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POETRY
We Have Wines
Its the wine that shocks -- not the brittle bread
-- and reveals the Christ. Today, a sherry, golden in the cup,
syrup-like but sharp on the tongue, the wine is grape, but not grape,
something unforeseen on the vine except by the far foreseeing Father,
who said, Bring forth, and affirmed what he had made, and the
maiden mother, who at Cana said, They have no wine. We have
wines -- sweet ambers, tart rosés, almost bitter reds -- that
evoke our own transformation.
-- John D. Groppe Rensselaer, Ind.
Eulogy to a Tree
I walk down to the water, at the log yard. I stop at
the big one -- Douglas fir, I think, and count 500 rings in its severed
body. For pulp, they have taken down this forest patriarch, sawed it into
eight-foot lengths, and it lies among the ruins in the gravel, still oozing
wet with life.
I wonder if it feels the pain of its sudden,
meaningless demise. Does it have a soul, to live on and see what has
happened to where it once sheltered the beasts and gave rest and birthing
places to the creatures of the air? What did they do with its branches,
budded in hopeful exuberance of life yet to come?
I think they call
it slash, and heap it into a mound, and burn it on the skin of
my Mother. Clear cut; there are no giants left now, to suck up and
cleanse what the trucks have done to the air, no giant arms reaching high
to catch the sun and bid the seasons their passing. Gone are the
lullabies sung softly in night winds, soothing all who can be still enough
to listen.
This tree must remember things we cannot imagine -- wars,
perhaps, and matings, birthings and loss. This tree was hatched from seed
before any white man dared to trespass its soul, trampling out
forever what beings got in his path, dominating the earth and its stunned
inhabitants. This tree could once see the horizon, clean and crested with
all of its relations; it bore to the core of its being the Word of God, made
flesh in all creation.
Oh, my sacred friend, let me stand here beside
your drying hulk, and receive your grace and dignity. You wise old
witness to all that is good and to ultimate sadness, pray for me, now and
forever more. Amen.
-- Sarah Ann McMahan Eugene, Ore.
Landlubbers Sea Song
Out on the high seas one day I felt the air
change and the sea change and ice on the wind
My compass had long
gone overboard, the halyard rotted out the sails didnt match an
albatross hatched in the focsl or the bow
I moved
fast It wouldnt last There was a lot to learn
Passing
strange such a windy change and the sea abaft my stern
-- Sue Dwyer Toledo, Ohio
Same Old Used-to-be
(to be read aloud) If youre looking for other
than ordinary discreet vibrations then dont look here
This
heres the same old used to be The way it always was That golden
extraordinary Thread of all Ahh
Dont look
again Its just the same old as it was Another and the same
way all Allah
Same vibrations always was The threading looks the
same as if because Allah Yah-Wah Ho-yeh Ha Sssss
-- Hinoh Tioynih Black Mountain, N.C.
Marigolds
I love marigolds they smell like summer, not
sweet but pungent like sweat and earthy things brought to fruition
through honest toil and hard labor.
-- Martha Wickham Red Bud, Ill.
National Catholic Reporter, September 10,
1999
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