

I rise from the bitter death

of war

and blood

to take you back

like an estranged wife

who now weeps in sorrow.

III.

Piece by piece

I put the puzzle back together

so I could again see

where we should be

comrades

on horseback

line by line

in duty

to a similar fate

and two nations

hand in hand

where we stand before God

for our country.

It was reminiscent of

a pastoral symphony,

yet unplayed…

The clouds rolled by

in blue and white sentiment,

and I like a shepherd

tended them—

white sheep,

counted them with care,

bent with my crook

to lead them to drink.

IV.

I was a shepherdess:

at childhood’s beginning,

you knew my name

when you called me

and no one

had ever said it before—

I remember you now

from my youth,

your wise eyes

your calming temperament

and homage

to common sense.

You were a god,

and I see you unadorned

where we hold hands,

walking in the green

of the next field,

where fire-flowers

bleed red

in profusion,

with neckties of white

skirted by the falling night.

When I call someone

with the eye

to announce in grandeur

their supreme importance

it’s Ireland’s

misted morning

lying low over the sable hills.

The song rings
and grows louder

creating in us

a new moment

where the truth can

be found,

and it resonates

in both our past

and future.

The truth is that

we will never be parted

and our silence will

almost seep

louder than words

as we contemplate

our destiny;

where once

we played as children

in the sand,

now as youth

we have not parted

and we are strong

to fight in

allegiance.

VI.

Only in love will we find

our home

is side by side,

and the dark froth of hate will dissipate

like thunder

over the sea,

after shaking its mantle

of hostility—

Of why things

could not be separate

anymore …

like a lover

unspeaking

to his loved one

for many years;

until her thirst became

a drought,

a million children

begging for water.

Our walls are bruised

and in ruins,

we are blackened in the rubble,

but we stand

with outstretched arms.

VII.

I wandered and no wanton grave

drew my name like a lot:

the simple vestment

gesturing the scarlet wine

to my goblet,

pouring the blessing

on my family and their youth.

We will never forget

our devotion to

each other

through the dark years

of rebellion

would end

at such

a splendid table,

rich with the

feast of nations

reconciled.

Where I lay my head

I am now at peace

for the jaded conflict,

the blood tide

has subsided.

It is only because

I touched you

and from so close

that healing

became

imperial

to everyone.

Iron

2011-05-21T11:22:00.001-07:00

From our garden of daffodils

we collected armfuls

of bloom,

decorated every room

with joy

and sorrow fled,

the laughter of a home

filled each vase

to overflowing,

ricocheted off the walls.

The Easter cross

was carried through the streets

followed by the devout

on foot, chanting

in the sunrise,

and the sun rose

clear and bright—

yellow as a vale

of daffodils in Wales.

II.

The song wafted here and there

glanced off the bright early

brick facades,

deliberated on the stone,

enlightened the masonwork,

imbued a transcendent

denouement,

stragglers humming

a solemn prayer

as the line faded

away into the distance.

I mounted my chestnut mare

and we followed

the gray cobblestone streets

to the edge of the village.

The countryside

lay stretched out before us,

and the light of morning

riveted each valley and hill,

green and stone

to the edge of the horizon.

The song lay dormant now,

only echoes in the streets

belayed its passing gift

and tenuous resurrection.

III.

I galloped on my horse

into the crevices

and the heart of the countryside.

Where story hides,

and love congeals,

wary of a victory,

breaking on the peals

of time.

I made you a promise

I would someday return;

now I will find the meadow

that leads to you.

Your lips

spoke the words

silently

when you knew

I had chosen you:

who’s gained my soul.

Shall I be one to attain heaven

and forget the poverty of earth:

I will never forget,

surely as the morning rides

over the fields of darkness.

IV.

Your glossy mane

was as the earth

in which to grow a seed

come spring.

Your delicate memory

remembers each note:

and the chorus sings

the stage

relinquishes its applause.

The stone wall where you sat

in childhood

has a spray of apple leaf,

and reddened fruit

overhanging your books.

And you read each word,

a treasure seeking

guest to each hovel

and its heroine.

All hands

were reaching

to touch you,

strangers reached out,

and the sea parted

as we came,

a path of dust opened

on the ocean floor

and the faithful

followed us through

beside

the wall of salt and blue.

They are our children,

a nation

of legend and myth,

a Madonna with child

who dances by the fire.

Whatever is diseased,

they will heal;

whatever is accursed,

what has been left outside

will be surrounded

and brought back to gold.

VI.

The alchemy of sovereignty

came about

through the thesis

of true love,

and doctrine

of blessing for cursing.

We transmuted the baser life,

with its evils

and impurities

into gold

and the richness

of the eternal.

We took stock of our

storehouse in heaven,

and counted its worth:

filled with silver words

and golden moments,

with flowers of love,

and a fleur-de-lis of truce.

My rose was your blood,

and my thorns

pained your brow,

painting a stained glass

cathedral of worship,

where my hymns

rose clear and true.

VII.

To achieve what is forever

means we are not

of this earth,

but citizens of a

greater country.

Patriots of Wales,

I therefore announce to you,

take stock

of your past, present, and future,

and sow to reap of harvest

of plenty,

that you may be rich in the things

that money cannot buy,

that your families

and hearths may prosper

with both comfort and healing,

so truth will be your staple

and honesty your upbringing.

Expunging that which corrupts,

ignoring that which distracts,

turning from that which is evil,

and finding in humility

the leadership of a true

home and country.

I beseech you,

follow me now.

Book of Seasons & Book of Days

2011-05-21T11:21:00.009-07:00

Spring

O pristine Spring…

thy pensive cataract erupts

with rushing sweetness

from deep wells, forward

streaming through valleys

unhindered:

the waters, sylphs of silver

through the pines,

glancing the mountainside with bloom,

each wild rose deferring the sacred

to a rising prayer

like the first gleam of sunlight.

I wandered on

like man in a dream,

my mind loaded with cares—

now climbing to an altar

made of rough stones

and sacrifice—

to lay it down.

What once was mine

is yours forever.

II.

