Last night more snow fell
And it falls now on the
And the just, and the metal flower holder
I took from the
trash and painted,
And on the railings, and the wings of birds,
Cardinals, and the lawnmowers
You were going to fix and didnt,
And the sidewalk, and the mailbox,
And Marys outstretched
The snow falls down
And the roses at her feet lie buried
one more thing, you said, before you left,
It is winter in heaven, and
winter on earth.
They are the same, for once.
-- Ann Cramer
Her hearing implant is in place now,
week. Jan the mother
Of the child born deaf, reaches down
the proud accomplishment
To viewing level. Wide-eyed and apprehensive,
Hands extended more as shield than greeting,
Child Amanda needs excuses:
What she hears
Is only noises still, to her, Jan says,
And shes confused, after all that silence.
I say her name
Amanda, exploding the m
With its rush of air against her face,
And she recoils. Out of a blessed Eden
Free of words, her innocence has
Implanted with our fearful power of talk;
Now she will control the
animals, with us
Control each other, answer back to God
evening, in his Eden walk.
-- Nancy G. Westerfield
On the Feast of St. Brigid
I sing the song my mother sang, but in a different
She was Finnish through and through. I am too,
because of my father whose family came from Clare
in the bleak West of
burning peat, the peaks of
visible from the Isle of
Innishmore, where one afternoon
in late August, in open air on the rising
road to the
I eavesdropped a geography lesson from father to
You see there the Twelve Bens, the peaks of Connemara
So thats what they are. I followed his finger
to the swells of hills
across the water
where bloom a thousand rocks and a thousand sheep
where legend stoops to drink at the waters edge
preserving the inner organs
of lines worth passing from father to son.
I remember the time, the father began,
and his son looked up at him with an
-- Judith Robbins
We walked off
our air-conditioned tour bus
witness a funeral procession.
The children clung to their parents
stared back at us as if to say:
Norte Americano, what the fuck are you
Members of our group
snapped pictures of the coffin,
a sixteen-year-old man
killed in battle
with bullets wrapped in
American tax dollars.
a city councilman invited us
into his office.
His fingers tapped anxiously upon the desk.
Somozas troops invading Estelli
in the spring of
with U.S. built tanks.
The people of Estelli
with their bare
dug tunnels under the walls of houses
to pass guns, food and
Leading us a tour of the bullet riddled city hall
and trying to
control his voice
This is where my nephew died.
the basement of a small church
a young nun shared a silent prayer
with our group and proclaimed:
It is the priests and sisters
who are called to true teachings of Christ
who followed the
Sandinistas in the revolution.
The Pope and the United States will
never stop us.
That night in a dream I saw a banquet table
where the Blessed Mother sat with the people of Estelli.
guerrilla, his face changing to mine,
walked up and tossed a grenade.
threw myself to the floor.
I heard the Virgin Mary scream.
-- Thomas B. Greving
Use the links below to read previous Poetry pages. Use
your browser's Back button to return to this page.
1999 in POETRY
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 email@example.com 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, March 17,