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The Spritual Life Is One of Constant Choices

Dutch Catholic priest, professor, writer and theologian, Henri Nouwen (1932-1996)

“The spiritual life is one of constant choices. One of the most important choices is the choice of people with whom we develop close intimate relationships. We have only a limited amount of time in our lives. With whom do we spend it and how?…

As people who trust in God’s love, we must have the courage and the confidence to say to someone through whom God’s love becomes visible to us: ‘I would like to get to know you, I would like to spend time with you, I would like to develop a friendship with you. What about you?’

There will be no’s, there will be pain of rejection. But when we determine to avoid all no’s and all rejections, we will never create the mileau where we can grow stronger and deepen in love. God became human for us to make divine love tangible. That is what incarnation is all about. That incarnation not only happened long ago, but it continues to happen for those who trust that God will give us the friends we need. But the choice is ours!”

– Henri Nouwen in Here and Now

Photo credits: portrait on Henri Nouwen by Frank Hamilton under CC BY-SA 3.0 license; photograph of Henri Nouwen’s autograph taken at the Henri J.M. Nouwen Archives and Research Collection in Toronto, Ontario by Dnllnd under CC BY-SA 4.0 license

Old Church, Old Hat …

By the age of nineteen, my budding intellect had already decided that God was a figment of man’s imagination, but it was, as it turned out, a powerful figment; a very exceptional piece of imagination. My budding scientific and engineering education reinforced this agnostic feeling, but, because I was brought up as a regular church goer from the earliest age until I left school at the age of seventeen, I know that, deep down, I have a kind of belief that can never be erased completely. In my budding dotage, this kind of belief is now founded on a better understanding of man’s ultimate fallibility and frailty and is evidenced, everywhere you look, by the repeated failure of human endeavour, to live peaceably and with respect for our Mother Earth. This may sound very gloomy and negative, but it isn’t intended that way. It may, nonetheless, be touched by reality. I do hold a very strong feeling about the value of church and religious faith in our lives.

Imperfect though they may be, religious faith and ‘the church’ are still symbolically the last bastion, the writing through the stick of life’s rock, of family, community and a of nations. They represent a foundation and an anchor in stormy times; a prescription from the Spiritual Health Service. Whether for religious devotion or simply to reinforce community spirit and togetherness, it matters not, as long as the routines and rituals are maintained, reinforced and always accompanied by the search for truth.

The development of the established church and of all world religions over the millennia of the existence of the human race, has come from a fundamental human need, borne by political instability, pestilence, plague and all sorts of stuff that, whilst it may not have been experienced on a worldwide scale since WW2, still prevails in pockets everywhere you look. It is also driven by our need for security, for a common understanding; an understanding that, because of our undeniable individuality, our uniqueness, however wealthy, privileged and in control of our lives we may feel, we cannot achieve this alone.

The drift away from the church and the breaking up of communities; our increasingly technologically and commercially aided isolation, is attributable to an ‘enlightenment’ of the material age. This is an age in which our physical health and life expectancy has increased dramatically over the last hundred years. As evidence of this, the population of the world has more than doubled in my own lifetime; and all of this whilst our mental health has deteriorated inversely.

In the West we have developed a selfish and arrogant expectation of health and wealth and, at the same time, a denial of the need for a God; denial of almost everything spiritual, which, in our quest for an increasingly material life, full of countable and measurable stuff, has become intellectually unfashionable. What will it take to bring us together again?

Could we envisage a moment of cataclysmic crisis across the world, when even the calculating super-rich, sceptics and non-believers alike, could be faced with their own frailty and begin to wish, as I imagine we all will, when faced with our imminent mortality, for the coming again of a truly benign Messiah; a Saviour? Some beneficence would nice, but I personally don’t want to go as far as assuming a cataclysm. The process of decline is far more insidious and therefore harder to detect and calls on all of those who can, to be mindful of our own contributions to that decline.

Happy Winter Solstice, everyone.

