A heart, even a human heart,
And yet much more! A blessing key
Which unlocks all the larger part
Of creation's secret, to be
Fathomed in divinest thoughts, where
Love spoke a single Word which could
Not be writ across one sky, there
Being too small for one who would
Speak galaxies of affection,
Spiralling lazily, with ease
Breathing out (O sweet reflection!)
How the Beloved does so please
The unravelling speaker's heart,
Bright orange nebulae signing
Cosmic sighs of love which betray
Deep fondness, and no small pining
For that sweet soul which holds such sway
While comets with hot flashing tails
Remind how fleeting is matter,
Finitude which entirely pales
Before love's endurance. Clatter
Of crashing asteroids beats loud
The steady pulse in silent space
Of devotion's heartbeat, ne'er proud,
Always humbly ready to place
Itself at the disposal of
Her, and her fair name, love of God
Having joined him to her, his dove,
Beside her e'er his path to trod.
And for lightyears of empty black
Void, the silence is unbroken
For love goes beyond the poor track
Of mere words, largely unspoken,
Of course - for even the bright sun
Burns passionately above cloud
And horizon all mute, for one
Who needs not great clamour and loud
Cries to know that her poor lover's
Attention is all caught up in
Her eyes, that beauty which covers
Her whole person, which he would win
Rather by the constellations’
Subtle grandeur than by any
Of the offal of the nations
All dearly sought by so many
(The trappings of riches and fame)
Yet counted all as dust by her
Whose sweet self and whose most fair name
His soul loves. Supernova blur
Smudges the blinking telescopes
Startled by refulgent glory
Of stars which exceed all the hopes
And dreams of poor mortal story,
Fables myriad each like mist
Are dispelled by the diction true
And truly uttered, the whole list
Of fairy tales by a great new
Reality shown inferior
And usurped, as the things of old
Are by these matters interior
Contrasted; proven less well told
Than love’s murmuring, that sweet breath
Of solar wind across the soul’s
Horizon, and the world's. Grave death,
Blistering hell, and those foul coals
Which stoke the infernal fires are
Not enough to overcome it,
The light of its hope shining far,
By which the dark abyss is lit
And made shallow, all things swallowed
By patient seas of affection,
And sadnesses we once wallowed
In escaping our detection,
As we are cast adrift on this
Placid sea. From a stately ship
Above your lover calls, to bliss
Inviting you - that you may strip
Your heart of pain’s devices, set
Sail for past the sunset's glow, while
He takes, if only you will let
Him, your cares away, your sweet smile
The whole repayment expected.
No mere bridge joins our hearts, my love,
But the Cross, which sees connected
Our green earth and heaven above,
As well as our destinies, God's
Call joining in one location
Our twisting paths, against all odds,
Fate through the grace of vocation
Made sweet by His divine favor.
A second heartbeat where once one
Sounded alone now beats, savor
Recognizable in hard-won
Harmonious sound, for no such
Unity is achieved, nor two
Made one, save by labors, by much
Work attentively done; but you,
Of course, darling, serve as reason
Enough to justify hardships
Beyond these, whether in season
Or out your presence amidships
Making every voyage fairer
Than the last, even through the storms,
Instilling courage ‘gainst terror
And all dread, for the lovely forms
Which your love gently expressed takes
Are balm and tonic against all
Ills, honey for the soul which makes
One unafraid that he should fall,
Knowing, as he does, that you will
Be there to succor every woe -
He can his heart’s contents all spill,
And safely, for you love him so.

O Counsel! Now I am bound to withdraw,
I must - for there is no prudent rhyme or
Melody that I might compose, save awe
Or list’ning silence, unless to the door
You lead me, and open it as well, for
Guidance and discerning are yours, and none
save you directing has e’er glory won.

O Counsel! I may distinguish right from
Left, but no more; to mark right from wrong, such
Judgement belongs to thee. Life’s very drum
Beats in or out of tune, little or much,
According to thy reckoning; your touch
Is my rule, for whate’er song the world sings,
Thou alone art the measure of all things.

O Counsel! Hear me, and to me descend!
Sweet Prudence! Guard against folly and fad!
Good Judgement, on whom I wholly depend!
Decisions without thee are all but mad,
The path which follows thee is sweet and glad!
Advisor, as discreet as thou art great,
Whoe’er seeks thy word second, asks too late!