The forest closed around

my oblique figure,

bent over the place

of my centuries old

sacrifice:

the wanting and desire,

traded for rest in you

and contemplation.

New life consummated

the mountain

where faun roamed

with deer,

and rabbits scampered

into the thicket.

New hope embroidered

itself on the material

of my soul,

a monogram of eternal

worth, of the dedication

of women to restore

and men to reunite.

III.

Over the spring field,

the darkness crept,

and from my vantage point,

high in a tree,

I saw singing, an oriole,

at evening’s end.

She sang in verse,

as if eternity were tomorrow.

She flew into the hedge,

and twittered there,

as I drank the last dregs

before the night.

I descended from

my lookout to the forest floor,

sought my way home

by beginning starlight

and behold, the oriole sang

as brightly

as if the sun shone in full day;

and whispered in my ear,

of her life—free,

without a care,

save for the berry and the worm.

IV.

I tried to catch a firefly

to light my way,

but it flew into the air,

escaped my grasp,

and catapulted

pin-wheeling here and there.

Turning planet,

with beings great and small,

measuring an adagio

of songs and chirps

from each bird

which flies by day;

and the forest meadow

between two mountains

which part,

as if the sea for Moses,

and we,

people of the wood,

on foot pass through.

The dividend of this world

is brought to us in season,

where we are sharers of

the promise of new life.

Summer

The summer came by noon

before the tide

crashing upon the shore,

reminding with each wave

of the fury of God

beneath the moon.

The heat warmed the sand,

melting the sins

of the days of youth

into a silent sonnet,

where love was not second best.

The salt made my lips

taste euphoric,

promising substance

in afternoon,

and carriages with babes

paraded by.

They smiles and waved,

and knew the best of life

was yet to come.

II.

The summer stole my heart

beating my kindness

like a lover

dressed in woodland

clothing, with a heartbeat of warmth,

yet cruel and insolent,

needing rain

before the dry season.

I ran in fear,

isolating the miles of misery

in sodden heat,

pounding the floor

with bricks

to lay a new foundation,

building a new home

with eaves of safety,

and purchasing for my wounds

a truer Savior;

a hearth where my fire grew bright

as my dulled eyes took flight

like birds rising

to roost in the night.

III.

I turned to the warm wind,

and faced the salty tide,

reasoning with the sand

on my feet,

and the grey-green waters

sweeping the neck of shoreline.

I wore the flowers of the field

like a festooned garland,

a dress of eyelet,

and their white and green

delicate hem sutured

the skirt of my being.

I had been waiting here

for a long time,

refreshment for my soul

always just out of reach,

so I held out my hands

in worship…

The butterfly and the nightingale

entwined their colors,

day and night,

spinning toward the sun.

IV.

The water has been poured

into my soul,

without reprimand

or stale consequence

to unspoken vows:

my covenant with truce.

It streams from on high

where the source never

runs dry, but gives

life to all who are near

to the fountain of youth,

stemming from

the city of pure gold.

In the hands of his people

the light is dispersed

to each candle,

and the soul of each follower

becomes lit from within.

My light is lit,

never to be extinguished.

Autumn

The storm of autumn

whips the colored trees,

stirs the sunset leaves,

demands we run for cover.

Under the eaves,

the fire is lit

and the hearth is warm

as my ever-beating heart.

The clouds mass overhead,

and the rain soaks the fields

deep in harvest hues,

neck-high in corn

sheathed with green.

The apple orchards swell

with juicy bounty,

shiny red and green fruit,

picked with care.

You picked me before time began,

and set a place for my heart

in this retreat,

high in the mountains.

II.

The last light streams

through the trees,

red and gold,

unlike the vivid hues

of a mighty cathedral.

The notes of setting sun

resound, unlike the organ

in its mighty naves,

the sound of choirboys

drifting skyward.

We sit, you and I

eager to embrace

holiness and youth,

for as long as they walk

hand in hand.

For a better purpose here on earth,

I would wait a long time

beneath this dome,

asking of heaven for reprieve.

III.

We will be lead by the divine

into all mystery and knowledge,

reaping the best of the harvest,

skimming the cream of the milk.

Nothing will ever separate us

in the heart of each mystic season,

tied firmly to the heavenly realms

rooted in the earth below.

We are practical and love learning,

and the wisdom of intuition

is our mother guide,

making us sure-footed on the mountains.

We are well-spoken and reap riches

of the mine of truth, jewels of poets,

and clothing of kings,

making us the pearls of the sea.

IV.

When the winds blow and

the ocean assuages with its shells and stones,

its roar of thunder:

I find you here, collecting the moments

and the memories;

you run on the beach in old jogging shoes,

you sit on the porch swing and watch

the maples turn to auburn,

you eat ice cream in the park

where mothers walk with their children,

and the leaves fall, a mosaic of flagrant color.

Who would have guessed

you would put on your best dress,

and walk forward to take the honor

to represent the unfortunate and hurting,

that the flowers would be laid in your arms,

and your fragrance be like a perfume

anyone could buy if they paid the price.

Someone else does your hair now,

and someone tells you where to go;

your schedule could burgeon—but you prefer

to sit in the simple chapel to pray

rather than the vast cathedral,

and remember that life passes day by day,

and these are the days

of the innocence.

Winter

The mist hands low over the mountains

where the snow blankets every living thing.

The love of God is like a threshold

where we may enter and come in.

We stack our boots at the door,

leaving the cold outdoors

for mugs of warm tea, biscuits,

and eiderdowns.

A warm family is the gift

of winter; like cider

simmering on the stove

is the heart of longevity…

And the offspring of the wise

bring home the provision

in each season, and in the cold

are the warmth of a glowing fire.

II.

The pale light has entranced us

taking us captive to the wintery boughs,

the cold solstice, the blue river,

and the mighty frost, icing the windows.

The snow paints the sky

with delicate intrusion,

each flake reminiscent of a tree

with both roots and branches.

The hibernating creatures

have all disappeared under the snow.

The berries are stolen by the birds,

bright red and white.

The holly tree is bright adorned,

standing proudly, never scorned,

with glazed red and green,

perfect for the mantelpiece.