JNA

[This post was originally my response in a comment to a post by poet, Kona Macphee, over six years ago, in her rather special blog, ‘That Elusive Clarity’, but because of the subject and of the fact that this thought process has preoccupied me philosophically throughout my adult life, I thought it worthy of editing, updating and enlarging slightly for inclusion, where more appropriate than here, in The BeZine, as a post in its own right ].

© 2017, John Anstie

Stille Nacht

British and German troops meeting in No-Mans’s Land during the unofficial truce.

Liebe Mama, the letter began when she opened its mud-spattered paper. Unfinished, it was, like the life that penned it. On the other side of The Channel. It read Dearest Mum.

And then their stories began of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day when the guns ceased their booming bursts for that time and young men peeked over the mole-run, rat-hole front lines with no fear of dying without a head to send with their bodies, home to Liebe Mama and Dearest Mum.

They told of going over the top clutching tobacco and biscuits, candy and sausages, instead of Enfields or Mausers, to trade season’s greetings instead of death. And carols were heard instead of the screams of the shells, the wails of the wounded, unanswered calls to Mama and Mum.

But these were mud soldiers, the ones whose bodies would fertilize the poppies one day, perhaps, when church bells would ring for Christmas services and not to bury mein junge or my boy.

It’s said the clean uniforms at the rear called a cease to the ceasefires in later years, because such fraternization was not in keeping with Victory for King and Country.

And so barely again did boys in Khaki or Grau join hands in the brotherhood of men who looked the same when covered in the mud of Flanders or to the addressees of these, their last letters home. For after the final strains of Stille Nacht, there’d come no more silent nights except where now poppies grow, between the crosses, row on row.

The Christmas truce, “Weihnachtsfrieden” in German, was a series of widespread but unofficial ceasefires along the Western Front around Christmas 1914. In the week leading up to the holiday, German and British soldiers crossed trenches to exchange seasonal greetings and talk. In areas, men from both sides ventured into No Man’s Land on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day to mingle and exchange food and souvenirs. Maybe this free write prose poem is a reminder that it can be done, if only for a short while, with hope for something more permanent someday.

Wild Turkey Neat

This is a story about a guest I served and had a life-changing conversation with. It’s a story about gratitude, loss, and no regrets.

As soon as I laid eyes on the old man, I remembered him from last year’s Christmas party. Wild Turkey neat—that’s what he drank. As a bartender, I pride myself on remembering what each person drinks, but I was shocked and impressed that I still remembered this man’s preference. Waiting in the coat line, he stood out with his classic, custom-fit look. He wore a camel-colored cashmere overcoat and a light-brown fedora cocked to the side and angled just right. The fedora punctuated his confidence—what the kids today call swagger. After he checked his coat and hat he circumnavigated the room with his gaze. He was alone. Within moments people were washing up to him like the waves at Waikiki and wishing him Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. As he approached the bar, I immediately began to make his drink. Wild Turkey neat in the rocks glass. As soon as this gentleman arrived at my station, I presented him his drink.

“Here you go, sir,” I said. “Wild Turkey neat.”

His expression was priceless: ghostly shock. I told him I remembered his signature drink from last year’s Christmas party. He immediately shook my hand with a firm grip and introduced himself. “My name is Joe, and thank you for remembering my drink.”

I told him my name and said, “No problem, Joe.” He reached into his front pocket, pulled out his money clip, and began peeling off some bills. I couldn’t help but notice his well-tailored sports coat and pants. He was also wearing gold-plated cuff links. I noticed them while he was holding a twenty.

“Joe, this is an open bar; the drinks are free tonight.”

He then put the twenty in my tip cup and said, “That’s for you.”

Wow, I thought, and I shook his hand again. “Thanks Joe! That’s very generous of you.”
He just smiled and began talking to the other guests.
Joe appeared to be in his late eighties. His whole ensemble was impeccable. Even his silk pocket square, a rustic orange, made him look dapper.

