Worship

These walls
are onion
thin, translucent,

we come
early morning
to shed
all we've
gathered over
the week,
to leave
it here

with each
layer peeled,
tears, with
each layer
peeled, more
tears

we find
there is
no end,
no middle
inside,

outside,
every
creature
peers in
at us,
nods to
scripture,
coos
to hymn

they place
offerings of
nut, twig,
nest-string
and seed
on sidewalks'
edge for
us

if you
listen closely
during silent
prayer you
can hear
them, if
you watch
carefully on
your walk
home, you
can see
their gifts

Waiting, Worship

For 2 May 2010 PCM Church Service “Poetry Anthem”

The familiar scene: the upper room, sparsely furnished,
almost always an allegory, a lesson; always
a white dove.

Kneeling on solemn knees of uncertainty
the disciples huddling in prayers, some unspoken,
wondering about the Helper.
But we were told of the aftermath,
those great signs and miracles.
No one mentions the waiting, the doubts,
the anxiety like sitting on bed of nails.

The mighty whirlwind Spirit
came in a visitation to the faithful
who gathered that day
with one accord.

Professionals who left their boats,
free to choose between catching fish
or men, how to follow Jesus who ascended
leaving them, to be satisfied
with only a vision,
those fifty days.

Aren’t there visitations of
one sort or another, in many lives?
Surprise rains in times of droughts –
some clouds unwilling
portend difficult grey storms;
others falling on glad fields
ready for harvest.
Often, the decision on where to be
standing between one chasm
of darkness and light,
the forked path to
persist or abandon.

Mundane lives carry on
casting and pulling
one net after another.
God does not rebuke them
but the invitation to walk on the sea
disappears.

Who would have believed
when the fiery tongues fell on each disciple
they too brought a call to apostleship?
Of stoning, crucifixion, exile, shipwreck,
imprisonment, rejection, and heartache.
Yet, each man remembers
that moment they were filled with new wine,
one vision and many divine languages
that would pierce the heart and soul.
Yes, despite our weakness
God visits unexpectedly
during our journey into dark valleys,
when we praise and
worship
by faith and not by sight.

Survivors

Survivors
Cornell University,
Ithaca, NY

First day of spring
break and the grounds
crew is out in
throngs scraping death
into little piles
from under
campus shrubs
and into plastic bags

two students jumped
from suspension bridge
last week,
Engineers,
and now
they're installing
fences on
the bridges
that span gorges,

tall, metal-mesh barriers,
like those hastily constructed
for prisoner of war camps,
to keep nature from seducing
stressed students
to its waterfall pools,
and black rocks,
administrator-approved
containment of all learning
in the brick and mortar,

sad reminders
of World Trade
Center jumpers,
the women locked
in Triangle Shirt Factory
fire, fashionably black
Victorian boots
on high narrow ledges, toe-ing the emptiness,
the place
we all reach
when pushed.

A Survivor's Memory

Twelve years under a survivor’s
skin, gnawed bones of a forgotten name;
crumpled skeletal figure and wrinkles of age,
Now and then the tongue sits
nestled in the cot where the
tooth bridge with gold filling used to lay.

Burning blauschein, an old parchment of livelihood
marked by a dissolving blue stamp,
what bittersweet paradox of
love and hate,
life and death.
Bony fingers along the ashes, trailing like
strands of hair
singed, falling along bones
charred, of
the rise and fall of limbs thrown into a mountain.
Dust of human ash -
No, by law blood is not to be consumed with flesh.

Yellow star of David, once loved star
now despicable cuff band like one tattooed
blemish on white sheep.
Forcing the old sweet
memories of
tefilin laid on the arm and
on the head Tallit and Kippah, but
one may not forget the Shabbat is rest.

Human nakedness embracing Purim
casting lots:
Mist that falls from the head,
Is this rain today?
Of the empty metal tins discarded everyday,
Z-y-k-l-o-n-B
disposing persons,
shameful unspeakable unaccountable numbers
enumerating 1.2 million, maybe more.
Inside the darkness –
Chai, life,
savagely you were earned.

Oskar.

Little Goshen churning out enamel
blueprints of 1200 lifetimes,
of gratitude, and the much needed
essential workers.
The final product: one golden filling, a golden ring,
and an old adage,
He who saves a single life saves the entire world.

And now, Yad Vashem. Pebbles. Rocks. Tombs of the righteous.

Mensch.

Scranton (Survivor Poem)

The paradise I never been to and have no desire to visit.

It always seems to lie just in the middle
Of wherever I’ve going
And wherever I’ve been.

It’s a bottomless pit, a dead end street
Of second guessing; which way should I go?

Should I even bother leaving?

It takes a mountain of courage
To drive down into the valley
Only to have to climb back up again,

A paradoxical pleasure of sweet sugar and tangy lime lemonade
In knowing the glass is half full
And yet half shattered
Against the smoke-ridden sky
And the deep gray exterior that dulls all light to come across it.

But I am the survivor.
I will hearken to the journey’s cry
And leave the pit of my despair,

For I am here. Now.

New Theme: SURVIVORS

Hi All,

Let's try this theme out for next Friday, March 19th.

Eric

Why I Married (Motive Theme)

I've always been good
at removing the tags
from Salvation Army purchases

I can slowly peel the old, blue
sticky prices from Syracuse
china without leaving a trace

My specialty is removing
the stubborn bent steel
staples from well
worn chenille shawls
using the heavy
iron letter opener
adopted after
Roger's suicide

it's my job, my offering, my sacrifice

to dig through our used
plastic purchases:
to carefully unfurl
the balled up sport coats,
Christmas tree skirts,
flowered table cloths
and hippie knick-knacks

to meticulously remove
the prices set on
memories, marriages gone bad,
birthday gifts that missed
their mark

we make things old, new again,
to us, and our home

each day we treasure
our memories, make
worth in that which
others throw away