|
POETRY
Hands
I imagine the most famous hands in all of history.
Pontius Pilate ceremoniously washes them. They are ordinary, the hands of
middle age. They could be anyones hands. There is nothing to distinguish
them, only small, darkening liver spots. They look like my hands.
-- John Cantey Knight Metarie, La.
A Prayer for Anger
God, Grant me the grace of anger,
Turn me
into a howling wind to hasten change where injustice stagnates;
make of me a tempest to conquer grinding sorrow.
Hammer at
my hard hearts door; smash the lock of my indifference.
May the grace of anger transform my cowardly spirit.
Amen.
-- Jane M. Nirella Middletown, N.J.
The Purple Rosary
When I pray the rosary today, Ill think of you
praying your own beads found in a thriftshop somewhere between here and
Bangor.
Hidden behind the electric mixers they glinted in the dust,
caught your eye like the black Persian who asked for a home
by
reaching a shining paw between the bars of the cage at the humane society
where he waited for you. His sweet appeal
spoke to you about how
youd feel entrapped, dependent on others for liberation. And the
beads too, their flag of INRI
King of the Jews, broken off spoke to
you in their imperfection. Undesired by others, you wanted them.
How
gallant of you to rescue the Lady Fair the Holy Mother impressed on
metal and languishing on a shelf at the back of a store.
Who was it
prayed the beads before you? Who was it held them up to the light
admiring the rays filtered through purple glass?
That one, the cat, me,
you -- God cares for us all through each other and so we are
saved.
-- Judith Robbins Whitefield, Maine
If you want a drunkard
Six camel-hide puppets, characters from Turkish folklore.
Choose one, I told the third grade poets. Be a poor man carrying
burdens, a tea seller, a drunkard with jointed knees (knife in one
hand, bottle in the other), a drummer, a musician.
Jesse was the
first to read. I am a drunkard, he announced. I am going to hell. If
you want a drunkard, thats where Ill be. Now how did he learn
so much about unrepentance in a Catholic school, the glee of Paradise
Lost. What a grin. We hadnt even gone around the room before he
waved his hand to ask, Can I read my poem again?
-- Marjorie Kowalski Cole Ester, Alaska
A Tumbling, Twinkling, Singing
Mind
Sometimes my mind is a tumble Like river rocks strewn
on the shore.
Sometimes it is clear Singing a mountain stream
song.
Other times thoughts twinkle and burn like stars to be shaped
into words.
I best like the times when all cares are gone. Then words
flow out as sparkling stones -- And fall to rest in a poem.
-- Pat Eagan Mesa, Ariz.
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 ncrpoetry@aol.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, July 14,
2000
|
|