***

When I saw Joe moving toward the bar again, I began making another glass of his signature drink. After he arrived at the bar, I handed it to him. His smile was bright and warm as he stood and watched me serve the other guests; I was on point that night. This was a holiday party, and everyone was in a great mood. Joe took out his money clip again, removed two twenties, and dropped both into my tip cup. I remember watching the bling reflect off his gold cuff link as the bills were slipped into the cup. I couldn’t believe how generous this guy was. Most people were tipping a dollar with each drink, although now then someone would give me a five. But Gentleman Joe had just given me forty, not counting the twenty he’d given me for his first drink.

“Thanks, Joe,” I said.

“No problem, my friend.” Then he asked how long I had been bartending.

“On and off for about eight years.”

“You’re a good bartender. I was in the business for forty years myself. You make great drinks. You have a good personality, and you know how to work a crowd. I’m a retired wine and liquor sales rep. I sold wine and liquor to bars and restaurants all over New York and New Jersey. I was the best in the business. Over the years I’ve met plenty of bartenders, but not many as good as you, my friend. It really impressed me that you remembered my drink.”

That was the best compliment I had ever received as a bartender. I was so proud and taken aback by Joe’s impression of me.

“Thanks, Joe, for saying that! It means a lot to me, especially coming from you with all that experience.”

Joe smiled, lifted his drink, took a sip, and said, “Salute.” I bowed my head and repeated the word. And then he said, “I shall return.”

There was something special about this guy Joe. I couldn’t put it into words, but he had a gravitational pull to him. When I was talking to him, I could tell I had his undivided attention. He was listening in an effort to understand and not forming his own reply. He had an intense, friendly, and relaxed focus to his eyes. It was apparent that he had seen a lot in his life. Joe had a sage-like presence, and I felt it.

At this point of the party the main course was being served, and everybody scattered to their assigned tables, which meant it was downtime for me. I was able to stretch and get some ice for my sink and restock my bar. After I was done filling my backup sink with ice I saw Joe in the distance heading toward the bar. I put the ice bucket under the beer cooler, grabbed the Wild Turkey, and started to pour it into a rocks glass. Before Joe reached the bar, I had his drink on deck. He glanced at me with his warm smile and said, “Outstanding.”

The DJ played some light Christmas music while everybody ate. Joe stayed at the bar and sipped his Wild Turkey. He turned his head to scan the other guests and then he turned back to stare at his drink. He appeared to be in deep thought. He glanced back at me, smiled, and went back to gazing at his drink. I wasn’t sure what was going on.

Still staring at his drink he said, “I lost my wife three years ago, and I really miss her, especially during the holidays.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Joe,” I said with a heavy heart. I could the see the pain in his eyes.

“You know she waited for me; she kept her word.”

Joe seemed to read the confusion on my face.

“When I returned from the war, she waited for me.” He broke eye contact and once again set his vacant eyes on his signature drink. It was as if Joe were time-traveling to his past. The other guests were still eating, so it was only Joe and me at the bar. He finally lifted his eyes back to me and began to narrate his life.

“I grew up in the Depression. I fought in the war and later married the love of my life, my soul mate. I raised a family with her, and we had two amazing kids. I’ve watched them grow up and have families of their own. I have three loving grandchildren. All my kids and grandkids are in a good place . . .”

Joe paused to take another sip of his drink. Then he stared hard into my eyes and said the most realistic but stunning thing I ever heard while tending bar: “My friend, I had a good life: wife, kids, grandkids . . . The only thing left for me is to die.”

I was floored. Bartending school hadn’t prepared me for this. Who was I to give this military veteran, husband, father, and grandfather advice? Silent night was playing in the background made the moment even more poignant.

“As I’ve gotten older, Christmas music makes me sad,” he said. “I used to love it. Now it only depresses me. I’ve become a Scrooge.” And he smiled faintly.

“Well, you sure don’t tip like Scrooge!”

That made him laugh. He needed to laugh. I followed my instinct and changed the topic. “Joe, what’s changed about the bar business, in your opinion?”

“Ha!” he blurted. “Where do I begin?” He started in on the martini. “It’s made with gin, not vodka! And the men today don’t know how to drink; they order these weak drinks.”

While Joe ranted, a young man came up and ordered an apple martini. The timing was impeccable. After I served the apple martini, Joe and I waited for the young man to abandon the bar. Then I looked at Joe and said, “Drinks like that?” Both of us laughed hard.

