Praise
In the morning, after the burial, the willow leaning, sure
of some whispering, some news from above, and I too thinking you might
answer with rain.
might flood the street with praise of all that
is flowing through streams, creeks, lakes, that even when the
rain did arrive weeks later, I thought of your soul moving
beyond
us, far out in the north field where the strong oaks shift in the
stillness and where even now in the sudden downpour of a June afternoon,
I seek shelter, sure
of the good news, your soul rising in
the precipitation, rising into all that is unknown and unseen, and
O the whispering, like a deer to running water,
like a deer to
running water, I thirst for you, O Lord, the oaks suddenly still in the
north field, the last dusky sparrow flying right through
the rainbow.
-- Mary Ann Meade Conshohocken, Pa.
-- NCR photo/Toni-Ann Ortiz |
A Creation Lament (I Kings 19 updated) (For Hiroshima and
Nagasaki)A modern man at a mountain of God . . .
Man sent a
nuclear bomb but God was not in the nuke
then Man sent
napalm but God was not in the fire that burns flesh
then Man
sent cruise missiles but God was not in the missiles
finally . .
. God spoke in a gentle whisper for peace BUT Man acted as though
deaf, blinded and stiff-necked
SAYONARA!
-- Mick Mandeville San Gabriel, Calif. |
Assumption
When I awoke this morning -- a never before encountered dawn
-- I found myself crowned with honey bees busily making a hive in my
hair. On velvet wings I was carried -- a most startling beginning to my
day -- to a couch of petaled glory.
There, incensed in mist of fresh
mountain sap, all around me in dizzy dance and exaltation Bright
seraphim pitched downward from high pines -- A most unforeseen morning
-- exalting in high mountain voices, Joy! sweetest joy! Mortal flesh
wrapped in immortality!
Strange, how I had ever thought, in that
dozing moment between dark and dawn, that only another summers dog day
lay in wait for me. When all the while God, faithful handmaiden to all
creation, was handing me a robe of royal kinship and a diadem of
glory.
-- Deborah Hanus San Antonio, Texas
Its About Power
What is more political than mental illness, the overthrow
of sense in a sovereign city? Responsible officials abdicate or are
slain.
-- Sue Dwyer Toledo, Ohio
The Mabon Madonna
(For the statue of Mary with the boy Jesus in the St.
Johns Abbey Church, donated by the Mary Frost Mabon)
Wisdom reigns
upon a wooden throne with eyes alone for tribal mysteries, the Master lad
upon her lap, bone and sinews hers, now teaching with expertise in the
temple near the hill. She gives no decree, has no answers she could put in
speech. Gods Mother, Seat of Wisdom, does not see. She walks with
one candle, worrying each adolescent triumph, teenage stumble, still
ignorant of the large design. But the prophecy with thorns is there, the
rumble of falling and rising. She fears the sign.
Madonna, chewed by
termites, with damaged hand, you teach us how to kneel before we understand.
-- Fr. Kilian McDonnell, OSB Collegeville,
Minn. |