Shame

We are ashamed

Of what we should not be

And proud

Of what we should not be

We conceal the natural

And display the waxen

We stamp out the light in our soul

And then try to light it with wires

What have we become?

What, oh what, have we become?

People

You will find that people
Are not as certain as they appear
Nor as uncertain

They are not as kind as they appear
Nor as unkind

They are not as attentive as they appear
Nor as distracted

Not as rich
Nor as poor

Not as busy
Nor as idle

Not as good
Nor as evil

Not as believing
Nor as faithless

Not as pious
Nor as pagan

Not as similar
Nor as different

People, people, my dear
How elusive they

Courage

Courage is not the absence of fear

But more often the absence of choice

All the great acts of bravery done

Not by the brave—who is brave?

If there’d been a chance to run, to hide

They’d have done it and been forgotten

No choice was given to these fate-chosen heroes

So the fear was faced

The feat complete

Their seal upon humanity

The choice was not to live or to die

(How easy would be so to opt)

Rather the choice was to die or to die

Die well or die ill (with remorse)

Then in one blurry moment of suicidal craze

Against the strangling odds

They struck out and offered their body as forfeit

To death, the first, the quicker

Then found him like fate

Strangely, strangely like fate

Erratically benevolent

To give it all back in one chilling blow

Their lives and their loves and their fame

Die with face full into the wind?

As proud as an old mountaineer?

Or die in shame’s flight?

Last moments frozen forever?

In a terrified, petrified fossil?

The stone of the past doth keep all things well

What tales! What tales it will tell!

Look Around You

Not all who smile

        are happy

Not all who don’t

        are not

The heart is deep

        even to its master

So deep that its master

        is servant unknowing

I went through my youth

        laughs and smiles

But did not know my heart

        distraught, disturbed

I went through age, my eye

        serious, serene

But down beneath, my heart

        joyful, content

Two Strains of Thought

Knowledge is outward

Wisdom is inward

Knowledge is awareness of facts

Wisdom awareness of their implications

Knowledge cold, hard, tangible

Wisdom elusive, intuitive, alive

The point on the page may be defined, limited

But the ray runs forth past time and space

Knowledge confines consciousness

Wisdom defies it

Knowledge is understanding the world

Wisdom the marriage between world and soul

O Muse! Pray give us no more knowledge

We are gorged with it

Give us wisdom that we might find some meaning

To this torrent of facts we are drowning in

Mom's Orders

You must be praying for me. I keep having these dreams with you. In this one I had arrived to visit, and everyone was living in a small, quaint little flat. It was just the second floor on a tight colonial cobblestone street—it reminded me of some of these cities I've visited in the interior, with that irresistible faded glory of the coffee barons.

Conversations, conversations. I had so many talks upon arriving. I went to a warehouse where things were being sorted, furniture, boxes, all sorts of things. I was with Terry. In the end she said she was going to a friend’s place, but that I shouldn't come along. Apparently she had been embarrassed about taking any of us along when she went to see this particular girl. I spoke with Dad, Mike, but then I remembered you. Funny how it had slipped my mind, something so important, like, “Oh, by the way, where is Mom? I haven’t seen her yet.”

When I came to you, you were sleeping on a narrow little couch on the porch. It had been raining the whole time and you were getting all wet on one side. I bent down and hugged and kissed you and you woke up. You woke up thinking it was someone else, but when you realized it was me, you gave me such a tight squeeze, and held me against your chest. I began crying.

You said you were so happy I had come and began telling me that there was so much to do, so many people I had to teach, so many people to reach.

I cried all the more saying there was no time. “When will I ever get around to it? There is never enough time.”

I just remember your voice, rasp from sleep, chiding me, telling me, “Of course there’s time, there WILL be time. You just need to stop worrying about what’s going to happen to each one. People will go their ways, some will leave you, others will stay on as a memory, like a picture you can hang on your wall, some will go off to the East. But you've still got to reach them.”

And I cried as you held me. I don’t really know why, but I cried.

