MORNING
"Introibo ad Altare Dei . . ."
Father Wily would say, too fast, all too
early in the day for me to call up
my memorized Latin. "Ad Deum qui
laetificat juventutem meam,"
I would answer, nervous, not quite awake
so early in the morning before school.
Not much of a crowd those dark March mornings.
The church was cold and every sound echoed:
a stifled sneeze; a late comer tiptoed
up the aisle; a cough. Someone turned a thin,
stiff missal's page, trying to keep pace
with Father Wily's quick, breathless Latin.
I smothered a yawn and my eyes watered
while I sat through the Epistle: Saint Paul
complained about rough seas, ship wreck. Dawn's first
glowing light colored the stained glass windows:
Saint John, in dark blue, emerged with a book;
Mary, in blue and white, stood on a gold
lined cloud and rose toward the sky; a young man
with long hair and a halo, his hands tied
above his head, slumped down beside a tree
and looked upward while he bled from arrow
wounds: seven arrows. The rising sun's shafts
of light trapped brilliant specks of fast moving
dust and rose to light up bits of gold high
in the cathedral's dark mosaic dome.
A steady, cold draft blew round my ankles
while I knelt, watching closely for my cue
to ring the gold bells when Father Wily
raised up the host and his bright gold chalice:
the church became still for that long moment;
a huge silence would gather to embrace
the music of bells ringing their finest
tones, and like a great organ sustaining
a note, the empty church echoed and sang
the bells' cheerful song, then let it fade out
slowly, gently, till it was the faintest
hint of music gone from perfect silence.
The taste of the host was still in my mouth
when I took off my surplice and cassock:
it made me hungry. The cold sacristy
chilled my coat and made me anxious to leave:
I took my books, my lunch bag and I hurried
down the aisle. The church was dark, oddly still,
vacant; the sun now sent shafts of colored
light down through dark stained glass windows. Each dim
beam lit an empty space in the dark pews.
My quick steps echoed through the hollow church
till I pushed open its heavy, arched doors.
The skies were blue and not a cloud behind
bright sun that warmed my face and eased the chill
from morning air. I was awake and glad
for a donut I found in my lunch bag.
The last church goer drove his car around
the corner and the grey stone parking lot
became our school playground: I wandered
alone, curious to find beer bottle
caps, cigarette butts, broken glass, bobby
pins, the telling signs of a playground's
life after school and before morning Mass.
The school was shut, silent, asleep; its sand
colored brick sparkled in the bright sun
like the brief, faint smile of a pleasant dream.
Not a soul about and the place so still--
it seemed impossible that soon noisy
bus after yellow bus would come to pour
streams of boys and girls in blue uniforms
scrambling onto the playground to await
the shrill, piercing bell that signaled the start
of another day. Such a fine morning!
I wished I were free to go home and play.
Morning Prayer
Lord, grant me greater correspondence
Between motive and action, intention
And result.
I am sick with a slow decline
Over long years of working hard to do
Nothing to earn a day’s pay.
Days are ruled
By their need for pay.
We do not rule the day
With work of our own invention.
We work at nothing, putting little ones into
Big ones, hammering the huge rock, reading
Long, dull reports, adding vacant numbers,
Stuffing envelopes, collecting money, loading
Trucks . . . and who was born to load a damn
Truck?
There's no telling
what you won't see
if you don't look.
Eden
Now it’s eat the apples and fear the animals
(Too numerous to name);
Grow your own and bear up under
The entropic orbit of body
And chaotic movement of soul.
It’s mystery over wonder, time,
The elements: we’re not safe;
If the earth’s faults don’t a tornado
Will, or a parching drought sun, or forty
Days of rain, high winds, treacherous
Snow, tidal seas, Cain killing Abel, fire,
Garbage and seagulls, deadly sins
To trample beatitudes gone slack
To platitudes: “the meek shall eat
Handfuls of dirt whilst traipsing homeless
Through dark allies as if in frantic
Search of someone.” The morning
Sun rose white hot, a perfectly round,
Platinum ball that burned through dense,
Floating fog, looking small, like a roving moon.