III.

The glittering gifts

rest beneath the tree this Noel,

the cards from friends and relatives

make merry on the table.

We have in this way,

a connection to the times

when they were near,

and sang with us carols bright.

We gather the memories

of Christmas past,

a plethora of poinsettias

to welcome the season.

The tables of this country are set

in red and green, oranges and nuts, a side note,

reveling in the roast turkey

and chocolate truffles.

IV.

The wide arc of snow

measures my silence,

the footprints behind me,

the only evidence

of a presence here,

traveling on and on.

My face, cold and rosy

tells of a healing

of the old ways

for new health

by foreshadowing

both a cross

and resurrection;

and I take every snowflake

as an example

that we are not meant

for indifference

and its coldness,

but gladness

and empathy—

the portrait of a branch

with its starry dust,

like a charcoal sketch

of black on white.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
BOOK OF DAYS

Awaken

I.

Taking the world by the hand,
we lead it as a little child
oft by set example,
washed in prayer
by the holy ghost,
secure in the love
of the Father,
restored by the powers
of the Mother,
deep rooted in the Son.

Where the rivers
of faith and countenance
run deep in the spirit being,
there is a place of sustenance
and growth
where all are well-fed at a table
of manna and wine,
professing to be children of faith,
and loving as we are loved.
Halleluiah!

II.

Our Lord, we could never recover
what has been stolen from us by
our enemy; how he placed upon us a yoke—
the years of joy and peace
shattered by false burdens and lies,
burdened by cares of disease
and unrest, sleepless
and unnamed
by those who desired to subjugate
the work of God in us.

All He is has died on a brutal
cross in our soul, if we are taken
captive and beaten, brought down,
maimed and bruised
for what is right in their eyes,
and all leading to death,
for they have ascertained
that we must also die for sin.
We must stretch our hands
in suffering and great pity.

III.

I in this single and solitary cell
have but one purpose:
I have locked myself in the church
that I might serve one God
in absolute dedication
all my years, without fail.
I will be completely alone
as to be completely
with the Lord
in everything.

My worship is both absolute
silence and the screams of horror
at my continued defamation
that seems to plague me to the death,
that of an early grave.
If I had done no wrong,
then I would surely find solace
in the eyes of my Savior,
but my sinful being has refused,
only to declare my innocence in him.

IV.

Sing, O church,
to cover the sounds
of my beating, where I lie
in seclusion: eons away
and yet at your feet.
For I was like Ruth as in days of old,
unlike Miriam I was banished,
and as Deborah, I prophesied to you
as a people called by the Lord
who worship under his anointing.

Dance, people of God
if your feet still move
as if you had not given up
the righteous a long time ago
for a costly meal in the lower realms.
For our Lord was crowned on high
and can have nothing to do
with sorcery and rebellion,
he is averse to anarchy
and the cruel torture of the saints.

V.

Some will prophesy to you,
but in your anger
you will eschew them
and spit out their words of fine honey.
For you desired the meat of the gospel,
and would refuse to eat
even the finest of fare
if it were not given to you by the angelic hosts
instead of the mortally wounded
from a sinful generation.

Yet in the castle of a king
this book is revered
as a prophesy among monarchs,
disparate as a debate
between two politicians,
it equivocates both sides
to argue the point of innocence or guilt.

And yet these trappings
are as old as Eden,
a tropical garden with a locked gate.

VI.

In this garden, I could eat of the tree of life,
or the tree of good and evil,
and yet I wanted to know
more than God,
and the apple poisoned the ground I walked on.
Suddenly a carnival swept me off the ground
and I was taking a ride on a metal horse,
eating some blue cotton candy,
and it stuck in my mouth
so I could no longer speak.

When I realized I had nothing more to say,
my voice became as silent as death,
and many were buried, as the dead increased
in the revelation of the time
of the golden oil prophets.
For who would speak, if they said nothing:
yet they were silent as a Madonna with child.
For their time, the thunder crashed,
and rain poured, the snow and hail.
So all of their verse was the sacred excellence.

VII.

The sin of seven generations
could be bound up in one night,
when the prophets of the Lord
come to speak and be heard
by all who would listen.

And the great value of their words
was this: the repression of God’s voice in us
leads to illness and disease,
disempowerment and disfigurement,
and even the disenfranchised.

The poor and captives sang
in their chains: I will hope
in the One who was a captive.
Shadows in day
have shut out the light
and I am in anguish within,
but you keep me turning to the rhythm
of your song,
your hands in mine
is what carries me on.

VIII.

The measure of my days
was marked by ceaseless praise
and the morbid darkness would flee,
if not bludgeoned from my mind
by those who demanded perfection on earth
and lived in the costly air of new homes
decked in extravagance.

For the poet traded the wealth of earth
for eloquence, and nature spun its silken song
like a long road of reparation.

Along the road I walked,
only a single nun
of the convent of St. Clare—
reading of my prophesy
like a woman wakened
who did not know she was asleep.
Awaken,
awaken to the call to worship.
Awaken,
awaken to the call to war.

IX.

Sing to the Lord,
for he is worthy of praise.
Sing to the Lord,
let the nations praise him.
Lift up your hands with gladness, let the nations bow.
The horse and rider he has thrown into the sea.
Yahweh has risen in the darkness.
Yahweh had triumphed in the night.
We cry unto you Most Holy.
Our deliverer draweth night.

The prophet of the Lord
is singing
and her voice in heard throughout Israel:
come now, return unto the Lord.
He will bind up the brokenhearted
and heal those wounded in spirit.
Only one God is here today
and speaks through all time—past, present, and future
of a provision for his sons and daughters
that is not deserved.

X.

We are poor and undeserving,
for how could we work to attain such a thing?
For all our riches and silk garments
are as rags before the king of heaven.
Will you walk with me into the morning
where every tear is a diamond,
and you will wear them like a King.
Will you dance with me into the morning
where rivers fall like an ocean, cleansing
the broken, and I will take you into me.