(21/08/11)

I Must Not Let Him Pass Me By

I must not let him pass me by

I am weak and the sun is so harsh

The crowds are so pressed, but still I must not

I cannot let him pass me by

My face is pale, my vision blurs

my head is sick and spinning

My hands sweat cold, but I must go on

I cannot let him pass me by

One foot in front of the other I place

one stumbling step at a time

But this is my chance, my only chance

I cannot let Him pass me by

I’m coming close, but the closer I come

the crowds push and throng all the more

They scream and tear me from the path I have set

I cannot let him pass me by

The hands are violent, crude and rough,

they come from every which side

They grab me and push, my strength will give way

I will fall like grass before the scythe

I will meet my end, surely I will

‘neath the feet of this cruel crowd

But as long as I can, I must go on

I cannot let him pass me by.

So long have I been afflicted

so long in this gauntlet of ails

Nothing has worked, if I die here amidst

the embrace of this vulgar crowd

Better than dying alone, my dear

than dying in the bed of regret

I have no other choice, to reach him or try

to not would be death just the same

He’s coming near, I see his face

I see his sweaty brow

Now is my chance, the last of my hope

I need not more than a touch

His hands are too holy for one filthy as I

I do not deserve to hold

His eyes too bright for my darkness

I do not deserve to look

His feet too pure for my mouth to approach

I do not deserve to kiss

But his garment, just the hem that drags on the ground

surely this could not be wrong

As lowly as I am, as despised as disgraced

just the hem, please find in me no fault

For I like that hem, have been dragged in the dust

soiled and threadbare and torn

I am the hem of the garment of the world

so let me now touch what is mine

My hand reaches out, but I am thrown to the ground

and the crowd begins its mad trample

Still my hand reaches, over miles it seems

of bare and hot dusty road

Only the hem, only the hem

as I stretch every bone toward that figure

Hundreds and hundreds of hurried sandals

beat me into the ground

But all that I see is my hand reaching forth

for that hem, for that hem, for that hem!

And then I lay hold, and I wish you could feel it

like a pilgrim who at last sights the shrine

I grasp it with much more than merely my hand

with my heart, with my soul, with my mind

My whole body grasps with all that it has

to that piece of rough woven twine

And then comes the flow, the virtuous flow

a rushing and tingling peace

It sweeps my body like a torrent of strength

burning, cleansing my frame

So strong is this feeling I finally let go

as it sweeps every nerve every vein

From the tip of my hands, to the tip of my feet

I shudder again and again

The tears fill my eyes, and wonder my heart

as I lie still prostrate on the ground

I do not notice the crowd’s eerie hush

and the feet that before me do part,

But soon I’m aware of the presence that stands

and gazes upon me with love

None other knows what between us has passed

save me and the one in my eyes

The people are puzzled as they see him draw near

and stoop before my wounded hands

Slowly and crouching I sit myself up

but carry my head ever low

My eyes wander round the foot trodden sand

ever avoiding his gaze

“Was it you who touched me?” says the gentlest voice

“Yes,” I slowly reply

I don’t know if I’m wrong, I don’t know if I’m right

but this miracle? How can I deny?

“Daughter” he answers and touches my face

And the touch calms my innermost fears

“Your faith has saved you, now go in peace

and may you be every whit whole”

The tears again flow down my bruised beaten face

as it lingers in that tender hand

I kiss it and thank him in sob muffled cries

I pour out my gratitude full heart

And then with a smile as warm as can be

he lifts up himself and he goes,

But his presence within lingers on still

the part of himself left in me

And soon I’m alone, the throng is all gone

alone on the side of the street

Reliving, reliving the magic exchange

that until today touches my life

I cannot explain what happened that day

only that one weak was made whole

One with whose last strength stretched out her hand

and was washed and delivered and redeemed

I sat for a long time on that street’s crumbly edge

before I could make my way home

I stumbled along, this time with relief

like walking through hills in a dream

Oh what a wonder, oh what a miracle,

I found in his hem that blest day

That even the unworthy, the downtrodden, the scorned

can reach for that garb and be saved

And though I returned dirty and bruised

my soul would ever rejoice

In this day that I sought him and reached for that hem

this day that I strove for his grace

I will ever be grateful for his mercy divine

this day he did not pass me by