I have sung too much, too long, of pain.
The litany of syllables dictating pangs of wounds
And memories of shattered hearts and minds
Has drowned out all else.
My suit, my complaint, has become a filibuster
Against the very light whose absence I mourn.

I do not reproach myself for it;
T’was necessary, and, more importantly,
It was thoroughly real.
Even the bleakest song was a worthy agony
And so this is not a new lament,
But a canticle of reversal.

Now I will sing of truth, for truth is beautiful and good.
I will sing of wisdom in her refulgence,
I will sing of knowledge upon her ivory throne,
I will sing of understanding which pierces the veil,
Breaking down barriers between hearts and minds,
Of that light which dispels ignorant shadows.

I will sing of goodness, for goodness is true and beautiful.
I will sing of courage, hero’s courage, bold, ****** courage,
I will sing of love, mother’s love, sacrificial love,
I will sing of charity, generous charity, of humble almsgiving,
I will sing of justice, no less just for being merciful,
I will sing of humility, so true and sweet it will not sing for itself.

I will sing of beauty, for beauty is good and true.
I will learn at the knees of the weeping willow,
And the stoic mountain shall reveal his smile,
I will rediscover sunrise and sunset with each revolution of earth,
And I will dance with the birds of paradise,
Cackling gleeful with cheering toads and crickets and hooting apes,

And I will sing you a new song.

Sister, I tremble in the shade
Of your impending absence feared
Its shadow looming ominous
Sister, does anything ever die?

Brother, this place that we have made
Our garden mutually beloved
And all things must pass to dust
Brother, is permanence a lie?

Sister, if the leaves are golden now
We may be sure they’re soon to fall
We are not immortal evergreen
Sister, you won’t forget to pray?

Brother, though I know not how
I’m sure souls needn’t finally part
But did the poet weigh his words
Brother, can nothing gold e’er stay?

Sister, gold is too precious for rust
But listen to the call, ahead
We cannot neglect our course
Sister, are you glad you came?

Brother, although part we must
And suffer heart-strings joined to cut
Love, still whole, knows no regret
Brother, you won’t forget my name?

Sister, though the country’s breadth
Brings doleful separation on
Love’s memory scorns the divide
Sister, is it not true?

Brother, O, it feels like death
When love bridges the awful gap
It splinters, weeping, grieves the loss
Brother, what can I do?

Sister, dear, look to the Bread
The cup divine, I am outpoured
Souls mingle in the Victim’s blood
Sister, shan’t we run this race?

Brother, I see now in the Head
His every member blessed and joined,
And so unbound by space or time
Brother, there we shall embrace.

Do not, I beg, force me to choose
Not when I have so much to lose
I will gladly simply obey
Tell me to leave, tell me to stay
But please do not make me decide
We’re way beyond mere paltry pride

I need you to give a command
I’ll comply with any demand
But do not so cruelly require
Of me that I somehow desire
This great, austere, forbidding cross
Do not ask me to want the loss

But oh! How far are we from love
How awful! Forgive me, my dove
Heed now, dear heart, my broken voice
Desire, it will follow the choice
Comfort cannot come before it
I choose the cross, beg, implore it

Towering, dancing in winds that cannot bow him,
Fierce and ***** in the face of the wild screaming gale,
A legion of fluttering leaves blown full, a thousand tiny sails,
The great tree stands unbowed, the true mast of the world.

Twigs snap and branches creak, the clamor of nature’s wars,
Roots roar under the strain, tearing earth to grip buried anchors,
But the trunk does not tremble, he dares the strong east wind,
Ancient arboreal pride silently scorning childish zephyrs.

A true Tree does not cower before the sky’s elemental armies,
His memory is too long, he calls the airy spirits each by name,
Spritely bravado cannot prevail over noble wooden belligerence,
High-born timber that was old before the gods of men were born.

O Fortitude! Strength of the wav’ring heart!
Steadfastness summoned when the blood runs cold!
When allies flee and none will take our part,
Where honor and friendship are cheaply sold,
Thine aid divine makes the trembling soul bold!
When terror would invade our feeble frame,
Thy subtle power puts the foe to shame!