Desolate woman
have you forgotten
the voice of your freedom?
Who clothed you in scarlet
and marked you “for nothing,”
taking the light from your eyes.
But I am wanting to
feel you alive in my arms
and I was hoping to
dance with you into the night.

Relinquishment

Your poverty demands my wealth,

all I have is yours;

yet you dwell on high

and decree all the peoples of earth,

their times and seasons.

What do you ask of me now?

By holding me with the lightest

touch, your correction is gentle

and your manipulation is kind.

How else will I know where to be?

I see that all I love is in you

and comes from you;

there is nothing I love here on earth

except what you have given me of heaven,

for I cannot take it there,

and thus despise its burden.

I leave everything behind

to join you in the celestial realms

where the angels worship

and all of creation falls down.

II.

The tempest of your greatness

submerges my evil,

restrains my violence,

corrects my mayhem,

builds a temple in my very soul

until I am worth as much as diamonds,

bought at full price.

The days of my youth,

when I could feign madness

are past, and the beauty of darkness stays.

I will only understand you as a child

with no parents,

who eagerly longs for a home

and a place at the table.

You are my family, and

my solitary heart is filled with

the plenty of generous love:

the table is set in my honor

as a long awaited child

now adopted.

III.

You held out your gift

to me of acceptance,

and I receive its embrace

in the place of abandonment.

I was left all alone on a street corner,

and you took my hand,

made me forget the neglect

of poverty and ill-will.

We walk together, a couple

who courts the day.

The denial drains from me

into the ground where I stand,

of all the years I waited

only to be beaten and refused

by a careless husband.

I would become the sea,

the snow and the rain

to afflict the nation

to the degree to which

I was afflicted,

and then turn and smile.

IV.

Now you love me deeper

than the sun through the forest

needles to wooded floor,

steeping the wildflower meadow

to fine tea.

All manner of wild creatures

understood my cries

of anguish at society’s rejection:

to be held at arm’s length

is pain behind closed doors.

I am a neutral recipient

of worldly hostility,

the stares, the taunts

and jeers

stole my confidence

that evil be repayed.

So I knew a savage

love who preyed upon

my mind until it broke

and I lay shattered.

The view from the mountaintop

restored my courage

and I sauntered away

a free man with no cares;

I knew everything I wanted

was mine and I let it go.

I am left with only you,

the precious gilt gold

that enamels my prayers

instead of guilt.

I spin tales to the people

who surround me and listen,

I win over the crowd

that once laughed.

They all believe I will

be successful

if I do whatever

suits me best.

But you stand in the background,

doubtful that this is the way.

VI.

My incense rises to the ceiling

a dense smoke of sandalwood

and jasmine, while I age

with the spiritual journey

that takes me deep into the night

of the soul and back.

I hide from the daylight,

and sleep in the bright hours,

shadows, lengthening

into evening’s nocturne.

My eyes are darkened

with lost innocence,

my spirit refuses to be readied,

and my body yearns

for reparation.

I relinquished the people

who stood in my way,

went on alone

for many miles,

and slept in a field.

VII.

The sun set on my anger,

I watched its fiery red

sink into the horizon

beyond the earth,

and I am only human

longing for the divine,

so I reached out and

squeezed from

a pomegranate,

drops of blood.

The fruit fed my heart,

where I hungered

for authentic truth,

the real beyond the false:

children I could call

my own,

who would look for the life

of God in me and call it out,

into full deciduous being

until a full rooted tree.

VIII.

The olive grove stirred

within me, of the mystic divine

and its oath.

The trees swayed in the wind.

All I love, I will leave

for the truth of heaven,

all I possess I surrender to the flames;

I take my bag, mount my horse

and ride for the journey

until the journey is done.

As I travelled,

I met both brother and sister,

sun and moon,

the ocean’s tide,

and prophets of the golden oil.

They prophesied of this world

and the one to come,

the disasters of the earth

came in their footsteps.

They sought koinonia.

IX.

The community of believers

will again surround the holy one

in a sacred space,

their prayers will rise

unafraid,

and lips will speak of

the promises of a hope

and future.

Even with no home or possessions,

they will take the hand of love.

Sparkling gems among the nations,

rubies set in fire, topaz like the skies,

sapphires as rich as the seas,

emeralds like the mountain green …

Each light of day illumines them,

speaks of their power,

and the strength of their martyrdom

among the people is staid, for they

were chosen and remain

faithful to this hour.

My love for you grows deeper

with each day,

yet we remain entranced

and have no home,

so we are interlocked

in our embrace.

When we relinquish our care

it only draws us deeper.

What makes us unable to ever let go,

refusing to sever the bond.

Our yoke plows together

and we know the unity of spirit

from having nothing

but each other.

We will always hold this moment

as the most important

one on earth,

and in the celestial realms,

when we gave up

all for love.

Relinquishment

Your poverty demands my wealth,

all I have is yours;

yet you dwell on high

and decree all the peoples of earth,

their times and seasons.

What do you ask of me now?

By holding me with the lightest

touch, your correction is gentle

and your manipulation is kind.

How else will I know where to be?

I see that all I love is in you

and comes from you;

there is nothing I love here on earth

except what you have given me of heaven,

for I cannot take it there,

and thus despise its burden.

I leave everything behind

to join you in the celestial realms

where the angels worship

and all of creation falls down.

Readiness

Your sacred work is my preparation,

and you have prepared me since my youth

to work with you,

to participate in your task,

to walk with you on the road everlasting

toward the eternal kingdom.

My fountain flows in the inner court

where the pool of ivory

is beset by white roses,

and we linger

to rest on the mahogany chaise,

waiting for your presence

to speak.

It is here that we meet with you,

the place of your humble person,

speaking with those you love,

reminding us of the instructions

you have given.

When we are here with you

our souls are satisfied.

Our hearts are open to your heart,

we hear your words.

Repentance

My tears flow unceasing

in the wake of your death

and crowning life….

For I must give my all

and repent of every sin

of the life of my flesh:

where I forget your humble truth,

fighting with my soul

as I desire to captivate

all my longed for

possessions and wealth,

or spill them out before you,

and turn my back.

