Word, like wind, cuts through you / Withers all but true you
One hundred thousand ginger-headed troops
Abandon ranks and hide behind the rocks
While down at them a flock unfeathered swoops
Of blind, yet guided, wingless silver hawks;
They take the soldiers, each one to his death,
But not before they bleach their bodies white,
Delighting in the odors in their breath,
While spent grenades mourn silently their plight.
The icy weather these past few days has got me thinking about how much extreme cold and extreme heat are like each other. You know what I mean if you have ever been exposed to the bitter cold for a while: your skin takes on a fiery sensation owing to the dryness coupled with the cold. That in turn made me wonder if the real dichotomy is between the middle and the two extremes, for the two extremes tend to blend into one.
There’s something very odd about
My journey on this street:
Its absolutely cozy in the middle;
But if I wander to the right,
I feel a burning heat,
Like walking on an unforgiving griddle.
I venture left and there, I feel
The razor bite of cold,
It cracks my skin, and makes me gasp and wheeze;
And if I linger long, I’ll meet
Those poison daggers rolled
In fire, forged within the wretched freeze.
And so I hasten to return
To where its warm and bright;
The middle of the road is where I’ll stay,
Away from where the scalding touch
Of ice and fire smite
A man who wants to be upon his way,
Extremely in the middle, if I may.
I drive a noisy car,
Its even noisy on the highway,
Its funny how noise becomes silence
When I’m thinking my way.
I’m in a room full of people,
And everybody’s talking,
Its funny how noise becomes silence
When an idea comes knocking.
As I lullaby this baby
Into the arms of the night,
Its funny how noise becomes silence
If the song is just right.
But when I stand up in the silence
And enter into prayer,
All my silent self-absorption
Makes a noise I cannot bear.
I have to remember well my Lord,
And forget myself some more
That all the silence become silence.
On the blessed birth of Jesus, the son of Mary.
Note: I didn’t mean for this to follow the meter of Away in a manger, it just happened.
How sweet is the song
Of a stream in the wild
That softens its rush
At the coos of a child;
How sweet is the song
Of the leaves in the breeze
That rustle and fall
On the weary knees
And hands of a maiden
So pure as the dawn
Caressing the face
Of her baby that shone;
How sweet is the song
Of the grass that is green,
Where showers of dates
Meet the water serene;
How sweet is the song
Of the angels that span
The space and the time
Which with Adam began.
This Word from the Lord
So conceived in the morn:
How blessed the child
In a day that is born.
The week is behind us, the weekend’s ahead
As Friday reminds us: be happy instead.
There’s food’s on the table, and health in our hands,
Every verse spreads its wings, rises high up to fly
Through a love like the meadow and a faith like the sky
Till it reaches its perch in the tree of my heart,
Where it lives on forever, to never depart,
The week is behind us, the weekend’s ahead
As Friday reminds us: be happy instead.
There’s food’s on the table, and health in our hands,
We’ve got no worries and we haven’t any plans.
In our efforts to be virtuous we often tolerate injustice. And in our efforts to be just, we often overstep our bounds. True justice lies in knowing the rights of creation. It is why the best of creation (prayers and peace be upon him) was the most moderate in temper, for excellence is the sum of all acts wrought in moderation.
Take care you are not blinded by
The tears in your eyes
That long to weep an ocean deep
For all that they receive;
Take care you are not deafened by
The whispers in your ear
That like the clamor of a hammer
Make your heart to grieve;
But let your inward temperate check
Your hearing and your sight;
There is no virtue if when hurt,
You steal another’s right.
Good news for me. I recently learned that my entry was placed first in the “Lighting of the Fire” Poetry Contest sponsored by Highland Park Poetry and the Ravinia Neighbors Association.
I have been invited to read it at the November 22nd Centennial Celebration of the Ravinia Village House (that’s Friday night).
Here’s an article talking about the upcoming celebration.
http://www.ravinianeighbors.org/ravinia-neighbors-association-blog/your-invitation-to-a-once-in-a-century-event
And here’s the winning poem.
http://www.highlandparkpoetry.org/home.html
My sincere thanks to the Ravinia Neighbors Association and Highland Park Poetry for this recognition. I’ve pasted the poem below in case the above link expires :-).
A Spark and a Fire
I often set to wonder why
We take the stands we take;
What makes us rise from where we lie,
And stirs our hearts to wake
When forth, the ever silent, speak
To light a tiny spark
That burns a flame by which we seek
To drive away the dark;
Like planters of the olive tree,
They never taste its fruit,
Which, like the one who eats from it,
Knows nothing of its root.
I think the answer might well be
The courage of a few
Whose grit, resolve, tenacity,
And other virtues too
Deliver us to light again
This fire that will burn
In honor of their service then,
An honor we return.
I’m late for work and I’m driving down the street,
I’ve got the road in my hands and the wind beneath my feet;
I’m worn and weary of the one who makes me yawn,
I’d rather breathe in the colors of the autumn in the dawn;
Will I live to see the sunset and the night?
Will I see this song to its end within my sight?
The only thing I am certain of is this:
That the world is filled with things I will not miss
If I climb the mountain, descend into the cave
Where the mines of merciful love receive a slave;
I won’t need to worry if I make it to those mines;
How the darkness goes when the Light of mercy shines
Till I find that diamond and hold it to my face,
Yes, I know my gem of redemption’s in that place.
But for now I’m glad that I’m driving down this street,
I’ve got the road in my hands and the wind beneath my feet;
I feel like everything in the world belongs to me,
I feel like everything in the world belongs to me.
The Messenger, peace be upon him, said, “If anyone among you is secure in mind in the morning, healthy in body, possessed of food for the day, it is as though the whole world has been brought into his possession.”