O Fortitude! O encouraging voice!
When darkness attempts to blot out the sun,
And slav’ry’s law to deprive us of choice,
You brace the nerves of the poor frightened one,
Reminding that the vict’ry can be won:
If to perseverance we should hold fast,
We shall the adversaries all outlast!

O Fortitude! Come, and run in our veins,
Fire our tepidity and make us brave!
As long ages pass, ‘tis thee who remains,
Long suff’ring Patience, who never shall cave!
Come, Resolution, from all weakness save -
Where the frail man falls, and in despair lies,
You reach out your hand, and bid him to rise!

The noise-choked soul, in her dismay
May rest her head upon the hay
Sleep in peace in the poor manger
Beside the Babe, free from danger
Her heart beating beside His head
He’ll gladly share His lowly bed

The fretful soul may, like a dove,
Fly far away to join her love
On the mountain, there all alone
Flesh of His flesh, bone of His bone
Once joined to Him, she’ll never roam
And He will build for them a home

The burdened soul may in the road
Lie unmoving, a wooden load
And with love’s crucified embrace
He’ll run for her His ****** race
In His strong arms He will take her
Shoulder her cares, ne’er forsake her

Give me one word, two words
And we’ll give the thing a name
Learn how to point a finger
And we’ll find someone to blame

Give me one thought, two thoughts
And we’ll think the whole thing through
Craft a sentence punctuated
We’ll decide what will be true

Give me one minute, two minutes
No time that you will miss
We’ll make an art of waste, you’ll see
We’ll manufacture bliss

Or

Take one heart, your heart
And mine will make for two
Love will make them whole again
A sailboat we will crew

We’ll cut ties with the mainland
As one set out to sea
Knots undone, sails unfurled
The deep waters, you, and me

With hook and line we’ll win our meals
We’ll bake beneath the sun
And life, for all its labors hard
Will be already won

O Piety! O enlightenment true!
O humbler of the haughty heart! The head
Of prideful man bows low in awe when you
Address him to the Giver of the Bread
Which is called daily; true Reverence is shed
Like light upon the soul, and darkness flees
When poor man your humble majesty sees!

O Piety! You teach the timid to
Rise and cry “Father!” When rebels arise
With clamorous shouts to overthrow, you
Teach them to fall, not daring to raise eyes
To Heaven, and pay homage with great sighs
Of contrition to their Lord and King! It
Is by thine aid for prayer man is made fit!

O Piety! Come, devotion inspire,
Let fall down our faces sweet holy tears,
Fan into a furnace our inner fire!
Fill us with that love which casts out all fears,
Attune to the voice of the Lord our ears!
To us who ask for direction you say -
“Kneel, as though you knew to Whom you dare pray!”

The Earth has run another race round her star
The Two Thousand and Seventeenth year (give or take)
Since the Creator drew breath in history
And now the manuscript is bound, it is sealed
Soon to be sent to the Printer

The Editor-in-Chief does not delegate this task
He leafs through the pages Himself
Though newly-bound, they are not white and fine
There is no fresh crispness, the binding is broken
They are musty already with age, and not only age

It is as if they had been soaked in a tea of human filth
A quarter of it printed in red, blood is cheaper than ink
A quarter of it stained with jaundice, sweat is cheaper than ink
A quarter of it wrinkled illegible, tears are cheaper than ink
A quarter of it, alas! - dreams are cheaper than ink

The Editor reads on, impassive, unfazed
He has long been familiar with Adam’s work
This sequel follows well upon its parent
Consistent in a thousand fires and slaughters
Consistent in a thousand lies and eruptions

Every chapter is headed with a dedication:
“For Death, the only mother I’ve ever loved”
In the foreword the author declared himself immortal
In the afterword he declared mortality an illusion
But the body was an essay on how much he dreaded his demise

Adam sat, nervous, across from the Editor’s desk
He had worked so ******* this
And yet it seemed to write itself
This was his life’s work
Though he never seemed to call the shots

The year Opinion Popular declared secession from the union
And Reality Objective became a Prisoner of War
And we resold our birthright for whatever was on the menu
The old had questions that nobody questioned
And the young had answers that nobody answered

