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POETRY
Insomnia
The prayers for which no words will come When tides
of love have left me dumb -- Lord, God, in their stead accept Unwilled
vigils -- willingly kept.
-- Sr. Janet Benish, OCV Kent,
Wash.
Untitled
The shattered rose? She prayed for the wind and
was heard.
-- Sr. Janet Benish, OCV Kent,
Wash.
Migraine
When tight wires in crazy criss-cross Needle
through the brain Spiritual powers can scarcely resist Centripetal force
of pain.
-- Sr. Janet Benish, OCV Kent,
Wash.
Ark Animals
How orderly the animals embark As, two-by-two, they
file aboard the ark. In alphabetic order they advance So aardvarks
wont consume the trailing ants Or lions try devouring the zebras
-- So they will all survive to meet the Hebras.
-- Bob
McKenty Matawan, N.J.
Dada, Abba
Between the long stretches of routine comes this
brief, graced moment with you. I watch you totter bowlegged down the
gravel path to the barn looking like an old man unsure of his
footing and creaking in the bones. But, you, my son, have made your
way just a few days into this upright world.
Your monkey-like
body saunters off so unaware, so unafraid to discover the world. I
once lived close to the ground like you but have lost the ability
to immerse myself so completely in amazements.
You turn and look
at me when I call your name and confirm for this moment -- only this
moment -- my place in the world: Dada! I feel like God,
or how I wish God could be, and see myself in you turning for
assurance across the distance: Abba!
I am here, my son
-- I see you, now I walk beside you and hold your hand
and we
go and touch the soft, whiskery noses of horses. -- Kevin
Anderson Monclova, Ohio
Saturday Morning
Aged Fontinella, imported from Italy, Meats loaded
with nitrites For preservation in sausage skins Wrapped thick and solid
under glass, And crusty loaves, silent, waiting for
A bell to jingle
the deli-door open. One pale, spotted hand clutching the door frame, The
other shaking on his cane, He shuffles himself by inches Toward the
checkered tablecloth,
Eases into a wooden chair, Until no longer
dizzy. The grayness passes; He stands, looks, fingers cellophaned
pasta. A wizened voice orders Genoa salami. His color returns as he
approaches the cash register,
Pulls the brown leather wallet from his
pocket, And begins the serious, tedious business Of counting out
bills. He sits again, facing the bulging brown bag On the table next to
his expresso, And clinking the small steaming cup from its saucer, Sips
dignity.
-- Donna Pucciani Wheaton, Ill.
National Catholic Reporter, February 19,
1999
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