By then other guests were rediscovering the bar, and I was busy serving them. Meanwhile, Joe talked to some guests. Finally, the night was winding down, and I made last call. I saw Joe approach the bar, so I reached for the Wild Turkey, but Joe put his hand up and said with a smile, “Not this time; just water.”
“No problem, Joe.” I gave him a large glass of ice water, and he thanked me again. Then he handed me another twenty, but I didn’t want any more of his money; he had already been so generous. But Joe insisted.

“Thanks, Joe. You carried this party with the way you tipped me. And Merry Christmas. It was an honor talking to you. Thanks for sharing with me.”

Joe smiled, shook my hand, and said, “It meant a lot to me that you remembered my drink, and you’re terrific at bartending. Merry Christmas to you and your family.”

I thanked Joe again and said goodbye. I watched him slip away from the bar and toward the coat check. He put on his overcoat and then strategically cocked his fedora to the right. The sharp angle gave him a larger-than-life aura.

I stood behind the bar watching Joe say goodbye to everyone and wish them a Merry Christmas. The warm smile he shared with everyone masked the sadness he felt at the loss of his beautiful wife. As he approached the door to leave, it felt as if he were riding into the sunset, secretly counting the days until he would be reunited with his wife. And I knew I would never see that man again. But I was lucky to have crossed paths with Gentleman Joe. Those were my golden moments in bartending. Nothing will ever compare. It was a simple conversation that changed my life.

***

That experience with Joe was well over ten years ago, but it changed everything I do every December as I approach Christmas and the New Year. I go to a bar and order a Wild Turkey neat. I sit by myself, slowly sip my drink, and think about the past year of my life—the ups and downs, the goals I’ve accomplished, and the goals yet to be achieved. I anticipate with excitement the approaching New Year. I also reflect in gratitude on my family and my friends. And it’s all because I drink like a gentleman to honor a gentleman. Salute, Joe.

© 2017, Anthony Vano

First Christmas

for children

It’s white with snow and all is bright
on Christmas night. An image of your little face,
framed in elfin hat, as your eyes, open wide,
reflect the twinkles of a tree-borne star.
In awe we are, in awe you are
at your first site of wonder, magic, mystery.

It swells the very hardest heart
to see the perfect innocence that carries
all our fears and dreams and marries
them to faith and hope and charity
and love, that many fingered hand,
provides and guides you to your history.

A very Happy Christmas, little life.
May all this wonder, all that’s truly good,
be with you forever and without strife.
May love, not things, sustain you, as it should
provide the fuel, the fire inside, slowly
to burn throughout your life, empowering you

To give abundantly in turn.

© 2017, John Anstie

Christmas

Christmas

The night is short like a breath
and long like a cry –
a woman who hard is giving birth of
a day.
A flame, glimmered above water:
one and only,
invisible,
sacred.
Immovable star.
Nothing born in Spirit
passes away.
Neither does it repeat.
The circle is broken –
after the life, a life is coming.
There’s no death.
O, mother – give a birth!

A God’s voice over the dark:
“He was born…”

© 2017, bogpan

Ash and Prayer

summer mornings
my fire
is snuffed.

dream of the spelt and salt
cake I will fire for you

and before you can seek
the future
from the way I burn

clean my fireplace, clear your head
old ash and cinders block gust
makes for poor-burning,
makes for poor-thinking

piled ash in my grate
piled ash in my head
crumbles like walls
from incendiaried homes
in the Blitz

ash up against my fire-bars
makes them overheat
makes you overthink

so they sag and “burn through”
make me virginal
something to focus on

recall collecting ears
of spelt in reaper’s baskets

rake remains of my last fire
the last fire between my temples
so ash falls through my grate
train steam in your nostrils

pick-off the cinders for re-use.

my lightweight dark lumps,
not my powdery un-burnable
pieces of roasted shale.