And the Editor looked at Adam with tears in His eyes
And Adam asked if his draft would be published
And the Editor said that there was no alternative
And Adam asked, “What next, then?”
And the Editor told Him, with a sad smile

He told Adam to start work without delay
To begin immediately the next sequel
Because he only had a year before the deadline
And no extensions whatsoever would be granted
And Adam got up to leave, to write -

“But before you go -

“Look here, look close, you may have to squint
But look what you’ve scribbled here, in the margins
Read the footnotes very carefully
And every word in parentheses
And all these that you’ve bracketed”

There is hope scribbled in the margins
And they loved in the footnotes
They were embracing inbetween parentheses
Some of those sobs were even tears of joy
And in the brackets, O, what he had bracketed!

He had bracketed all those who labored to rebuild
The bridge-builders, the peace-makers
The dream-builders, the light-seekers
The school-builders, the truth-teachers
The home-builders, the wound-healers

He had bracketed numberless beautiful births
He had bracketed charity of mother and father
He had bracketed heroic sacrifice, all selfless
Men and women who loved family and country and God
Far more than they loved themselves

“Let’s make this the focus of the next edition.”

I (vile syllable!) asked for this,
True. My goal was never bliss,
Though I would be hard pressed now
To determine exactly what or who
And by what means, how,
Exactly, I did in fact expect from you.

I asked for the sword, to bleed
When you became my only need;
Or did you? There’s the rub, ay.
You have put me to confusion,
Compounded by my propensity to lie
(Only ever to myself). O, Illusion!

Did I ever in fact enter the mystery
Or have I only recast history?
Have I been duped? If so,
It is surely you who have done
It. But, I have allowed you,
You’ve already, finally, won.

The pain of doubt doubles
And again, exacerbating troubles
In proportion to the gravity
Of the thing doubted;
Is there a secret depravity
That I, ignorant, have not outed?

You know, and I do not.
There is a heavy, smothering, hot
Cloud of thundering sadness
Here, in my secret heart.
As ever, to discover gladness
Is beyond the scope of my poor art.

But, to stop is death,
And so we march on, weeping,
Forward, with every haggard breath
Recalling at least that we’re alive

The fog may yet clear, dear heart

O Fear of the Lord! Wisdom’s beginning!
Humbler of the exalted! Exalter
Of the humbled! Thou, when none from sinning
Have refrained, cause Vanity to falter
In its stride, giving us David’s psalter
So that we might gain the ability
To tread well the path of humility!

O Fear of the Lord! Creation’s reverence
For her Creator! You make the poor one’s
Trembling dread a bridge to span the severance
Which disobedience made between sons
And their Father; He who all evil shuns
And yet with haste will pardon the contrite
Heart, for His mercy is His truest might!

O Fear of the Lord! Give us instruction!
By thy teaching all presumption destroy,
Lest our conceit become an obstruction -
Let not our hubris the Most High annoy!
Teach us how best this wisdom to employ:
“Know, O man, that thou wert formed from the dust;
And at thy end, return to it you must!”

Elijah was going to meet God
He grabbed his wallet
Zipped up his hoodie
Set his phone to “vibrate”
Stepped outside and hailed a cab.

When he got to the theatre
He made sure it was the surround sound
3D picture with the reclining seats
Extra butter on the popcorn
But God wasn’t at the movies.

So he plugged in his headphones
And he cranked his Spotify playlist
And he laughed at his favorite Youtube videos
And he texted the smartest people he knew
But there wasn’t an app for this.

So he ganged up with his friends
And tramped from bar to bar to club
And he danced and drank and ate chicken wings
And the bass nearly shattered his ear drums
But God wasn’t at the party.

Then Elijah found himself alone
And there was a sheer silence
A screaming silence
A whispering silence
The neon faded and the noise died

He hid his face
When there whispered
A still, small voice
The question of God,
“What are you doing here, Elijah?”

Springing, a wooden fountain clawing up and seizing handfuls of sky,
From a seed, once pierced, flooding bark and vein and leaf,
A flash-frozen image witnessing centuries of inching growth,
Earth’s womb births a living monument to the beauty of tireless patience.

