I Entertain a Doubt

He tentatively knocks at my door.
Come in, I say as I open my house to him.
I’ve been expecting you.
I invite him to the living room
but he says he prefers the kitchen;
the heart of your home he calls it.
He sits at the table while I make the coffee
and set out the morning-glory muffins
I’ve especially prepared. Then we talk.
Doctrines and disciplines, family history,
ethics, race—nothing is out of bounds.
We spar, debate, tell stories, and laugh
as the world comes apart in our words.
When we next meet, we’ll put it back
together, we say. In what seems no time,
he stands to leave. I walk him to the door.
I’ll be back, he says. I know you will, I reply.
I feel like I’ve made a friend.

 

How I Am

Sometimes I am firm,
resolute, and strong.
I say what I mean
and I mean what I say.
Other times, given my age,
I sort of tend to be wishy-washy.
I do, absolutely, remember
a time several years ago
when I impressed myself
at how decisive I was.
I enjoyed the feeling
and determined to feel that
firmness of character
again in the future.
And I will. I’m almost
certain of it.

A Quaker Learns to Swear

 

You need to learn to swear, he told me.
A Quaker like you, so controlled
--it's not healthy.

I wondered if he might be right.
I did feel choked up at times
by the undone dishes and frayed edges,
not to mention the major injustices of life.

Leaning into memory, I brought up
words from TV and novels, phrases
my grandfather had used when provoked.
I rehearsed them mentally,
avoiding the mirror.

A few weeks later,
something he said (I can't remember what),
--a twist of sarcasm,  a patronizing hint--
and a voice whispered, Now.
I looked straight at him
and with a keen and measured ferocity said,
I just don't give a hell.

In the following silence, I realized
I hadn't quite brought it off.
Finally he said, If you're going to swear,
at least do it right.

Warning:  I'm practicing.
Next time I'll get it.
Mountains will quake.

The Three Bald Monks

 

The Three Bald Monks

in the window
have journeyed from Uruguay
to daily direct my devotions.
Sebastian the beggar
      with shaggy brows
      and irresistible stare
      implores my generosity.
Alfonso the chanter
      whistles the Psalms while
Thaddeus kisses the cross
      in semi-swoon.
They remind me
      to take up my given cross
      abide in the word
      shelter under the mercy
      wear sturdy shoes
      and never worry
      about wardrobe
      or weight.

Bolivar's Horse

I thought of you two today,

about when you were kids

and we lived on Juan de Vargas Street

in Miraflores. Surrounded by buildings,

we used to cross two busy streets

to get to the Plaza Triangular

where you would run around

or ride your tricycles on the uneven pavement.

A huge statue dominated the plaza,

some Bolivian military hero

--Bolivar perhaps, yes, certainly

it was Bolivar—mounted on an antsy

but stationary stallion. The horse had one hoof

raised, head lifted back, while his master

held the reigns tight, not quite ready

to plunge into battle. The tail was tense,

high in the air. We dared ourselves

to sit on the base of the statue, just under that tail.

We held our breath and waited to see

if any cement turds would fall on our heads.

They never did.

But they could have. They most certainly

could have.

Devotional chocolate and Mother's Day

Yesterday my grandchildren prepared a Mother’s Day tea and invited their two grandmothers and, of course, their mother. We grandmothers received flowers but the kids presented their mother with a bar of Super Dark Matcha Chocolate. Very gourmet and very appropriate. My daughter-in-law, Debby, is currently drinking matcha tea every day and expounding its merits. The spirulina algae it contains helps make it super-healthy.

The packaging contained instructions on how to taste “an exotic chocolate bar,” and as a party activity, granddaughter Gwen read the instructions while we all attempted to have the ultimate chocolate experience. It was great fun, and the chocolate was quite good.

The kind of language used in the packaging of this product either angers or amuses me. In this case, the instructions, the information about the creator of this chocolate bar (a woman named Katrina) and her hopes for the effects it will produce are obviously meant to be taken seriously. It sounds like a new-age spirituality of chocolate.

I asked Debby to loan me the package, told her I was sure I could find a poem hidden in all the verbiage.

And so I did. A “found poem” (a real genre, by the way) lifts words and phrases from a text and rearranges them into a poem which, in many cases, plays around with the meaning of the original. I was definitely playing. But, at the same time, while this found poem may seem totally whimsical, it is actually serious literary/cultural criticism.

Please keep that in mind as you read.

Chocolate Devotions

Katrina, the medium of chocolate,
invites you to follow
as she travels the world
in search of a superior source.
Are you ready?
Take three deep breaths,
smell,
taste, and….
SNAP!
You will hear a crisp ringing pop
as your mind and spirit
open to new ideas.
Even though you have only
rubbed your thumb on the surface
of the chocolate experience,
a meticulous process has begun.
Your inner spices, nuts, roots,
herbs and liqueurs will be ground
by low friction, then fused
to bring you to the pinnacle
of your taste profile, thus
enabling you to harness
the power of storytelling.
Can you believe it?
At the end of the day,
if you have followed Katrina’s instructions,
you will have
an exotic chocolate movement,
thus releasing you
to enter the super dark
where spirulina algae
will swim through your dreams
spreading peace, love, and, as ever,
chocolate.

Celebrating Mother's Day with granddaughter Alandra

Cat in the manger

by U.A. Fanthorpe

In the story, I'm not there.
Ox and ass, arranged at prayer:
But me? Nowhere.

Anti-cat evangelists
How on earth could you have missed
Such an obvious and able
Occupant of any stable?

Who excluded mouse and rat?
The harmless necessary cat.
Who snuggled in with the holy pair?
Me. And my purr.

