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POETRY
Confiteor Deo
I will go to the altar of my God wearing only the
vestment of my skin. I shall lift the loaf towards heaven one crumb at a
time -- until the mysterious skirmish between God and asparagus rests
deep in the last few drops of blood red wine.
Lift me, Jesus! Tell me
you have great books and grandmas in heaven, flood me with hymns, give me
celestial pillows to rest on, and tell me poems bloom into existence
each time angels come among us. Dare I pray the secrets waiting in the
saints stone?
I want to be a seed spun to perfection instead of
just a lump. Let my ego go limp as death into a single word. Let my
soiled voice embrace the very wind that began as the breath of life and
let me sing until I run out of confessions.
-- Fredrick Zydek Omaha, Neb.
Untitled
It is not hand nor foot nor face... -- Romeo and
Juliet, II:1
El Salvador. Named for redemption. Little did they
know how right such naming would fit. But name is hand and foot and
tongue and skin and heart. Oh yes, lungs, kidneys ... everything this
weakness called flesh redeeming flesh blistered battered
torn pulled so thin as to cover this world of ours flesh. But flesh
remains and with it name church passion Body
Eucharist bread for those who starve in their plenty.
-- Sr. Lou Ella Hickman, IWBS Corpus Christi,
Texas
Age
The psalmist sings us the just shall flourish like
the cedars of Lebanon even in old age bear fruit
Those cedars
survived millennia grew so great and straight they stood the mast that
creaked above an ancient ship so odoriferous the craftsmen squared chests
for a king even the walls of old Solomons temple
Is the fruit
of cedar its boney cone for seed or its use when felled and
cut shaped to serve
Now I functions faltering wonder my
justness ask where bear my fruit
-- Al Rose Towson, Md.
Untitled
Im white whiskered and worn, Dont think I
was born, cuz I always looked this way. My legs is bowed, back is
bent, What hair I got is gray.
I aint got no name, And
thats a shame, They all holler, Hey Bo. Not long to
live, Not much to give, Dont have a bit of dough.
If I had,
Id give it all, To hear someone call, Hey Jim, hows you
today? Id say, Im fine young man, I do what I
can, And take what little they pay.
But Jims not my
name, From where I came, I didnt get one as I know, So when
someone I meet Takes time to greet, Hell say, Nice weather
were havin, Hey Bo.
Many years have gone
behind, I sit and rock with features lined, And reach into my wrinkled
mind, For things I should have done.
I count them out and wonder
why I shelved them all to fade and die, And dust away and now they
lie, Like prizes sought but never won.
-- John N. Pfeffer Sequim, Wash.
Pfeffer writes that the subject of his poem was a man he met in
his work with the St. Vincent de Paul Society: I gave him lodging, a meal
and food for his travels to somewhere.
Prayers of Beige
Prayers of beige were muted like sky without
cloud like cool without wind;
the limits of beige dulled all
tones. All utterance rose tired and fell under its sandy weight,
without giving up a cloud leaving no puff of smoke as signal.
But
it was heard, still small tracing to center of black
womb-matrix and red was born. And purple was exulted and orange was
alleluia.
Every soul hears the color of its prayer.
-- Jeannie Bench Anchorage, Alaska
Swimmer
Gentlemen take your marks. More carefully
even than the start I mark you my son see the line of my bones in your
bones, but you are longer, leaner: you are young and I am becoming
old. So I mark you well and with you hold my breath as you explode
over and into the water master of an element foreign to me. With power
and grace you swim your race in the lane that is yours alone and with
gratitude I watch you take me with you and leave me behind.
-- Lou Masson Portland, Ore.
Early April Easter
We are saved, we just dont feel it yet.
Anxiously we study lawn and garden rejoicing in the sparse occasional
blooms while dead leaves linger to be raked. The mighty oaks condescend
not to early leaf, unbending in their patience. But forsythias of
blinding gold bend and beckon their hosannas, generous, profligate their
blessed sprays. Wait no longer, proclaim it now! The earth awakens, the
empty tomb makes believers of us all.
-- Helen Fitzgerald East Hampton, N.Y.
Mothers at the pool
How beautiful, the new mothers with their babies,
sunning themselves around the pool of the apartment complex, absorbed in
their infants, comparing notes.
Too soon they will put them in day
care and return to work to help with car payments and grocery
bills.
But now they are deep in enjoyment of their motherhood, of
their offspring. Pass them softly. Disturb not their communion.
-- Mary C. Ferris Chapala, Mexico
Great Impostor
I put off what I have to do with just another
cup, and all those postponed duties, my how they add up.
Easy to
say, Get behind me, if he came in horns and tail. Disguised
as just another cup, his tactics seldom fail.
-- Mary C. Ferris Chapala, Mexico
National Catholic Reporter, August 13,
1999
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