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Political Commentary

EARLY MORNING WALK

The sun slips up above the level land,

caught and squeezed into a hazy, yellow ball,

surrounded by the last lingering grayness of the night.

 

The shining, dripping green of the leaves and trees

flashes and sparkles; and struggling little sunbeams,

young and smiling, report to the asking sun

that the worn earth has been freshened by its shower of dew,

made clean and new and ready by the night.

The sun dawns and yesterday’s world is innocent.

 

My trespassing footfalls are loud and hard and harsh.

The crickets’ purring, the crisp little breeze

swaying the luxuriant leaves of the wakened trees,

the scampering, squeaking squirrels, the tweeting little birds –

these simple sounds in nature’s morning concerto

do not disturb the rhythm and the wonder of the peaceful stillness.

  Somehow, they lushly accompany her solo of silence.

But my human footsteps intrude.

 

A car comes roaring into earshot

– motor sound, friction fighting power, blatant, brazen ugliness

violate the silence, blanch, break, bury the stillness,

boasting noise like a challenge, blasting away into oblivion.

 

Slowly the little sounds recover,

the peppy, pretty, resounding and timeless

silence in the green parlor of the sun.

 

My steps crunch and crinkle and intrude.

I open the door to my sleeping house.

Convicted, ashamed, I quit the arena,

leaving the field to the gentle victor.

HIS FIRST TIME

 

Cock your head, colt, and paw and paw

the tinsels moon strewn on lake and land.

Raise your tired-of-grazing head

                                                 up and up, and challenge and charge                                                       

the hoof hurt heavens!

Prance and dance your pounding sound

pistons on the teasing earth,

beating her dare down to the moon shades,

the mighty, misty moon shades of the woodland.

                                                                                 Snort and sing, look and sing                                                                                   

at the sounding, echo bounding fields,

the breathing, beam sprinkled, bale bringing fields.

Hark to the whispering hoppers’ humming.

                                                                                  see far into the loud, lonely land                                                                                    

and shimmering, shining mirrors of the moon.

Then grasp the great ground flying,

and gripping go running close,

back clinging to your clothing big mare mother.

ON GROWING UP

Youth dazzled; youth awed;

      youth terrified; youth glorified!

      Trees and trees and trees of power

       stay the sight and seep the strength,

       inflame the vision and the vigor of seeing.

 

      Glints of blending sunlight flecking

       black and brown and green with gold –

       breathless, over-powering beauty blasted in,

      veils torn from dream-swept trees, reality glares!

 

       Senses reeling, reality stealing

       stealing the soft, mossy cradle

       beneath the stark, unscaled treetops.

       Man’s hand butchers a tree.

       God’s finger fashions a cross.

 

      Back-breaking burden is basking,

                      basking in the darting shafts and wafts

      of the seeing Son as the Cross

                                          carries struggling, shrinking youth to the treetops!

DISCOVERY

I stand a tired raft and tremble

A rolling mist is cutting off

A fog is rolling back my grasping vision.

The gray night is closing in on me

And cutting away the sound and sight of men

Till my shivering soul stands all alone,

 And the loneliness plugs in my nerves

And turns the switch, charging senses

I never knew I had with shock.

 

And so, a radar man, I move away

Away and beyond the other men

Those older men whose souls hold up

“No Trespassing” signs etched in hurt and hate

 And my swimming raft is tired and drowning,

While my shivering brain and my shattered soul

Are sick and beaten and ripped and scarred,

A nameless man in a nameless sea,

Tortured by doubts, but conquered by mountains,

I’m afraid to live and afraid to die.

 

Wait! The breathing mist is sprinkled

I thought I saw a light spread out —

For an instant. Gone. Was it really there?

 

Dark. Gray dark. Breathing dark.

I dreamt, I closed my eyes

and saw bolts of lightning.

Carefully I kneel and touch the sea

My live trembling hands touch,

reach down to the warm, stale water.

Maybe I’ll just paddle over there a bit,

And see what it would be like – to possess a purpose.

“Uselessness” – the only word I know,

Other words are wistful shadows.

 

If I close my eyes and sleep, sleep . . .

Crouching and careful, I let myself deflate,

Go limp, try to become a thing,

A brutish, unfeeling bump on the top of the sea.

But my electric eyes will not stay shut,

They look for the light, they strain for the maybe . . .

 For a long, long time –

till my stretched eyes

Are weary, and my despairing body

laughs at my hoping eyes.

 

Then again!  Again a light blurs against the shadows.

On and off and on and off

“Come here, come here, come here and find me.”

My brain grows tense and knotted by the unknown.

Someone is out there!

Another hope floods up to my face

And drains my muscles and twitches my muscles

And blows blood through my bundled brain.

THE FARMER

Taunt-rope muscles slack.

His thick leather shoes slow and stop,

and two granite eyes gaze gently.

From his own earth he rose

and, gazing, he feels it, he hears it.

 

The slender, fragile wheat shoots

with their thin-chested whiteness showing

are greening warily, wonderingly,

inching up from the black, soft earth.

 

 Naked, defenseless now

but swaying summer gold,

ripened by the growth of God

come harvest time.

 

The man pushes back his hat,

Showing white on his forehead

a white band like a halo.

He stoops, he touches the little sprout,

his hammer-hard hands

caress delicately, finely feel its whiteness.

He raises it to his mouth and tastes,

and a gentle smile refashions

his stone-cut face – a smile,

a tender smile in this rock-hard man.

NIGHT STREET

The lonely, vacant howling emptiness

 of a bare city street in night . . .

Laughing sounds of happy hearts

echo in this haunted harbor of hurt,

dripping resonant tears of drizzle,

haranguing a lonesome sleepless street light

with the clanging chain of a useless flag pole.

Outside the buildings’ shining shades,

leaning shadows and gaunt trees

stalk the stark night street.

A laugh escapes the warmth inside.

The chill breeze bites, strips the intruder

and hurls it into the freezing mud,

turning the pattering rain to snow.

THE CLOISTER

Faint footsteps follow and fall

there upon the hard, stone floor

reddened and warmed in the sunset glow.

And the patient peaceful footfalls.

clinking rosaries, rustling cassocks

are muted in the misty dusk of prayer

that falls on the shadowed black figures,

that gently lifts them from life

to a dream, a vision,

an ecstasy of light and love.

They wait, and He comes

and He breathes here,

in the somber, incensed soulful stillness

of the twilight cloister.

The Theresa Poems

SHELTER

The warmth of a home cooked meal,

The warmth of a home on a wintery night,

the warmth of a woman’s low singing

— these warm the soul of a stranger

wandering through the cold and snow

whose face and heart have been pelted,

torn and hurt by the ice pieces

which the night outside exhales to cover

his lonely foot prints in the snow.


THERESA

Come, let me look at thee,

for thy eyes are as evening stars.

Come let me look at thee,

for thy face is as the glory of the heavens.

Come, let me look at thee,

for thy grace is as the nimble morning breeze.

Come, let me love thee,

for thy lips are bidding me to come to thee.

PEACE

To be alone when the world sleeps,

when noises and labors are past,

when sin sleeps and joy endures –

to think and remember

to plan and to pray –

this is a sacred time.

THE PSALMS

In the evening all is quiet

and the hearth opens up

and spreads its light

to the open book

and the two are made one

by the power of the Word

which sheds its warming fire on open souls

drinking in the loving open hearth