The Yucca bush sent up long snakes of buds
To bloom sudden white flowers that struck
The first burning strokes of summer; in the evening,
Fire flies sparked golden lights that twinkled
Briefly above tall broad grasses in the field
That sloped from the road to the low land
Near the brook and the woods. We found a crow’s
Feather in the garden near the house, and Joe
Returned with cantaloupes, a hand made serape,
And his smile. We brewed coffee and laughed
About the crows that ate all the bright red cherries
In the tree top and spit the pits to the sidewalk
Where they left red stains. The moon rose full
Just before dark and shone that bright yellowish
White some say promises a hot day, but I reveled
In the warm, silent stillness, compelled by all
The summer moon inspires, conceals and reveals.
Mystery
Mysteries abound. Consider:
“Give Unto Caesar Those Things That Are Caesar’s.”
Who better deserves Caesar’s things?
There are joyful mysteries of annunciation,
Visitation, and nativity, mysterious mysteries,
Illiterate mysteries, long-legged mysteries,
Glorious mysteries, astronomical mysteries
Of politics, economy, religion, psychology,
Medicine, education, law, ignorance, arrogance,
Sorrowful mysteries, mythical mysteries.
What things does Caesar want?
One rather glorious mystery
Is the perfectly proportioned
Symmetrical mons delicately carved
In the stone of Stella’s marble belly.
Even dry, it looks slick enough.
Who might want Caesar’s things?
A short, round cleric in black cassock
And cloak topped with an egg-shaped head
Gone bald, his lips pursed and oyster
Eyes magnified behind thick glasses
Walked by ignoring his students.
He taught mythical mysteries: Circe
And her Sirens, who touch the magic wand
To pleasure or distress the hunter, the thief,
The juror, the milkman, the witness,
The carpenter, the writer, the priest . . .
Father Hennessy walked with eyes downcast
His head bent to one side as he picked
An unencumbered path through clusters
Of laughing boys.
One young girl, a teenager wakes
To find herself pregnant. Who will believe
She is a virgin? Joseph? An angel told her,
She said—quite a mystery, that.
Je vous salut, Marie . . . Amen.
Suicide is a sorrowful mystery.
Ernest Hemingway shot himself.
I felt the cut. He was dead on page
One in large, bold, black, dark thick print.
I read his books. Now he’s dead.
He took dead aim and shot himself: quite a good
shot, too, but he was a hunter.
A mad scramble for Hemingway’s things ensued.
I looked the other way. It was all right to read Huck Finn:
Twain lives on; Clemens is dead. He’s gone
A long time, but Hemingway just shot himself
and died. John Lennon would not have shot himself;
He had to rely on someone else.
Lazarus died and Jesus cried
When he arrived. Lazarus, alive
Walked forth and sighed, “Oh, well.”
Father Hennessy liked the old fish story:
Jesus told his men to pass round their fish
And bread. All were amazed that so few
loaves of bread and so little sushi fed so many.
A dry affair. No grill. No talk of beer or wine.
He reserved spirits for weddings.
Cold water over ice;
A drag from the exhaust of a clean
Carburetor, white with smoke
Suddenly gone. Sit back to rock,
Maybe have a red wine.
Too much is too much
Even when it’s just enough.
Whiskers and The Victorian
She was a shallow stream,
a wader's dream,
and he liked fishing
up minnows.
Hers was a fetching gleam:
the moon's full beam
conjuring a steady
under-tow.
He splashed on self-esteem,
to an extreme,
and thought to give her
a good row,
but, t'was her secret scheme
to reign supreme
whilst he was bathing
his ego.
Their puddle sure teemed
and raged, till it seemed
like oceans about
to overflow.
All those words
Mother taught
me not to say
come in handy
once or twice
every day.
Conversation with the Wall (VIII)
No sops for Cerberus;
so let him growl,
while we fetch Persephone
who's been too long gone.
Long toothed Winter
has made us irritable
with excess.
The romance of fire
cools when we must keep it
alight through too long
and too cold a winter.
We learned that in March
when this withered old
wretch conjured twenty
tornadoes and two
volcanoes and winds
to agitate seas,
and snowstorms to kill
off the crocuses.
The Garden
Then Jesus prayed like you and I:
“Father, I would rather not die.
I'd be content to step aside
and, in time, grow old with my friends.
