|
POETRY
Well-Spring
I held out empty cups, Dipping into streams
Running past my door, Leaving me in dust-dry thirst Again.
I
turned back, Knowing now The spring flows From within, In
stillness.
-- Betty A. Boudreaux Metairie, La.
Earthsoil
(a.k.a.: dirt)
Deep, dark, fragrant, moist, rich soil of the
Earth. Yes, and more. But dead earth? Just dirt? I dont think
so.
Earth is busy, always working, greening herself for our
pleasure and our sustaining. Busily she knits grasses and trees and
flowers and fruits, telling stories all the while of other days when she
was stardust, embers cooled from the fire of Gods creating
love, and of all her transformings into trees and grasses and flowers and
birds and fish and animals and people.
Like me, you say? I cant
quite hear, I dont understand the words you speak. Not yet, but
someday. Then Ill join you in your knitting, and in your
storytelling, and in your transforming.
Some call this joining
death. Death? It sounds like life to me.
-- Christine M. Baty Arlington Heights, Ill.
Untitled
Everywhere flowers cherished in gardens free
in fields and printed on a variety of clothes more or less free
blossom for the joy of those who see and love.
-- Sr. Martin Dominic Austen Casco, Maine
Liturgy
Some days, I will skip daily mass, And take up worship
in the park.
Under cathedral vaults of sacred oak trees, I will
spread a crisp white napkin Over a dingy splintered park bench, While
overhead, God orchestrates hymns with Gently gusting winds through the
canopy of leaves.
There is no lector, and so I sit in
stillness, Calling forth a litany of deeply buried Psalms, That rumble
from my heart. Inevitably from the river, the fishermans bell Will
signal consecration.
Ignorant of rubrics, I unceremoniously break
out A baguette from my brown tabernacle sack. Like Francis of Assisi, I
minister first to gulls, Then to squirrels, who resound amen With a flap
of a wing, and a flick of the tail.
Then, homeless Ben crouches in front
of me, Concealing every bit of his holiness. Crudely Ben polishes off the
loaf, And in a gruff reciprocal gesture, offers me A swig from his nasty
flask.
Bread and wine, body and blood. I find myself shaken And so
the proper wording of liturgy escapes me. Meanwhile, in all his wildness,
Ben watches and waits. Reluctantly, I close my eyes, purse my lips
and Take a quick burning sip.
Ah, the mystery of faith! Definitely
not a Guardini liturgy, And yet is suffices.
-- Sascha T. Moore Port Huron, Mich.
National Catholic Reporter, October 1,
1999
|
|