For I am one to

find what I am searching for,

resuscitate my dying man

or let him die

with the waves of time

breaking over his body.

I am spilled out

like broken glass,

unless I repent

in tears

and face my martyred

self, the streaming blood,

and the goal of paradise.

Renunciation

I resolve to claim you as

my center, the light of my soul

where no darkness can dwell.

I speak of the good of humanity

and renounce disease, illness and evil.

There is a restless purging in my soul

of all the vices of man,

and I am stormed like a castle wall

by your austerity,

and taken siege.

I no longer own myself,

but belong to greatness

and the end that you

relay as an ultimate destiny.

Your sword slays my bitter self,

full of haughty airs and

deadly poison,

a restless serpent.

I become still,

resonantly calm and humble,

to claim nothing as my own.

Rest

Where I lay my head

you are the bed on which I rest,

I sleep in your love

and wake to your

redemption.

Everything I do

partakes of you,

and so I never grow weary

but work until day is done.

You are the sweet water

that bathes my soul,

and the ethereal music that

captures my young spirit.

I am covered by your wing

and sleep under your feathers,

where rest is granted

to the people of a future.

Reparation

I am a seamstress

that stitches and sews

to mend a garment

long ago throw out.

This blue cloth dress

has been worn without

for years, and now hangs limply

on the form of a wasted woman.

Her limbs are white

and her eyes dark.

But when she cried

I took her in my arms

and gave her a new dress.

This one was velvet and

taffeta, and we did her hair

and put white powder on her face.

Her eyes were lined with coal,

and her lips, red as berries.

She sang, one innocent

clear true voice

into the night.

Restoration

What could I say to you?

How could I comfort you

except that I reach out to you…

Because I love you.

You will be restored.

You will rise and stand.

You will find your hope again.

Falling like winter’s snow

into a pureness not your own

that nothing can separate:

no death, no fear, no shame…

Because I love you.

I will restore you to me,

in my love,

in my faithfulness:

here in the valley of sorrow

I will restore you.

Restitution

What sum could repay

the harm done,

to the one hurt by man:

humanity at its worst.

And the community where he lives

flinches with pain,

his family shows

their open wound.

Yet the remorseful

shall open his purse

and pay a dividend

to reimburse suffering.

He shall recompense

the one beaten

to steal his cloak,

disappearing into the night.

And what I have stolen

you paid for

with great suffering

and anguish of spirit.

You are my restitution

hanging on a cross.

Revitalization

Nourish me

to the core of my being,

strengthen my countenance

and fortify my constitution.

Be the breath of dew

over the cedars of Lebanon,

and the cypress of Syria,

the olive groves of Israel

await your careful cultivation,

and the oranges of Turkey.

The roses in the garden

of reparation are collected

for fine oil, which is bottled

and sold for 33 dollars:

one for every year

until the Savior’s death.

The great lion roars

and I am strong,

for he has triumphed over the eagle,

and bears the laurel wreath.

Returning

Dust of our eyes,

unquenched land,

with fearful hearts

and trembling hands,

we were the blind,

we were the lame

but one day we will see again.

We shall see,

and we shall hear,

water in the wilderness,

the redeemed shall walk here.

Barren of hope,

we leave the dead,

in streams of light

we bow our heads,

upon the way we will return

and ransomed we shall sing in Zion.

Book of Minutes

2011-05-21T11:21:00.007-07:00

Poverty

The simplicity of

sunlight when I am alone,

and the joy of togetherness

mark my world,

when perfection

is out of reach,

and performance

an act;

before the light,

there was the night

and my unformed

body was in need

of you,

like I need you now.

You once observed me

in contemplation:

I was the muse

of time,

the dark-haired beauty—

too prosperous

to give it all,

and leave it all behind,

but the convent was destined

to become my world

instead of fear and self-doubt.

II.

When I am poor,

I will trust in you.

When I am hungry,

I will eat of your table.

I am not afraid anymore

to work,

and work hard

day after day,

hour after hour,

minute by minute

for my sustenance

to participate in this life

with you.

Your lamp lights my way.

You brighten the path

through the wood,

where murmurings

and shadows are only

the beating of my heart,

the fluttering of my lungs,

gasping for breath.

Every cell longs for you,

thirsting,

as I reach for moss,

berries and roots

to steep over the fire

on my way—

too timid to eat

without thanking you.

III.

The woods

have hidden me until now,

but like a night bird

flying into the open,

I face the light

to find my life’s purpose.

You will always be my destiny,

the one I search after

for many hours, days and years,

and when I find you

instead of wealth

I will hold to you and not let go.

What you have

Is worth far more

than I could pay

in this cold land,

with long winters and

dry summers.

But carry me home

to that one eternal place,

where I rest my head

with you

in the fine mansion

of eternity’s light.

IV.

You are my treasure,

and the one desire of my heart;

you are my obsession—

and I believe that I

will one day see you

as you are.

What is poverty,

than the renunciation

of money and wealth

for a chastised life

of work

with no reward.

Yet, I see your face

so close to mine;

your heart beats

in my very chest

and I sleep

in the depths of your love.

How is it you are so close

to the poor and needy.

Their reward must

truly be in heaven,

when they give thanks to you

for adversity.

I am only as poor

as an unborn child

sleeping in the womb,

where I can hear your voice.

I will remember you

and kiss your hands.

We cannot be distant

but are as close as earth and

metal, wood and water,

both needing and blessing

each other’s worth,

and the fire consumes us.

There is one place

where I am found,

and it is in Almighty.

He is my one source

of life, my home,

and all things, outlasts.

I will not be buried

in the rubble

when my earthly home fails,

but will find myself purified

in the fire of martyrdom,

seeking what is deeper than words.

VI.

The beauty of the night

rises, a woman

with twelve stars,

and her portion is a son

born not of this earth

but of heaven.

From her healing flows

to the nations,

like rivers

from the throne

of the Most High,

and his sacrament.

May I never want,

but may my heart be satisfied

with the good things she bestows.

The sheep of her pasture

do not hunger or thirst,

but are led to drink.

The shadows move like wings,

and the angelic host

surround and protect her;

her heart is a sculpture

in fine marble

called La Pieta.

