Meaning Is a Measure of Repose
Meaning is a measure of repose.
Each clarity extends our comfort zone.
Reason understands what reason knows,
Rendering its verdicts on its own.
Yet if God did descend one frosty night,
Child emergent from a mortal womb,
How can we comprehend so strange a sight,
Reason still incumbent in the room?
Ideas must answer more than we might ask,
Seizing not our wisdom but our fire.
The wonder must be equal to the task,
More consumed by passion than desire.
A truth must be a stone that breaks the heart,
Shattering alike our faith and art.
Midnight Miracles Make Quiet Mornings
Midnight miracles make quiet mornings.
Even God sleeps peaceful on the breast.
Restless nights result in dreamy dawnings,
Revelations ripe for sunlit rest.
Years of love lie drowsy, slug-a-bed.
Choices seem to snuggle, sleeping in.
Holiness is happiness instead,
Rich in all that gathers grace within.
In love of God or man, the Earth must turn.
Songs of angels come in troubled times.
The miracle of witness one must earn,
Moving to transfigure one's own crimes.
As faith and love require restful sleep,
So, too, must they their midnight vigils keep.
Miracles Have a Way of Making News
Miracles have a way of making news.
Even skeptics stare at parted seas.
Religious or not--Christians, Muslims, Jews--
Resurrection brings them to their knees!
Years ago, miracles were in vogue:
Christ and Moses wowed the willing crowds;
Holy icons healed both saint and rogue;
Rare wonders were ascribed to cups and shrouds.
In our time miracles are everyday,
So few can hope to grab us, or astound.
The mysteries that clutter up our way
May seem much more perplexing than profound.
And yet life is miraculous: to be
Surpasses any wonder we might see.
Mothers Mean Much More on Christmas Day
Mothers mean much more on Christmas day,
Even though they're loved the whole year round.
Rich memories lie knee-deep on the ground,
Recalling years when gifts unopened lay,
Years of Christmases near wild with play,
Christmases of dreams unwrapped and crowned,
Happiness with wings and joy unbound,
Reveling in myths time would betray.
In you there lies the spirit of pure giving,
Sweetness that finds pleasure in my smile,
The gift I can reopen every year.
More than my own, I find your heart forgiving,
A home where I am welcome all the while,
So I can rest assured, for you are near.
Myths Are Hopes Refracted Through Our Pain
Myths are hopes refracted through our pain:
Each ray of justice bends into a bow
Resplendent, pure, symmetrical and sane,
Resolving into grace the world we know.
Yes, God walked among us out of love;
Christ suffered horribly that we might live;
His holy spirit watches, as a dove
Remains aloft, to witness and forgive.
In love the earth returns a special fire:
Sapphires linger in disheveled grass;
The snow burns eagerly; the blood runs higher;
Mountains melt into astonished brass.
All who love revere this sacred art,
Stunned and weeping at joy's battered heart.
Nothing Is, but What Is Evident
Nothing is, but what is evident.
In truth, the truth appears but to the eye.
Could one but understand what might be meant,
Opening one's heart to pure intent,
Love the answer to one's what or why,
Angels would towards Bethlehem be bent:
So one might believe, though gingerly.
Perhaps It Was the Wind That Sang like Angels
Perhaps it was the wind that sang like angels
Anchored in a star-besotted sky,
Ululating round right-reasoned corners,
Lunging at three kings careening by,
Abroad with wonder, not quite knowing why. |
Merry Christmas from Your Paper Boy
Merry Christmas from your paper boy!
The news is good—of love and peace and joy!
As usual, I leave it at your door
With hope the coming new year will bring more.
Merry Christmas to the One I Love
Merry Christmas to the one I love,
Even on this day of love for all,
Remembering the love of one whose call
Redeemed all those whose hearts his love might move.
Yet only one love does my spirit prove,
Chosen in a passion like a squall,
Having in such ecstasy withal
Rejoiced in what we were created of.
In such love do we find our way outdoors,
So to be drawn to love of flesh and soul,
Traveling beyond our village green,
Moving towards the wash along our shores
As our love joins the greater love unseen,
Shining with dark passion on the whole.
Mind Is Not the Medium for Joy
Mind is not the medium for joy.
Each word should be a bell within the heart,
Ringing like a wind-tossed, wave-tossed buoy,
Restless in the grip of polished art.
Years should be a cry of sculpted stone;
Christmases long past, an oak-voiced choir,
Harmonies that hollow out the bone,
Rich with longing, reckless with desire.
If meaning but had meaning, words would be
Salient as the resonance of brass,
Tearing chunks of glory from the sea,
Melting steel with love for things that pass.
All I would, I could to you convey
Should I find words that might such non-words say.
More than Ever Now I Want You with Me
More than ever now I want you with me.
Each day lays waste the day that came before.
Remembering the home that your heart gives me
Restores the peace that, lost, torments me more.
Yet we must be apart this day of joy,
Close in spirit, far apart in flesh,
Happy in a hope time can't destroy
Replenished by a sorrow ever fresh.
In us there is a glory from afar
So precious no brief moment of despair
That rises up can match that eastern star,
Miracle it is our gift to share.
As all our joy is cause for all our pain,
So when I'm home all will be joy again.
Mysteries Are Often Most Mundane
Mysteries are often most mundane.
Every child is a child of God.
Revelation tends to come roughshod,
Rudely lying in, in Bethlehem.
Yet if God walked the Earth and then was slain,
Coming, like us all, encased in sod,
His holiness wrapped wholly in a clod,
Reason could not such a case sustain.
In faith alone can miracles be true,
Summoned to a certain time and place
To crack the mountain open to its well.
Mysteries hide Being from our view
As some go out to greet it face to face.
So it was one time in Israel.
No Christmas for My Children
No Christmas for my children,
No husband for my bed,
No money for tomorrow,
No place to lay my head,
No tree with mounds of presents,
No ornaments or lights,
No smiles on Christmas morning,
No feast on Christmas night,
No toys to ease the boredom
Of hours before closed doors,
No family celebrations,
No trips to crowded stores,
No fireplace, no Santa,
No games aglow with friends,
No fire but feeble fury
As Christmas slowly ends.
For me I have no pity,
My sorrow stronger proves,
Because for my sweet children
I've nothing but my love. |