His grip streams also downwards, cascading away from the light,
Roots surge, a backwards tree, a forest to gravity submissive,
Sundering stone and breaking bedrock, juggernaut tendrils,
Disdaining gold and diamond to drink deep decomposed dirt.

Come summertide, branches bow and bend, saluting the forest floor,
Spring flowers fall and seed-fruits swell, the weight of promised life,
Fecundity unrivalled, to feed man and bird and wasp and deer,
And to charge the earth with secret plans of sprouts for future days.

Hail, King Arbor, vice-regent of the paradisal garden!
Springing, a wooden fountain clawing up and seizing handfuls of sky,
Towering, dancing in winds that cannot bow him,
With every breeze rattling branches scratch out a shout.

Padded with armor layered in sheaves and shingles,
Constant cloak accented of moss and vine and bubbles of fungus,
Weathered of snows and rains and smokes and fires,
Fitted snug o’er the ageless trunk, ever-young beneath time’s rings.

Steward of life, he cradles birdlings in nested branches,
In chewed divots and caves hiding the squirrel and his kin,
His skin alive with deep burrowing beetles and grubs and thousands of worms,
Beneath his leafy mantle are sheltered the fox and the deer.

While branches sway and leaves fly in stormy havoc,
And beasts and creeping things are shaken and tossed,
His stoic roots, unimpressed, anchor the forest to the world,
Laboring buried and ever unmoved, in dark earthen dignity.

Here he stands, shoulder to shoulder with his brethren,
A sylvan army assembled to keep watch as the centuries drift by,
Council of elders evergreen presiding over the passage of epochs,
Terra’s first tribe bonded inseparable under countless dusks and dawns.

And there he stands, all solitary, vertical spire against a flat horizon,
No less regal for the absence of peers, but still defiant and noble,
Standing in judgement uncontested over an undiscerning globe,
Convicting all, dismissing them as airy flights ephemeral.

The monk sat in his temple
Swathed in his saffron robe
While incense wafted through the air
Somewhere a gong could be heard, in the distance
Pristine, austere, noble
With all the trappings of wisdom
With the aura of enlightenment
With the odor of sanctity
With the nobility of humility
And the pilgrim asked him, are you poor?
“No,” said the monk
“For I desire nothing,
Cling to nothing
Long for nothing,
And so I am free,
Even rich
As though I possessed
The whole world.”

Francis sat in the dust
Covered in a beggar’s rags
While the scent of sewage lingered near
The coughing of the poor was heard, all round
*****, abject, neglected
With all the trappings of homelessness
With the aura of his friends, the sick
With the odor of his brothers, the abandoned
Having forsaken nobility for humility
And the pilgrim asked him, are you poor?
“No,” smiled Francis
“For I have found Him whom I desire,
I have cleaved fast to Him,
I am filled by Him,
And so I am free,
Even rich
For I do not need the world
When I embrace its Master.”

Fitted snug o’er the ageless trunk, ever-young beneath time’s rings,
Pitted bark a woody blanket, wrapt round the stalk of sylvan slumber,
Guarding ‘gainst the bitter cold following the dusk towards autumn’s end,
While, head rested upon moonlight’s tender pillow, the tree begins to dream.

Nightmares of axes and termites and rot,
Memories of thirst-slaking rains, rich earth, and warm sunbeams,
Fantasies of laughing fruit and dancing roots and singing soil,
As only a tree could ever dream.

Nostalgia for the shadows of elder trees once gone before,
Visions of aurorae, sun showers, and shooting stars,
Hope of lasting harmony, unassailable arboreal peace,
As only a tree could ever dream.

With every breeze rattling branches scratch out a shout,
Gusts of cloud’s breath arouse the lumbering orchestra,
Wind is the baton in the invisible conductor’s hand,
Choirs of leaves rub out hymns composed of rustling joy.

T’was the woodlands softly chanted the new-born earth’s first song,
The sighs of sylvan movement hum and thrum, scrape and scruff,
Harmonizing with the gargling river’s current chorus,
Nature’s opera, now whispering, now roaring, ever most alive.

Wind whistling through mountain passes, another fair refrain,
While songbirds supplement with their master melodies,
A lullaby to rock sleepless, anxious men to reverent rest,
To teach consistent music opposite their chaotic, chronic noise.

