Poets’ Corner
Final Ecstasy
“I am so happy! I am so happy!” –dying words of Gerard Manley Hopkins Youth brought him joy in seeing moles and stains On mottled creatures, splotched with shades of dun. He thrilled at freckled beasts, all made by One Above earth’s shadowed flesh–a Light who reigns And spreads a streaked abundance far from lanes…
The Ballad of Whisky
You warm me from the inside out And fill me to the brim. You charm me with your Scottish clout, With your amber color dim. Now stoke the fire and pack your pipe, Fill your glasses well. Your drink is not of common…
Ecphrasis on ‘Tree Growing from Adam’s Grave’
(Friday Hours of the Compassion—Terce) in The Hours of Catherine of Cleves, vol. M, p. 87 Seasoned scenes release their power in yellow. Toward the end the sunset folds away all Footpaths to the city. A pale opossum Lumbers by as if the night will always Fall. There’s a lid—it looks some like a door—laid…
Altar and Offering
i. Through November’s arterial horizon traffic flickers. Mountain bare but for a bent cloud clipping the ridge. What would it mean to see clearly— to know nothing’s there other than what is. ii. A clearing between scrub and birches peeling (white sheets flagging) where sunset sparks. And those hollow tones: geese gathered at the river’s…
Curtain Call
Allow me at my end to be like these Descending leaves that elegantly dance Their final scene, expressing festive peace As they take leave of life. Still colorful, They ornament the sky as Fall’s sun slants To warm their gold, release their sweet fragrance. They’ve felt their feebling stems, and known the call Of gravity’s…
The Little Place
That little place—it burned in May this year, Touched, torched by riot flames in the city… What city? Could be any city now; It doesn’t matter which or where. They’re all Debris and fatwood meant to kindle fire. That little place—familiar, homely, worn. You sent a video of girls at play In spars and ashes…
Sunken Island
Leaving, we took the path of least resistance, paved and prone to floods; returning now, we tramp through mud to lawns awash with silt. The walls we never mended here, the banks we never built, have left us bare. The life once tended here, its honed and hard-won peace, these currents with relentless ease…
The Hermit Prays the Liturgy of the Hours
Although he’s not a priest, he’s made an altar Beneath his eastern window. When the first sun Strikes the maple tabletop, the shine Calls to him. It’s there he keeps his psalter Between two beeswax candles. Christ Pantocrator Gleams in red and gold, His life-book open In His hand. Unreadable words, unspoken, Catch at the…
All Your Life
You’ll earn less than you feel you’re worth, Retire in debt; Old faces framed above the hearth Your name forget. And, friends forget your failings soon, But not your wife, Who carries them like an old tune— Or sharpened knife. You dreamed of politics and fame But that soon faded, As no one liked you,…
The Back Porch
1. Garden Here, he said, we cut a crease In which to set the seed. Tend the roots and I will bless Whatever fruit is made, Whether fig or olive grow To sanctify the air, Magnolia or willow, The leaves of common prayer. Treat them with a touch as mild As children would demand. Earth…