clear my fire-bars of small cinders,
clear all my ash, clear all the dead,
dry bones out of my head

recall the crush, grind then roast the ears of spelt, yeasty
like a pint of beer

with dry, unfinished paper
cheap-newsprint not glossy magazine-print. screw sheets into rough balls,
packed into this brain space
not too tight, but not too loose.

keep the paper open & crinkly
don’t pack paper into hard nuggets,
make them roughly spherical.

should cover my grate,
with plenty of space to allow gust
to blow away focus these eyes

only one layer, as paper burns down everything on top will drop,
roof falling in around my ears
leave it at a couple of inches

recall preparing the salt,
pound crystals from the brine
from a salt pan in a mortar,
pack and inhale seafret
cut the lump with an iron saw

paper is to ignite the wood (next),
the next thought
only enough,
too much will clog fire-bars
cause stack-collapse

as your paper doesn’t burn well,
stuff a loose sheet under my grate
under my thoughts
light it
stuff sheets underneath
burn them

recall forbidden
reading, books in flame,
memories of things not spoken
discarded ideas

break up my ash with a poker

recall stir of salt and spelt
into carried spring water pure
never touched the ground
into meal that must be rested

my pulped treeflesh
a support for my woodflesh
a flicker of an idea
a first layer of contemplation

WOOD

my thought needs substance
crouched supplicant
to our hearthmind

you can’t light my coal with paper
my wood layer is for coal
as my paper is for wood

layer on my paper
small pieces of wood (kindling)
watch for splinters embedding
in fingers for pain all day
or a heated steel pin to remove.
with care
make a wooden-pallet
a raft of images
on balled up paperwaves
to support the coal
so my imagination flares
as it it burns.

You pray the raft will hold
criss-cross the wood
a cohesive structure
your making of my fireplace,
my head is layered
geology reversed

as paper from trees
dead trees made coal
graduations of image,
thought and idea

When your paper is gone
the raftprayer to hold stays
a mixture of thick and thin
considerations
thin ideas burn easily produce heat,
thick sustains in depth
delights the imaginations coal

The burn

like wood is imagination solidified
sunblaze trapped
build a pile of imagination
on top of your wood-raft
have a nice pile in the middle.

choose pieces too small
air-flow round the head
restricted visuals cannot breathe

choose pieces too big
don’t get enough heat
from the wood to
ignite images properly.

ensure fire-front is removed
for maximum air-flow,
ignite the paper from underneath
ignite heads images underneath

in multiple places –
get as much lit
quickly as possible,
heat will feed between
ignition points

Imagination needs time,
the fire blaze
while wood and paper left,
this cellulose-fuel
heats imagination -fire
to self-sustain

hard images are buried deep
pressured become harder, blacker
used in locomotives and steam ships
pitsweat minehacked proppedimages

soft images are nearer the surface
browner nostalgic soft focus
biscuit tin tender

Imagination produces smoke
and tar
when heated only
when it’s “dried out”
you get the red-hot
carbon fire that makes
imagination so hot.

Recall tar melting on roads
in sunblaze, sticks to soles
coal tar soap photosynthesizes
calls back its days as a plant

onvd your fire is lit poke it gently
to release ash and break-up images
that may have stuck together
through tar production
sticky mind coagulates

arrange cinders around
the edge, add more images
around fires periphery
around minds periphery

do not throw a bucket
of imagination
on a fire, always put a
bit at the edges
or in the middle.

the images are poked
so ash falls through the firebars
so ash fall through the head

lift the burning images
ensure ash is removed
from under the fire bars

imagination needs time to warm up,
don’t smother the fire with cold-images
these will kill the lovely heat,
take longer to burn up.

pile it up around the edges,
when it starts burning:
poke and rake it
into the centre gradually.

divine futures from the way
food thrown on fire decays

how virgin cakes of salt
and spelt bake
towards decay in heat
tongueflicked wild
jig of ideas

before their ashreturn

© 2017, Paul Brookes

From “The Headpoke And Firewedding”

 

#I just wished#

I just wished a handful of shower ,
Pouring down the lawn of my barren heart ;
I just wished a gust of cool wind ,
Blowing through my burning heart ;
I just wished a slender moonshine ,
Reflecting from the sky of my grave heart ;
I just wished the ripple of a little stream ,
Flowing through my droughty heart ;
I just wished a blooming flower ,
In the dry branch of my bosom ;
Whatever I wished might be trifle to you ,
But everything I wished was priceless for me .