Padded with armor layered in sheaves and shingles,
Birds and squirrels from their nests taking turns at the watch,
The forest is a war camp, trunks trained and battle-ready,
Each tree a man-of-war prepared to stand the test of time.

Havoc! Storm-born gods smite the wood from behind the rainclouds’ clamor,
Rivers of lightning indiscriminate scourge the arboreal assembly,
Ravaging the haughty hawthorn and the arrogant alder,
The angry glow of fires countless rages on and on.

Yet when calm again prevails, amidst the muddy charcoal stumps,
Before the smoke is finished seething, fire-**** irascible shoots forth,
For the forest knows no maps, has no borders to be redrawn,
Ever rebuilding, ever unyielding, bastions of bark that shan’t admit defeat.

Man is a drowning fish, he cries
Because he lacks the strength to fight
The waves of noise and his own lies
While he knows that in truth’s stark light

His weakened lungs would fail to fill
Lacking now all natural strength
Having sacrificed his poor will
To demons whom he knows, at length

Were promising him naught but dust
Yet nonetheless he made the deal
And trembles now, for so he must,
Smitten by wounds he cannot heal

Flying not to his secret soul
For that sanctuary has been
Defiled, it is no longer whole
The enemy has been let in

And one fears to wade past that stream
Of mere half-conscious surface thought
Pretending rather life’s a dream
Instead of the nightmare we ought

To face, for in the mind’s deep heart
Conscience promises solitude
Inescapable, and to start
Is to be finished. Attitude

Cannot avail us here, pretence
Is futile; only a real flight
Into the desert, sans defence,
Resolve to stand and die, to fight.

Constant cloak accented of moss and vine and bubbles of fungus,
Adorned lavishly with baubles of shining dew and pearly snails,
Bronze berries refracting rosy light from a warm, pink sky,
Surely woodland pageantry is best observed at Dawn.

Or helmeted with blankets of snow, bristling with spears of ice,
Perhaps the queenly winter tree is the paragon of comeliness;
Or that softly dripping fountain, shortly after summer rain,
Is there a fairer fragrance than the perfume of pine and petrichor?

Oh! Can men with minds of concrete, spirits of styrofoam and steel,
Remain long disenchanted, cold, in spite of savage sylvan beauty?
Cannot the blooming orchard, decked with petals and busy with bees,
Suffice to empty the heart of gravel and flood the soul with verse?

To begin with, I don’t know
Why this hasn’t been done before;
Perhaps this topic is just so
Difficult to master that your
Previous teachers lacked the focus
To properly present the matter to us.

In any case, I can’t be blamed
If you fail to understand;
I, for one, will not be shamed
If you find my words too bland;
For a lack of glitter, truth be told,
Is not in my case a lack of gold.

Now if it seems I’ve left loose ends
You can’t figure my conclusion
I think that we can still be friends;
You’ll learn to love my smart illusion -
You only came for words, words, words,
And hard work, baby, is for the birds.

Lady Hill wears a dress woven of lichen and grasses
Waving glad with limbs of wind-blown trees to each who passes,
Grandfather Valley returns your greeting with echoed call
While with ancient sloping arms he reaches, embracing all,
Your brother, the rolling Plain, his hair wet with morning dew
Reclines amidst the rabbit-holes, promising something new,
Friend River surges laughing at tadpoles, their comic style
One of countless wild jokes which live, breathe, and dance without guile,
Tribes of toads together take up the chant they all know well
While fam’lies of crickets sing of secrets they have to tell,
And Old Mountain’s granite grimace becomes a sort of smile
As the clouds that crown him blush, bright King Sol setting meanwhile,
When all these wonders you are promised, and even more shown,
How canst thou, O weary traveler, ever feel alone?

