POETRY

I wait
with quickened hope
for crooked paths
to straighten,

with tough-soul’d
anguish,
while blinded
keepers of the keys
shut out
God’s own.

(If such a thing
were possible.)

I wait,
and will not be
dismayed.

For tiny shoot
of Jesse tree
took root in me
to love
transform,
give sight
set free.

-- Sr. Christine Schenk, CSJ
Cleveland, Ohio

You play the notes.
We wear the song
Of mystic hope
Tableau of joy.
Come Christmas soon.
Bring harmony.
Flock every breath
Touch every branch
With angel light
With fleece of lamb.
Take our world
To Bethlehem.

-- Kathleen Gunton
Orange, Calif.

No purple and pink candled
green surrounded,
life engulfed,
blessed and incensed
wreath adorns this church …
 
but people weary,
black-and-blue bruised
war surrounded,
poverty engulfed,
fear enveloped …
God embraced,
oppressed and struggling,
gathered and watchful …
awaiting promised Messiah
who brings freedom to captives.

-- Sr. Susan Marie Lindstrom, OSB
Beech Grove, Ind.

Dear God,
Please teach me how to pray.
We have more questions every day.
Our minds and fingers seem to find
and make a mess (we leave behind)
for other’s hands to fix and clean.
(Some times we’re even mean.)

Often we feel that we’re so small
that we don’t matter much at all.
And yet we know you made us right
and even called us “good” in spite
of all we do. So help us know,
dear God, how we should grow.

-- Steven Shoemaker
Champaign, Ill.

I am new to this.
My mantra selects itself,
different from the one I chose.

The kangaroo mind leaps
          to my list of needs.

Is someone watching the time?

The monkey chatters.

Is this how forever begins?

The mind and heart
go off on different paths;
the mantra calls them back
until it changes
to a prayer of syllables
that does not translate into words
but spirit song.

-- Pat Janus
Rochester, N.Y.

In the beginning the Spirit
Moved over water.
God said, “Let there be light!”
And everything was bright

In the beginning was the Word
The Word moved into embryonic water
Mary felt within an incarnatal leap
“Child,” she said, “Go to sleep!”

The Word responded, “Yes, Mother!”

-- Bruce Snowden
Bronx, N.Y.

Bellini has it wrong.
I was not kneeling
on my satin cushion,
in a beam of light,
head slightly bent.

Painters always
skew the scene,
as though my life
were wrapped in silks,
in temple smells.

Actually, I had just
come back from the well,
placing the pitcher on the table
I bumped against the edge,
spilling water on the floor.

As I bent to wipe
it up, there was a light
against the kitchen wall,
as though someone had opened
the door to the sun.

Rag in hand,
hair across my face,
I turned to see
who was entering,
unannounced, unasked.

All I saw
was light, white
against the timbers.
I heard a voice
I had never heard before.

I heard a greeting.
I was elected.
I would bear a son,
who would reign forever.
I stood afraid.

Someone closed the door.
And I dropped the rag.

-- Fr. Kilian McDonnell, OSB
Collegeville, Minn.

My sun
(my stars)!
My mountain lily!
My mother!
Here, here
My lover!
There, there
My turtle,
My spoon!
My soup and my moon!
My knight and
My whisper!
My shout!
My day!

-- Eileen M. Condon
Toledo, Ohio

To hear the flames’ brisk whoosh
between logs

the crackle of my thoughts.

To watch clouds blurring trees,
houses, slopes swallowing the mountain,
wrapping me in their soft breathing
to let go of boundaries, become
grass, leaf, rain.

To reach a knowing beyond
my flesh and bones.

-- Marguerite Bouvard
Wellesley, Mass.

Today, it has finally turned cold.
Geese move as if in liquid overhead,
Everything in the world made of water.
Fishing blind, below the surface of a well-fed
stream,
Feeling carefully and tenderly for anything
That feels like a life at the other end of my line.
When it comes, and it always will, eventually,
As long as there are fish left at all,
The hook must be set quickly, or all may be lost,
And the fish will not be back,
Having tasted the sharp pain of the hook.
If pulled too harshly, too quickly,
The line breaks, and the fish is gone,
Leaving all efforts unrewarded.

This, the geese and the damp pines whisper to me,
Is religion. This is God, in the allegorical nutshell.
Set the hook and bring them in to you.
Play them fair -- you won’t catch them all.
But come back …

-- Andy Lang
Spokane, Wash.