Issue Date: June 20, 2003
POETRY
Banners Hanging From A Church Clerestory
Yes, they are the simplest of fabrics, The sheerest we
could find.
They baffle the light so that is does not Flame
out, like shining from shook foil, But turns flame to gentle glow
instead.
But are they more?
Gossamer wings Wafting us to
realms above? Inverted sails Of a spiritual barque that havens us on
roiling seas? Diaphanous clouds That hover protectively over a pilgrim
people? Wordless pennants Pointing to the Table of bounty below?
Maybe yes. And maybe more.
--Fr. William A. Richard Rockwall, Texas
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A labyrinth in Glendalough, Ireland
-- Pat Janus |
The Labyrinth
How strange at the beginning to shed the day and come
so close to the center only to turn away and return to the outer
edge then weave again the path in close but not quite there until a
final turn bring you to the center to learn how long you must
stay. There is only one path It is the path there It is the path away.
--Pat Janus Rochester, N.Y.
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Embedded Saint in Baghdad
In the wake of ruin -- dregs our decapitating missiles
wrought, a saint emerged sudden. Employed in the madhouse and on spin
unschooled, once after a Brokaw intro, she slipped across our
screens.
A simple psych nurse at the slaughters outset, she
donned her patients garb when marauders in ant-like fury breached
the asylums doors -- loosing the violent, leaving but hinges
behind.
As the unholy wave spilled in, its victims mute
wails fell stark, abbreviated like sprinkles at dawn: Till a
bodhisattva undiscovered -- with intruders still at-large, ministered to
the doomed and damaged.
Some say sainthoods just a sturdy will
abiding; others happenstance, when conscience and conditions
collide. It only matters some persist without reason -- both in and
out of season.
--Jay Allain Hyannis, Mass.
A Life Not My Own
In rare moments when I am home to myself, my heart is
still, my pulse a psalm I know obscurely I receive my life from a
power beyond me, live by a life not my own.
This morsel of
life its ephemeral beauty its searing sorrow is on loan, marginal
to a greater agency that always, all ways engages the darkness, brings
life from death.
My own gratuitousness itself is gift, liberating
me to live in this moment, to be at peace in a world that, like me, is
passing away, to love it fiercely, to let it go.
--Bonnie Thurston Wheeling, W.Va.
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National Catholic Reporter, June 20, 2003 |