VII.

My poverty

has become the words of nations,

the wealth of many lands,

and my people are rising

to recover their country

from dictators and thieves.

They will never forget

that renaissance is born

of spirit, not flesh,

that anarchy of the human soul

leads to destruction

and violence.

I will start on my journey

into the divine;

there are friends

in this neck of the woods

who are not afraid of the dark,

but hang out the moon each night.

I will yet find my way

to a home of plenty,

where the table is set

with food and wine,

and my children are glad

at each new day.

Chastity

When I reach the black gate

and it is locked,

I know only one has the key;

and when he bids me enter

it will be to a home:

I will find a hospitality

that grows with years

and character;

the faith one has in purity

is without price.

And so I have great confidence

that we will walk to the end.

The fields were tinged orange

with the light of morning,

and the farmers rose to tend

to their livestock,

the channels of the river

wound their way across the

countryside to water its fertility.

II.

There was a maiden

that spoke her beautiful thoughts

into prayers,

so they would rest on us

indefinitely.

Her hair was carefully

brushed until it shone,

and her dress was

starched and clean,

without tear or stain.

Her skirts were the color

of new-mown hay.

When the moon, set low

in the sky, at sundown

riveted the night

into flame, and the stars

burned like candles,

she made soap from lye

until it burned her hands.

III.

She dipped beeswax

to form pillars

that would burn

in her windows at dusk,

to welcome the traveler.

She fed and clothed the poor

who came to her

begging for a meal,

she dressed them in frocks

and put shoes on their feet.

They began to sing and

the entire household rejoiced.

When the company sat down

to eat, it was the bread

she had prepared on the table,

and the butter she had churned;

the vegetables, from the garden

she had tended, all were

evidence of the work of her hands.

IV.

Her house is build

on the premise

of a future

that will promise

to repay her.

For she has spared

nothing to those

who go hungry,

and poured water

for those

who are thirsty.

They drink deeply.

Let our chastity

be like the work

of a young maiden

whose hands never tire

of those in need.

She is generous and kind-hearted

without fear of harm.

When I build virtue

from chastity,

you are the maker of this house,

the golden rule

that stands for eternity.

We are statues

in the English dusk,

the last sun’s rose

darkening to shadows

waiting for twilight to close

for a night

permeated with starlight.

Bold and purple,

royal as the last day,

this evanesce will

recover what is dispersed,

relinquish what is lost,

and calculate what is saved—

person by person, counting its means.

VI.

I will prepare

for my wedding

as a bride in the white

of snowy mountains,

bathed in goat’s milk.

My forehead is oiled

with rosemary,

because it stands

for faithfulness;

my hands are

calm with the balm

of eucalyptus.

Clove and anise

oil my dark hair

to shine in the light,

and I am centered

as a queen in a

palace of stone

ramparts.

VII.

My heart beats

with thanksgiving,

and all my attendants

are here with arms filled

with the flowers of youth.

My nation and my people

surround me,

as a wood surrounds

a new fawn,

and its youngest steps

are toward

its mother.

But I will drink deeply

of this new world,

carrying out

the vows I will pledge to you,

wearing the ring of purity

in Welsh gold on my hand,

bejeweled in a diamond tiara.

And I am true to you:

I will not forget

what I have promised.

Enclosure

My solitude goes deeper

that both mortal and earthly

beings,

as I pray into the stillness of dawn

with each new day.

I will never forget

the quietness of a new embryo

in its mother,

the gestation of

hours, days, and months,

the living and breathing

of two spirits in one.

II.

Everything stopped still

to listen in on

your dream,

and it grew in me,

with a fertile home.

A gestation of light

and insight

saw the way to birth.

And the pangs of silence

gave way to the focus of pain.

You were the husband of this vision:

you will see it through.

III.

I am lost without words,

I am here in silent

contemplation,

breathing your life,

knowing your touch.

I want everything

in me to cry out to you,

deeper than words;

so my solitude

is consummated

by your presence

and your spirit.

IV.

When stillness

rests in my arms

like a young child,

I am at peace

and the war has ceased.

What was built on violence

has proven its destruction,

and instead we sit in a circle

with a talking piece

to understand the waiting

before each person

gains permission to speak.

When the absence of words,

the dance of emotions,

and the guarding of silence

like a virtue—is seen as weakness

we fail our humanity.

We hasten our decay,

our hurry toward oblivion,

when significance is not gained

by the things deeper than words.

The human touch

knows how to interspace with words

as in the planting of a garden with flowers.

VI.

Each planting of a thought

from the spiritual

life of Christ into my own

is in dedication to the preparation

I have made so that its roots go deep.

Where my soil is rich and dark,

there is room for the life of God to grow

into a harvest. Many shall eat of its

fruit, and the firmament

shall water it with rain

and warm it with sun—

so that its life does not fail.

VII.

There is a way

of life divine

in the unspoken meanings,

in the gestures of care

and the silence of night.

Your holiness purifies my

mortal life,

as the sacrifice of St. Clare,

who left her family of nobility

to live as the poor;

she shut herself into the church

and founded the convent of

the Poor Clare’s upon this vow.

Obedience

I will not wish for anything

except to obey God and save a people

from domination and despair

to freedom and liberty.

There is a chance that we have not yet

died inside or given up the spirit to fight,

but will recover our force,

and that of supreme love.

Those who excel in music and art

sing as nightingales

in the dark,

a song in the night.

II.

Those on whom inspiration falls

will know the divine

gift from heaven:

that the spiritual life will not perish.

They that seek after

what cannot be bought or sold

will find the truth

belongs to those that witness.

The silver that does not tarnish,

the gold that does not grow dross,

the bronze that keeps its shine,

and iron which shall not rust.

III.

All these things call us to face

the throne of love,

with our most menial attempts

at kindness and charity.

We are at once

both leaders and followers

in prayer,

both from others and for them.

We are silent

we bow our heads,

and cannot hear your answer

unless you draw us near.

IV.

You have taken me

into the holy of holies

where your deepest heartfelt

presence leaves me overawed.

