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POETRY
The Message
When Mary
sitting in her mother’s house first
heard
a bliss of music blooming in the fig tree near
the door
she
turned to face the door and saw
a gleam as from a sword
a fire like a
sun
a face unlike the faces of the world.
She heard
the winged
invader speaking words
from One elsewhere.
She raised her hand to push
away the sounds
but seized them in her heart.
The flower bearer
laid his lilies at her feet
disappeared
in a falling down of stars.
-- Georgia Beyard
Timonium, Md.
Murnane Halfway House
We haven’t met
you nor your child yet
we
know why you are here
in this cramped room
with its long bank of
windows
flooding in brilliant morning light
and leaking in damp
Willamette nights
you are balanced
between heaven and hell
one
flight up from the street dealers
across from the tattoo parlor
will
new paint, new floor, new drapes
and our hopes be enough?
will a basket
of books, soap and towels
be enough?
we pray for you
for all
of us
on the journey
balanced on slivers of faith
-- Charles Varani
Eugene, Ore.
Following Directions
In all the mysteries
Surrounding life
On this
planet
Our reluctance
To ask directions
When we lose our way
Is
among the
Most confusing
And it is not just
The male of the
species
Who tries to fake it
By pretending all along
That the
destination
Is just around
The corner
Even when trying to
find
A mall or an arena
Where we want to be
We tough it out
And
if we do find our way
It is usually unintentionally
And not by
design
But to gamble
With directions
To the Kingdom
Or to
take wrong turns
Because we won’t ask
Is at best
Mind-boggling
And at the least
Mindless
For the Master’s
road
Is relatively simple
Though never easy
And since it means
Traveling with One
Who is the Way
We never arrive
By accident
-- Fr. Michael J. Kennedy
Cedar Creek, Minn.
The Uninvited Guest
Like an uninvited guest he came
from cold February
streets,
disturbing the comfortable gathering.
Elegantly dressed
worshipers sang and prayed
amid pure white candles and incense
until
this unknown intruder arrived.
He prayed to their God --
several
words behind,
crossing himself with the wrong hand.
He brought with him
the reading for the day --
with dirty hands and dirtier jeans,
his life
read from the prophet Amos:
“They trample the heads of the weak
into
the dust of the earth,
and force the lowly
out of the
way.”
They eased themselves away
with a sideward glance,
filling any space between them;
to avoid his odor and his eyes.
No stares or avoidance could protect God’s chosen people.
Who is this
worshiper from the streets?
Finally, he left,
slipping into the
darkness of the streets,
away from the darkness of their hearts.
-- Sr. Judy Morris, OP
St. Catharine, Ky.
National Catholic Reporter, July 2,
1999
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