I would rather avoid prison.
No one values lambs, doves, the pigeons
we kill. Scapegoats take men off that hook
but that hook still hangs in the water,
baited, waiting for them to take
another day, and these men here,
these, my sleeping friends, what can you
ask of them? Such as they are? Not
much, I fear!” So He prayed, then stood,
and woke Peter and James and John
and He waited with them, alone:
as He lived all his life, alone,
a stranger among men, apart,
puzzled by puzzled crowds who came
to see they knew not what, to hear
the words of one whose words escaped
them. They came like the puzzled soldiers
who came that night, armed and wary,
fearing the moment, the darkness,
to capture one who would not flee.
Good Friday
Lily's eyes stared wide and round
as if stuck open with startled dismay.
"Come on," she said, "what's all these
clothes doing here? I didn't finish
yesterday's wash yet . . . ."
Pink Floyd's Wall filled the hall,
too loud--"We don't need no . . ."
The washing machine clanged;
the vacuum cleaner roared its angry
scream and the dog barked and jumped
as if he would attack its every move.
An ill-conceived Spring with sudden snow
burying limp crocuses too quick to live.
Easter eggs boiling for dyeing--
at three the stress of Lent is gone.
Lazy, graceful, languid snow dancing,
drifting down, floating slowly down
this Friday in April.
Melancholy lilies hang their heads
in mournful shame in Shepherd's
chilly hot-house. "They've been forced,"
Shepherd said, "along with the mums
and azaleas. Lilies don't take it well.
They're no fun," he chuckled.
Tomato soup and tuna fish--
dinner for a damn snowy
Friday in April.
Fuzzy Chaos
Stripped of old illusions
I sat in a corner of myself
Looking out on my confusion:
my thoughts shown like shards
of fractured light strewn about the street:
I dreamed a reign of terror too frightening
to recall—a rundown sandstone dwelling
with mirrors on narrow walls.
Each spoken word re-echoed
like shrill screams at night.
A woman, a cat, a baby cried
out with frightful random shrieks.
If not monks with quills, surely
Silent Renaissance sculpture
standing deftly in long corridors
with thick carpet to lure old men
in black velvet gowns, grown
impervious to the echo of age-old folly.
Grim, aging, in long vestments, Father
Wicker stood outside his church
and extended a hand, his large wide hand
with thick fingers, like the fingers
of the milkman whose hand
I have shaken once or twice--
what a large handful of wide fingers.
Can these be the fingers of a rogue priest?
Conversation with the Wall
In mocking hesitation,
Old Whiskers bowed his head:
"It's mostly of this era
to live in fear and dread
the push along the subway,
the stranger with a gun,
the organized militia
armed and having fun,
the nuclear reactors,
terrorists, and more,
the nagging threat of living
through the very last world war.
No telling what they're thinking,
down there in Washington's Mall,
but everyone who goes there
sits on Humpty's wall.
So fare you well this fun house,
wisely choose your way:
we'll know you by those things you do.
Not by those you say."
Chaos
Sometimes I think
God is a wizened
Old man, gone mad,
Senile and nasty
Wednesday
(on the road)
Heavy rain and turnpike trucks: the wiper blades
are shot. Radio news promised sunshine before noon.
Invisible planes--muffled roar above. Suddenly one begins
to emerge from low grey clouds, just above the car; two
engines near the tail. The plane roars loud as it floats--slow,
too slow for its size--across the road and down, down;
just above the airport fence, it disappears with a fading roar.
***************
She said her name was Helen, but I think of her
as Cathy: nearly called her Cathy once, till I caught
my tongue and stammered, "Helen," with an odd smile.
***************
Freddie wants a 4 x 4. He means to sell his van.
"The truck will go for ten; the van will bring three
grand. I'll borrow some and pay the bank a little
bit each month, like I did with my swimming pool,"
he said, proud of his scheme and his means.
***************
The rain did not abate. From one to another, and no
luck at eleven: "You said I'd have it Monday!! Today
is Wednesday, and it's still not here!! Your company
is all be-cocked!!!" spat Doug, still stung with reprimand.
***************
Rain gave out and sun blew in. A cool wind thinned the clouds
to reveal blue patches of sky that shone bright on wet roads.