© 2017, Kakali DasGhosh

Selection from Nothing Remembers

The following poems are from an unpublished manuscript, Nothing Remembers. This selection explores the spirituality and rituals of death (and remembering), among other themes. [Autumn 2018 update— the poetry collection, Nothing Remembers, is scheduled to be published by Finishing Line Press during summer, 2019.]

For Irwin Gooen

…for man goes to his everlasting home,
and the mourners go about in the street.

—Kohelet 12:5

The door closed. Clouds cover the moon;
the rain a memory blocking out the stars.
Desire has drained into the trembling house,
tools disused gather dust. Seeing nothing
out the windows, the house wraps dark arms
around the one in his old chair, quiet now.
Some music might have played, but his lovers
forgot the words and did not sing anymore.
Higher on the ridge, a lone bird calls alarm.
The mills on the river below fall in on themselves.
But apple trees still blossom, lilacs scent the air.
The oxygen tube shines silver, snapped
like a cord, unneeded. A pitcher of water
fell, crashing into the silence. At dawn,
a golden light suffuses the house, the man’s
body empty in his old chair. His fountain of
words evaporates off the wall where he wrote them.
The wheels have fallen from the truck.
When his friends find him, they lay him
beneath the stone he carved.

And the dust returns to the earth
as it was, and the spirit returns to G-d,
Who gave it.

—Kohelet 12:7

nb: Kohelet is the Hebrew-Jewish name for The Book of Ecclesiastes

Originally appeared in print: “For Irwin Gooen.” Voices Israel Poetry Workshop June 2010. Jerusalem: Voices Israel. 2010. p. 17.

 

Drawing Breath(less)

A bit stretched,
this line we pen between life
and death, between life
and life. Sometimes
our own. Sometimes
another’s.

Elongated,
my legs akimbo on the couch
reading some poetry, a novel,
a bit of a bitter philosophy.
You sip coffee in the morning—
maybe wine, if evening
falls while we.

Opening up
the locked cabinet we find as usual
an emptiness familiar, comforting—
vacuumed of emotions, better.
Like work and social
gatherings where
they pretend.

We pretend.
Something involving chocolate,
painted skin, holding
each other together
against centripetal forces.
Central petals of the flower
tight in bursting buds.

Reaching stars
when standing, that is, seeing
them tired, failing to drink enough.
Glimpses of intimacy obscured
and hidden while seeming to
reveal. Grief in a game of
hide and seek.

I don’t know if
you or I will ever understand. This.
Perhaps I am in the psychiatric ward
again. Where I used to work. Or perhaps
you are in rehab, for your failure to drink
enough alcohol to fuel the economy.
Forgetfulness sells.

In explorations
such as these nothing can be found,
everything lost forgets where it lived,
death lives and life, well, you know.
Toss the rounded river stones
into a pile, throw some flat stones
skipping over water.

In explorations,
I don’t know if
reaching stars
we pretend—
opening up,
elongated,
a bit stretched.

Moon Glow Cemetery Row Digital art ©2015 Michael Dickel
Moon Glow Cemetery Row, Digital art, ©2015 Michael Dickel

Nothing remembers

where in our times we these rocks piled into buildings
that fell down a thousand years ago dis(re)membered from war
or earthquake raised and razed again into where nothing
recalls again the warm day anemones bloom hollyhocks
poppies forget no one and another rain day another dry day
pass hot and cold while an orvani drops blue feathers in flight
a hawk sits calmly on a fencepost and flocks of egrets
traipse toward the sea no cattle no grains all harvested
in this place we would call holy land nothing left to it but conflict
with the passing of her life that tried so hard to hang onto one
moment many moments missed so many more empty echoes
a difficult way to say goodbye to a mother watching her
evaporate like rain in the desert her mind dust that dries
lips her droned words faded as warmth from a midnight rock
meaning what the layers of history these rocks un-piled
reveal sepia photos a couple of tin-types dust school
reports cards newspaper holes the shells of bugs raised and razed
again and again into our times where nothing remembers

Originally appeared in print: “Nothing Remembers.” The Indian River Review. 2. 2013. p. 9.