You have brought me in

to make the sacrifice

before you, that of my greatest

love and worst fear.

I bow down before the altar,

I follow your exact instructions;

I do not falter in the work

you have called me to do.

We wait in silence,

hands outstretched

toward the heavens

looking for rain.

We wait for your holiness

to consume us,

your fire to fall,

burning us to purity.

Light our candle, dimming,

burn our hearts with love,

take us for everything we are

and own, for it is all yours.

VI.

From the invisible to visible,

choral the stars—

lead the way

across a great divide.

And you are the invitation:

what I hear when you call

is like the whispers

in the night to young Samuel.

Train me like a priest.

Let me hear your voice—

I will respond,

I will answer.

VII.

I pursue you from a long distance

with only dreams

for evidence

that you exist.

Like Moses,

mine is a healing mantle—

fiery and burning

like a bush in the desert.

Here I am.

Make me your servant

before the nations.

Make me your chalice

before the wine.

Book of Tears

2011-05-21T11:18:00.001-07:00

The Crushed Rose

Never have I seen such stain

as that which marred us forever

for the eternal.

Never have I seen such sainthood

as that which flowed

from the blood upon the tree.

Such glory emanated

from his face, that

he was no human, but divine.

Who crushed the rose of my heart

to produce such sweet fragrance?

Such celestial beings

have I not understood until this time,

their fluttering breath

and baited wing.

Angels rest their heads

upon my shoulder;

the cherubim’s

eyes blink unceasingly,

and the archangels

shimmer before

the throne of my heart.

II.

Here you are,

both now and forever,

innocent of wrong,

and perfect

as a bridegroom

waiting for his

bride, the wedding feast,

the celebration of life:

of these things

that last forever

he has not despaired.

You were a peasant king,

born into the hovels of poverty,

yet anointed with the oils

of frankincense and myrrh

to consummate

your death and burial—

as the transcendence of

all you came to be

and have given your soul to find:

the lost sheep of Israel,

the budding olive branch.

III.

We chant in the voices of old

our song rises, pure and true,

chastising us to live

as your servants:

to rise from the dead

as you rose,

your death to sin

in us

incarnate, and having

power beyond

the grave.

She sits in the chapel beyond the

wrought iron gate,

steeped in heady

incense, her heart

now inspired with our prayers

in seclusion,

those who have promised

their dedication

to the one

they love more

than this world.

IV.

What I have waited for all my life

has come to be: I am the bride

and he is my magnificent Christ;

the step upon the stair of time,

a prince of

the sun and moon,

the wind and rain,

the planets and constellations—

all bow down and worship

his finery: fire, earth, metal,

wood, water, and air.

His strength is like that

of a thousand horses to defend us,

his river of love flows

clear as crystal.

The Alpha and Omega,

both first and last

among spirits and men:

all will find

their wholeness

in his perfection

for their own imperfection.

V.

Sing.

Let the earth rejoice

that it is no longer

under the dominion

of evil, the darkness

does not reign

unpierced by love,

the stars glisten

as a martyr’s tears

and here the truth of life

is spoken: go deeper, deeper.

Of revelation,

not an afterword,

or an afterthought,

but a journey

that bids one

depart at once

for a far-away land.

Here one must

wrest the soul

from its enchantment

and tell it, fight.

VI.

There is a battle

for one’s eternal soul

and one must take

his portion, his cup

and willingly, his vow.

Whoever one serves shall love

or betray him,

seduce or invite him,

question or deliver him,

condemn or acquit him,

possess or relinquish him.

You are love incarnate

where there is hatred, let envy cease,

and empathy resound in the lives

of those trained for war,

who swear their allegiance

to the end,

who are men of violence,

yet love with compassion.

They will never forget

that our greatest freedom

came at the cost of bloodshed.

VII.

The war of angels has overthrown

the evil one, and he languishes

waiting for his eternal doom;

those who love his ego and mania

will swear at life’s injustice,

will waste every resource,

will become pale with fear

at their wicked poison:

that which created trash words

where there once was verse,

and called art uninspired.

He is as a statue sculpted from marble,

which stands in the greatest

museum on earth.

No man can touch his face.

And yet, even Michelangelo’s David

cannot rival his perfection,

his chiseled brow and deep set eyes;

his love, like an oil painting

in the Louvre,

never to be abandoned

or forgotten.

Destiny

My heart crumbled beneath

this red and white truce

with my maker, this Valentine.

My Creator wanted

my absolute devotion,

and the length of my years,

days, hours, minutes and seasons

was my eternal gift,

my journey into God:

my spiritual path in all seasons

in the shifting shadows of human nature.

I was one to have no children,

to be of solitude and silence,

to take my vows of poverty,

chastity and silence.

I rise every day in prayer and to pray;

I sleep with the fervor of grace

still echoing in my bones.

I see the message of the sun and moon,

the dance of constellations,

and choreograph

their meanings like the dancers on a stage.

II.

The universal stage

is where human beings,

their whims, values and vices

are played out for their own good,

the good of others, or the benefit

of the divine cause for eternity.

All at once, my black and white factual mind

became the meldings of a stained glass window,

the color rich and sunlight streaming

to illumine me

with understanding not my own.

I walk the halls of this small unknown

convent, covered from head to toe

in the robe of a nun,

yet the language of verse

struck a ringing brass note,

and sheathed me with the dress

of humanity from every culture.

This was poetry that came

from the place of my shore,

like gathering seashells

that are beautiful and unusual.

III.

The ringing sea

was a character of its own,

lashing the driftwood

like a wild Madonna—

flinging the salt water

upon the shore,

then pulling it back in its undertow.

She was so beautiful,

this woman with

long coarse hair

who danced by the sea.

And yet, on the inside

she was a country waiting

for deliverance to come.

She waited to bear the holy one.

She knew the sanctity

and the sacredness of

gathering her soul to birth

and rebirth throughout the ages.

Holy mother, come…

now deliver us

with the gift of your son.

IV.

Healing to all peoples

comes through your offspring,

and you are

the Lady of Guadalupe.

