Today is a sad day, Mary Oliver has died. I only recently discovered her poetry in the past couple of years, I admired the way she could evoke a feeling in the way she used words. For her poetry was in everything, even in the smallest of creatures she could see a poem. I am not even a blip on the screen of poetry writing compared to Mary Oliver, my poems struggle to break free from the confines of my heart and to see the light of day. I try, I really try, to write something, anything that tells the truth of what I see and feel. Mary’s poetry, did just that, when I read one of her poems I cannot help but get a tear in my eye and a lump in my throat. Maybe because whatever I write cannot hold a candle up to what she has said and done. I know that I shouldn’t compare myself to her, after all, she was a poet long before I even knew what poetry was all about, but when you’ve sat at the feet of greatness and tried with everything you had to learn and absorb, you soon discover that isn’t enough. To write a poem is to enter into the world at a slant, to see in even the smallest grain of sand on a wide beach, a poem. That single blade of grass, that defies the concrete and darkness imposed upon it, breaks forth through even the tiniest crack to stretch itself out to the sun. No matter what happens, no matter how often it is cut back, poisoned, or pulled, it still somehow, defies all of those efforts and breaks through the layers of earth and concrete, as if to say to the world, “Here I am, here I will show the world that life is the final answer, not death”. That is the poets world, their vocation, to show the world that whatever darkness there is that seeks to bury the poetry, it still springs anew in the hearts of those who are broken. Our world, our society, our families, we need the poets, all of the poets, even those of us who struggle with our own poetry. Mary Oliver gave me hope, even in my darkest of days when I couldn’t even find that crack in the pavement, her words were my light and my life. Like her, I don’t simply want to end up just having visited this world, I want to end up having lived and experienced this world. I want to have seen the great oak as it bends in the summer breeze, and watch the flight of geese in perfect order, fly to the horizon, to know that even I, a small grain of sand on a long stretch of beach, am able to find the words to write and the poem to sing
Tag Archives: love
As Fall Ends
Fall leans into winter
a reminder that we
need to lie fallow
to rest and prepare
our hearts and souls
for the coming of a child
who brings peace
into our conflicted world
time of sabbath
embracing the silence
as nature renews
frost coating empty fields
denuded trees stretch limbs
into cold gray skies
a scent of snow
on the breeze
mixes with wood fire
from darkened homes
as people give thanks
resting in that peace
of knowing God’s presence
in the deep silence
that calls us to be still.
The Wait
Now we wait
in the midst of the noise
we wait
the anticipation grows
the need for light intensifies
our hearts are not filled
with the goods being hawked
so we get more
thinking to fill the emptiness
that will never be filled
so the soul waits
knowing what we do not
knowing that the true light
is so near, yet, so far
it knows our needs
even as we run
from the love reaching out
touching us deeply
and in the silent watches
we stand still
hearing the whispers of life
of peace on earth for all
The Wait
I come to this place
to find myself imagining
where is my God
in the wildness of the wind,
where do I go to listen
for that voice so dear,
to once again hear that call
and feel the spirit within,
the wilderness is cold
the heart is broken
and now I stand here
in supplication and prayer
seeking the divine Logos
to speak to my darkened self
calling me from my tomb
into the light of the living One.
Heaven or Hell
The church sign asks
where will we spend eternity
heaven or hell
and I wonder
if that is what God is
a judge sentencing me
to a place of pleasure
or to one of torment
I wonder where,
where is the God of love
where is the God who cares
the world weeps
and I ask
where is grace
in this sign
or do I have to choose
curtain one
curtain two
both a dead end
so I choose to ride by
to love, not hate
to care, not ignore
to stand for life
and not for death
in the midst of confusion
where we don’t know our way
choosing love over hate
choosing heaven on earth
not the hell we created
The Dream
Hair of spun gold
eyes as blue as the sea
her skin alabaster
she walks softly
along the narrow paths
in the early morning
footfalls silent
as she draws near
I see her standing
beckoning me with a look
silence fills the woodlands
my eyes are only for her
I’m a prisoner
caught in her web
as she vanishes
mist rising from the ground
What is the Story?
What is the story that I want to tell, to write about here on the pages of this blog? Do I have the courage to tell that story and all that comes with the telling? So much is locked up in memory, various pictures, feelings, textures, that engages all of the senses making up that story. I have struggled trying to tell my story and not get bogged down in the telling. There is so much that needs to be sifted and examined for truth, not only truth of the story itself but the truth of how that story has made me who I am and continues to remake me each day. There is that deeper story of love and loss, of success and failure, of being a child and passing into the adult life. Memories hang along the rafters, I look above me and I don’t know which one to choose, which one do I dare to open. I write to find myself in these memories, that child waking up from a nightmare, that teen being bullied, a young soldier in a foreign land, a newly minted husband unsure of himself while trying to be strong, a dad now responsible for another human life, a priest seeking to discover where God is leading, now I sit here retired, picking through those various pieces of my life and trying to put it together. It is a great jig-saw puzzle, thousands of pieces all scattered along the table and I am looking at it all utterly daunted by the undertaking. Like with any jig-saw, it is best to start with the borders, get the edge right before moving on into the interior. Yet, even the border is hard to define, the borders of life are not static but dynamic, they’re ebb and flow through the mind, clear one minute and haze the next. Nothing is solid in memory, and so like some explorer crossing a vast ocean I must make my own way, with little or no navigation aids. What is that story? What makes mine worth the telling? Fear robs me of that courage I need to tell what I know and what I feel, yet, I can’t let that fear hold me back. Maybe, just maybe, it is in those moments of fear that I will find who I truly am and that in and by itself might just be the story I need to tell.