Here is a video of Michael Dickel reading it (in Tel Aviv):

 

©2010–2017 Michael Dickel

Braid Your Hair with His

God – has many names,
But “Love” is the one that counts
Most aptly “Love is”… “Love”
“Just Love” only, one word
Like…”God” isn’t it?

God – has so many names
Each acts as a veil…
But “Love” is, “Love” only.
So braid your hair with His…
Embrace, lock fingers with His.

His is a tree twining roots…
His is the first branch you perch on…
His is trees-bough at your centre
Your hearts bead is a locket of amber
“The trees name” is “Love.”

© 2017, Mark Heathcote

There Is Music in Silence

I write poems almost daily now
For me, that’s why I was, given life.
So I could drink this beverage
In His, Elysium fields with butterflies
Live my life beside Daylilies & mayflies.

And dance, skate with dragonflies
Sometimes, I can be that unobtrusive
There is music in the silence
Before any lips, are seen in verse
Or thoughts are formed or metered out.

© 2017, Mark Heathcote

Workshop

“Ad Vitam”

You ask

and I say delicious

(that cell/splitting glory that

unfolds until we expire)

angels on fire

come remind us

that this life

is just a prayer

 

we have been

rendezvousing with the dead

in the small hours

they say death is nothing

but a change of clothes

and setting the stage before

the next act

 

we are corpsing

our way

through a comedy hour

so as not to let on

that we are amused

so as not to expose ourselves

as alive

 

while they climb Jacob’s ladder

we drive along the coast and

make waves with

one hand out the window

pushing through air with an open palm

and it is our prayer

(all this living

is just a prayer)

The First Thought Was “Yes”
 

this business of 
creating worlds

comes naturally to

the child who,

in her closeness

to God,

abandons doubt

and boldly fashions

her reality

 

though every authority

in her life
tells her NO

(her mother,
her father,

her teachers,

and peers)

she disregards her

obligation to comply

and makes airplanes out of paper,

castles out of sand,

and wings out of duct tape

and feathers

 

her dreams materialize

before her eyes
in response to

the organization
of her thoughts

thoughts—

the focused collation of desire,

the force that precedes
the birth

and arrival
of matter,

the essence that
breathes life into form,

the source that gives
substance
to all we see—

 

the child knows
in her innocence

that she is not
the first thinker

nor is she the most innovative

or original at that—

 

she knows that

consciousness

gave rise
to genesis

that her origins

are ancient

and her inception

sacred

 

inception—

that moment when
every hidden potential

appeared at once

to the pure and settled mind,

when everything
that

would ultimately manifest

revealed its face as a promise

of what could be—

when Peace Beyond Knowing

was once aroused and
invited to react

 

and even the child knows

that its first thought

was Yes 

“Woman, be another god”

Come in like a fool

and let me dance with you.

I might not kiss you yet;

I may never need to.

Melt life’s ice and remember

the hard heart’s only work

is to throb

in this young universe.

 

I had seen you—

you were with ghosts.

But now this self is waking.

Go from your prison

like those gods from hell sky.

Magic may make you

live after all.

 

(This girl’s spirit is kind, I know.

She is quiet like peace.

Some men like to go fast,

but boy, I want her musically.)

 

Woman, watch what you want.

Need less and live frugally.

Sing. Let music put a stop

to your sordid urges.

Some goddess beneath your skin

is shining.

 

Never compare joy to his touch.

Trust that time lifts another

beside you.

Thousands will give their

hearts away

wishing you were theirs.

 

(Look: this life is full.

She should want a true thing.

She should want them all.)

 

Woman, be another god.

Look out on we, the tiny.

Smile at your work,

make your spirit strong, and

come make it lively.

Here, the faithful must

receive time:

 

(We who would be loving.)