Matthew, Mark and Luke and John
(Who got it wrong,
Who left out the cat)
Remember that,
Wherever He went in this great affair,
I was there.



My version of the cat in the manger



Chiri at worship

In answer to your question

Yes, I used to put God
in a box, but it turned
out to be a Jack-
in-the-box, and God
kept jumping out
and scaring me
at the most inconvenient
times. One day he
jumped all the way
out, leaving me
with this empty tin
cube, red paint peeling.
I finally threw it
away. God remains
at large.

On being a liver

 
Peter, age 7, and Paige, 10, were playing Legos in my living room, while I sat on the couch pretending to read, but really listening to them build their imaginary world.

At one point Paige lifted her Lego horse and as it leaped the castle wall, she asked Peter, “Can your Lego guys do this?”

“No,” Peter responded. “Me and Tim don’t do stuff like that. We’re livers.”

Paige cocked her head and gave him that “you’re-crazy” look. “What?”

“Livers.” Peter insisted. “That means we’re normal guys. We don’t do stuff. We just live.”

I smiled and kept quiet. I connected their conversation with the old Martha/Mary division and the differences between people. Some people are do-ers, workers, those who accomplish great—or not-so-great—things for the kingdom. They “work for the night is coming,” knowing that “their labors are not in vain.” Others prefer to sit at the feet of the Master, meditate, pray and just be. They focus on “abiding in the vine.”

This division is, of course, superficial. Most of us move back and forth on a continuum between doing stuff and quietly being present. While we may tend to one side, we’re both types, depending on circumstance and opportunity.

I’m a poet. The noun “poem” comes from the Greek “poema,” and its verb form means, ironically, “to do” or “to make.” The particular making that a poet engages in results, sometimes, in a work of art. Work is on the doing-stuff side, but art leans toward the livers of the world. The combination, “work of art,” brings them together in synchronicity.

This is beginning to sound as silly as my grandkids’ conversation.

At any rate, I’ve added a new meaning to an old word. I’ve got lots of stuff to do today, but I will take the time to remember that I’m basically just a liver.

                   Paige the do-er and Peter the liver

 

Eating My Words

"If it doesn't pan out exactly
as I've said," I told him,
"I guess I'll just have to eat
my words."

The very next day, as a matter
of fact, I started in
on the nouns. I plopped them whole,
one at a time, in my mouth.
First I sucked the juice out,
then I swallowed the pulp.
One caught in my throat
and I had to wash it down
with a few slurpy adjectives.

The verbs crunched and crackled
as my teeth bit down. I seasoned
them with a few unattached
but tasty articles.

In a small gesture of rebellion
I saved the prepositions
for dessert. As any sous chef
knows, you can't end anything
with a preposition, so that's exactly
what I did.

All in all, it was a most
satisfying meal.

The joy of linguistic error

I love catching myself at linguistic mistakes. Some of them are pretty funny.

Yesterday I was cleaning the bathroom and I ran out of one of my supplies. When finished, I went to the kitchen and added to my grocery list, “toilet boil cleaner.” Then I looked at what I had written and thought, “Something’s not right.” After a few seconds, I recognized the error of my ways and laughed, wondering, “What might a toilet boil be?”

Next, of course, I wrote a poem. This is a very short poem with a very long title. It may never end up in a published collection of my works, but it made me laugh. That’s worth something.

On My Sense of Indignation

Upon Learning that My Local Pharmacy

Does Not Carry Toilet Boil Cleaner

 

 Let's just say that I was

really really

ticked off.

My face actually

flushed. 

"The Steed Bit His Master"

I have a delightful two-volume set of poetry called, Chapters into Verse: Poetry in English Inspired by the Bible (Oxford University Press, 1993). Beginning in Genesis, it goes through to Revelations, citing poets ancient and modern.

Most of it is Serious Stuff, but I occasionally find a bit of whimsy. This one takes off of Psalm 40:6-8 and was written by that most prolific of poets, “Anonymous.”  Enjoy.

The steed bit his master;

How came this to pass?

He heard the good pastor

Cry, "All flesh is grass."

“Advanced old women”: A warning

When I spend extended time abroad, as in this current two-month trip to Bolivia, part of my strategy for relaxation and relief is reading. My Kindle lets me bring along a whole library, and part of the fun of preparation is choosing what new books to include.

This time my repertoire includes two murder mysteries by Dorothy Sayers, friend of C.S. Lewis, Charles Williams and J.R.R. Tolkien, and member of the Inklings, the literary group these remarkable writers formed in the first half of the 20^th century.

Sayers’ mysteries are not overtly Christian, other than the fact the justice is always served, and right and wrong are clearly delineated (eg., murder is always wrong.) What I especially enjoy is the person of Lord Peter Wimsey, a staunch member of England’s upper crust, and a brilliant amateur detective. He works through impeccable logic to puzzle through the pieces of a mysterious crime, but he depends on intuition to arrive at the aha! moment that actually solves the riddle. He reminds me most of Chesterton’s Father Brown, the priest who also is a brilliant amateur detective. And just as dryly funny.

Lord Peter Wimsey (great name!) gives off these wonderful asides of wisdom as he goes about his crime solving business. One of these especially struck my fancy (interesting phrase) last week. Wimsey is reflecting on his mother, an extremely upper-crusty Duchess, and he observes that, “Time and trouble will tame an advanced young woman, but an advanced old woman is uncontrollable by any earthly force,” (from Clouds of Witnesses).

I wonder if Sayers was writing about herself? At this time in my life, the idea of “an uncontrollable advanced old woman” appeals to me. Is this something to aim towards? Maybe. Maybe not.

At any rate, thank you again, Dorothy Sayers. Something to think about.