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POETRY
Fluid Crystal
So essential to the lives we lead and to our commerce
that the guarantee of plentiful supply and purity of water is a care to
supercede all others, leaving little thought or heed to it as something
pleasurable to see, not just as streams and lakes in harmony with nature,
but from all externals freed.
Observe it in a tall, transparent
glass; as crystal gems that fountains fling in air; as morning dew that
sparkles on the grass; as tear drops on a spiders silken snare; as
sheen on pavement following a rain; as little whirlpools going down a
drain.
-- Mary C. Ferris Chapala, Jalisco,
Mexico
I have accounted all else rubbish so that Christ may
be my wealth. -- St. Paul, (Philippians 3:8)
Burning
I think of Hopkins burning all his poetry, the leaping
flames in the fireplace, his words, his thoughts in smoke, the look on his
face to see gray ashes in the orange glow. I wonder, did he weep, and did
he know that he would ever write again, and grace would find him, even in
his lonely place where all the winds of winter seemed to blow? How could
he know warm breast of Holy Ghost would find the poet there and offer
him bright wings, and in the dawn windhover Host would come in blazing
light, compelling him to praise with voice the One who dwells inmost and
give us then that gift, his resonant hymn?
-- Nancy J. Nowak Spencer, Mass.
Beckoning -- Cologne, Germany, 1970
We sit in a café early evening having crossed
the Rhine twice today and lingered under the arched ceiling of Cologne
Cathedral echoing prayers of early saints. Before us rise the towers
sullied since the Middle Ages, blackened with the smoke of World War
II.
Blocks away lie other churches still hollow from shelling.
Cultural matrix, this cathedral the Allies spared, its notched spires
long flues to heaven.
Sunset, bronze bars the river. Steamers stitch
an uphill journey. The cathedral, brilliant changeling, beckons us into
her folds.
-- Stella Nesanovich Lake Charles, La.
Waiting for Grace
As the century creaks to a close there are concerns
more critical than the cycling of computers. Halfway through my life, my
child is now barely old enough to later remember this turn of a
century.
We need our Church, whole and complete in the fullness of
everyone, to be a home for our hearts and our souls.
We suffer not
the hurt of halfway, of gifts not welcome, of help not wanted but needed so
much.
We long for the day when the table will be ready and all will
be gathered and a married Catholic priest and his daughter (my
oh-so-loved husband and child) may concelebrate and host the meal that
feeds the hungry and heals the sick.
Our hope may be outrageous, our
faith fragile, but Love lingers way longer than Y2K.
And so we live
in our longing, waiting for Grace.
-- Sarah Robinson Flick Dickinson, Texas
Poems should be limited to about 50 lines and preferably typed.
Please send poems to NCR POETRY, 115 E. Armour Blvd., Kansas City MO
64111-1203. Or via e-mail to poetry@natcath.org or fax (816) 968-2280.
Please include your street address, city, state, zip and daytime telephone
number. NCR offers a small payment for poems we publish, so please
include your Social Security number.
National Catholic Reporter, December 3,
1999
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