 

Some rhythm haunts this day.

This wild cup bleeds over

and you look good in champagne.

Slowly smoke the will of

sacred desiring;

the secret is never needing.

Dance with a child, sister.

We open our hearts to breathe.

 

(We wake universes

and God is blushing.)

© 2017, Julie Henderson

This collection of short poems was composed between 2016-2017 within the University of San Francisco’s Writing MFA program in Poetry.

December Sky

The clouds slide across the sky
like crib sheets being flapped flat
and floating down upon the place
where a child will sleep.
Between them you see the room
colored a blue distinct to winter.
Not so deep as a spring Carolina sky,
nor the chill azure
the northern firmament glows in autumn.
Between the gossamer sheets
waiting to drop their crystalline
whiteness, blooms a blue so bright
you think you might believe
you can see right through it.
But to where? At whom?
Maybe for that child waiting
for his moment to rest upon
man’s simple crib called Faith.

© 2017, poem and photo, Joseph Hesch

Our Better Angels

What if our guardian angels,
our guides to the light,
aren’t as perfect as we hope?
What if they’re merely “good”,
maybe barely adequate,
as winged messengers go?
Perhaps they can get as socked in
by a Blue Norther of Spiritual Woe
as we can. Problem is,
they’re the only angels
we’ve got. It’s not like they can
go to the gym, or get retrained,
or even call out for a temp.

Maybe the angels and I can
pray together for a mighty wind
to blow away these clouds
that beset us.
Miracles do happen.
I’ve been blessed by a few.
And, besides, my angelic friends
went to school with the maître d’
at the Chateau Ciel’s
pearlescent entrance station.
Table for one, please.
Amen…

© 2017, poem, Joseph Hesch; © 2012, photo, Diana Matisz

‘especially in times of dark’

Always
but especially in times of dark,
encroaching space,
my hope alights and leans
on an enduring faith
in the human spirit
and the myriad illumined pockets
of kindness and enlightened thought.
They are as the stars in a night sky:
escape the density of beamed artifice
and they are constant; visible.
For the heart sees what it looks for
as much as does the mind’s lensed eye.

© 2017, Juli [Juxtaposed] (Subject to Change)

Earth Music

I will lead you by the hand to the hushed hum
of the gentle oak, an evening breeze sounding

shivers into leaves, quiet turbulence in the air
and the gravity of sound settling on mossed stone.

I hear its tongue-lick in ivy the way a bat hears
the silhouette of trees, or a whale the shape of its home,

touching the skin like sound braille, tiny neck hairs
startled to its presence; earth music in the trees

and in the stony wind, atoms of light trembling in tiny
dust particles where body-bones separate, flesh disappears.

Between heart-pulse and light’s shadow-touch,
I will lead you to the quiet abundance of silence,

the wide emptying of voiceless things; earth’s pulse,
seamless and somewhere beyond absence.

© 2017, Eithne Lannon

originally published in barehands23 

full circle

one loses
the ability
to
sleep
with
awareness
every
event
and
sound
is magnified
in
the late hours
of
one’s existence
it is then
when
the
pulsing of blood
through
veins
can
be
counted
like
grains of sand
in
an emptying
hour-glass
where
each falling grain
echos
memories
that
replay
the events
of
our life
a life
where
options
were possible
and
paths
were taken
to
where we are
now
aware
seeing
more clearly
the lies
broken promises
and
preprogrammed dreams
of
what life
should be
but
could
never be
so
we lie
in our beds
in
a fetal position
just
before
we
die

© 2017, poem and illustration, Charles W. Martin

. saint anthony .

oh those little lost things.

you could always find them. now gone,

we wait for them to reappear.

remember,

some things

don’t.

He was known as an eloquent speaker. Saint Anthony of Padua is the Patron Saint of Padua, of Portugal, and of San Antonio, Texas. Prayer cards manufactured in Italy identify him as the saint of “miracles,” but to most Catholics, he is the Patron Saint associated with the return of lost articles and missing persons.

# look after your people, you may never find them again

© 2017, poem and illustration, Sonja Benskin Mesher