Where once you were

like a queen in a castle,

now you walk the streets

with your face hidden

by your hair,

looking for the children

of your heart.

The peace of nations is in

your very robe, the tree

for their healing grows in your garden,

and sin is assuaged

by your merciful face.

I will wait in silence

until the prayers you give me

are of the divine nature, not my own.

Until they are as lace,

covering the countryside,

and I gather them like wildflowers.

I have no other treasure than that

which is produced by my heart in yours,

the mother of Christ.

The mystery of the divine

cannot be answered

in words alone, but the words that

unselfconsciously lead to prayer.

I hope that this will lead you

to the water of the living stream,

and will quench the thirst of your soul

in a modern and inconvenienced world.

The world

did not have time

for a “little Christ,”

but it was necessary

to make him big

and commercial

and important enough

to earn both money and riches.

And yet he was poor,

and despises not our poverty

and the value of hard work.

VI.

May I never

be afraid of that

which called me

in the first place,

and emptied my wants,

desires and wealth

for a person I could not see—

and yet I trust implicitly.

May I never revoke

my lifetime vows

in the convent of

St. Clare of Assisi.

May I never die

and lie in the graveyard

on the outskirts of a small town

in British Columbia,

but carry on the work in dedication

to God forever in eternity.

My words will stand only

if they are measured by his own,

and the lessons I’ve learned

in both despair and consternation

reflect his perfectness and peace.

VII.

What I have won

by the world

I have lost in heaven,

and to this day

I know only of

the emptying

of everything

that would

hold me back.

What I cannot take

with me I now cut free.

The trappings

of pain and guilt

are left like a chrysalis

from which

I have emerged the butterfly.

He who once died,

now dies in me.

He who once rose,

now rises in me.

I am freedom: and where I walk,

all who follow will taste its sweetness.

Book of Years

2011-05-21T11:17:00.001-07:00

His song broke the sky

right at the beginning,

and all that was wintered and frozen

began to melt under the great tree of time;

the new green life unpeeled itself

beneath stormy clouds

and grew in shoots of living breath,

each colored flower rimmed with dew

spoke of an Ancient of Days

who hand-picked their warm hues,

and watercolored each one.

The rain beat down,

edifying his work, filling

the depths with new waters

and here there was an abundance

of life; waiting for story to begin,

the lives of creatures

both great and small

to chronicle their being

in a timeline of pleasant days

and beauty’s hundredfold

blessings to the earth.

II.

What could love taste

besides the fragrant grove

of fresh bloom,

opening in the new sun,

spilling its blossoms

like rain over the ground.

The cherry, plum, and apple trees

give forth their promise

of new life, being bearers

of a prophesy in the very grove

their owner once stood

and contemplated with all his heart,

saying:

This orchard of promise

will bear much fruit,

and will be a dividend of plenty;

the wind will blow

in the arms of its branches

and its riveting pink and white

sanctity shall be reminiscent

of youth, when not yet in its prime.

III.

And the duress of rain and storm

did not shake the small grove,

for its cultivator was a wise man

and carefully, he tended his orchard.

The summer came with its warmth

and the apples grew rose and shiny,

rounded and juicy, tempting

those who knew of such a place.

The fruit of the orchard was harvested

and each barrel of bright-hued sweetness

was a tribute to the owner who

had paid the price

and purchased the orchard.

He always believed that

it would not be to his detriment

to have a stock of such delicious fruit

to fill his pantry and root cellar

for winter months.

For what is more pleasing than the crunch

of a juice apple in midwinter,

a dried cherry in burgundy,

or the warmth of a stewed plum.

IV.

So the children of the cultivator

grew with the magical fruit from the orchard,

and it gave them such promise

that they were red-cheeked and hearty,

picking cherries to eat in the summertime,

apples in the fall, burnished and bright,

and supping on warm plums in the winter.

The youngest girl would sit beneath the trees

and read books that would rivet her for hours

and so she was well-read,

and when she had read every book she could

lay her eyes on, she began to write her own book,

and she used many pages of white lined paper

to complete the task.

When she was a young woman,

one day she found the book

she had written, and decided it should

tell the story of the orchard to everyone.

So she sent it away, and called it

“The Plum Orchard.”

The Plum Orchard,

was published and made into a book

many many years ago.

Some have read it, although

today, many have not.

For if they read it,

they would recognize the old orchard

at the end of Heritage Road,

where there are the ruins of an old house

and a rose garden, with only

a few silver petals.

The trees still stand in decorum,

and their blossoms still shed

their papery blooms over

the hard earth, but

the fruit falls to the ground,

unnoticed.

The children no longer play

in its reaches,

for they have grown up

and gone away a long time ago.

VI.

When I was a young woman,

I would sit under the plum tree in the garden

and write verse for many long hours

while shadows grew long

across the vegetable garden

with its cultivated bean stalks, ears of corn.

What become of the book today,

one only knows if the poet

has stood the test of time,

but I grew up and went away also,

and the shadows of the old house

may have almost forgotten.

I decided to travel to many foreign lands,

and knew the places I would visit

could bring significance to my dreams

and fulfillment to my prayers

for more fire in my soul and a fury

over injustice that would evoke change.

A person had said to me once,

"I hope to never quench the fire of your spirit.”

So I went into the world with my body,

and when I found its innocence crucified,

I went into the world again with my spirit,

while residing in the convent.

VII.

The ebony face that watched me, standing

in the door of her hut,

her bright dress wrapped

around her in shades of African desert,

was intrigued with my presence

where the heat

doesn’t relent, as fiery hunger

pounding away the grain with a rock

until it is milled like fine dark powder.

If I had been collecting only rooibos tea

from the dark continent,

I would have left and returned home;

but I was collecting hearts

so I stayed to carefully observe

what I was not to change,

but value as tradition

from one generation to the next.

One day I know children

will not die of hunger when there is food,

one day I know

we will all have education

in a real school, with new paper;

but day by day we are learning more

and more

when we turn and thank

the cultivator of our love.

And in this sun-drenched place

under the sky

where truth is not relinquished

for purity

love shall burn.

--Emily Isaacson