Men lift their heads in wonder, shivering
Travelers halt, in fearful awe they stand
Crowds of nations in cities, quivering
As thunderous rhythm shakes every land
The Mountains are singing, they croon, they chant
Arousing poor surprised man’s mortal fears

Avalanche shrug of titanic shoulders
Dismisses the lethargy of ages
The throaty joy of caroling boulders
Carves new lyrics in history’s pages
The Mountains are singing, Earth is enthralled
Climbers, Skiers, and Poets lend their ears

Brave Matterhorn’s signal awakes them all
Kilimanjaro with full voice bellows
Everest, Chimborazo heed the call
Quandary Peak, bright-eyed, joins his fellows
The Mountains are singing, in grand chorus,
Majestic lyrics of tectonic tears

The cliff face shudders, leaping ecstatic
Landslides mark the beginning of the dance
Earthquakes become great frolics dramatic
Amid the refrains of stony romance
The Mountains are singing, a newborn song
To echo unto the end of all years

A rocky deluge of glorious verse
The Alpine cantata rumbles splendid
A true Canticle of the Universe
Whose beauty radiant shan’t be ended
The Mountains are singing, O, what a song!
Rejoicing each thunderstruck heart which hears!

Weathered of snows and rains and smokes and fires,
Veteran of storms and gales and floods and squalls,
Seasoned of winters and summers and frosts and thaws,
The tired tree, unflagging, rests not.

Stripped of twigs, bark, and even limbs to dry for fueling men’s fires,
Leaves inhaled by ants and the young of every moth and butterfly,
Sweet sap, sylvan life’s blood, drained to gild the breakfast plate,
The giving tree, robbed, remains no less generous.

Gnawed alive by armies of tunneling insects in their divisions,
Bark scored and gouged with signs and graffiti and lover’s initials,
The heart of the forest smiles, the woodland holds no grudges,
The dying tree, patient and immortal, grows on.

An Abraham, who, looking far
Above upon a distant star
Remembers his promised reward
And knows his sighs are not ignored

An Israel, with head held high
Limping upon a wounded thigh
Remembers through both thick and thin
The wrestling match God let him win

A Prophet, burning with the word
Which on Emmaus road he heard
Remembers standing, listening, still
Aware of an Absolute will

An Alter Christus, anointed
Faithful to his task appointed
Remembers with generous heart
The One who loved him from the start

And children of this Father dear
Whether they are yet far or near
Remember him, and grateful, pray:
Ad Multos Annos, every day

Absalom usurped the throne
Ungrateful for his flesh and bone
His heart as cold and hard as stone
Declared his father’s house his own

Absalom, who in his greed
The fourth commandment did not heed
Rode his horse at breakneck speed
Anxious to see his father bleed

Absalom, who would not see
The just way for a son to be
From all good sense with haste did flee
And ran his horse right through a tree

Absalom is way up there
His feet are dangling in the air
Caught up in branches by his hair
Round the tree men stop and stare

Trapped Absalom, the young upstart
Had no one there to take his part
Joab armed with deadly dart
****** it through the young man’s heart

Joab thought the victory won
The messenger did gladly run
The King’s question was only one:
What of Absalom, my son?

The messenger confirmed his fears
And David weeping manly tears
Mourned his son’s lost unborn years
To cut the heart of each who hears

O Patricius Magnus! Patrick, bold apostle
Who ran courageous back towards slavery’s chains
Unwilling to disappoint your Master, rather
Seeking, striving, with great sorrows and countless pains
To see a new song sung unto Him in a strange
Land, to offer Him a sacrifice pure, a gift
New and unblemished. You won the victory and
Did the bless’d Cross in the Emerald Isle uplift!

Behold, O Christ, timpan and feadan together
Raise a hymn of joy to Thee; see, bagpipe and horn
Sound Thy glory echoing through valleys and fields
Where once druidic festival laughed and poured scorn
Upon the Gospel! Behold! A people once wrapped
In pagan ways now wrapt in monk’s habit with chant
Gregorian offer praise to Thy name, and tribes
Once lost shall ne’er the apostolic creed recant!

See Thy brave Apostle, clover-armed, advances
Fruitful at the head of a mighty, saintly throng,
Together with fair Brigid, Thy bride, and countless
Woolen-mantled saints who to Thee alone belong!
Receive, O Christ, from Patrick Thy ****** Ireland
While her children dance for Thee a jig, and they sing
Psalms of faeries and hedgehogs and badgers to make
The Kingdom of Heaven with Irish magic ring!

It is time, from hearth and home to depart,
For you to fill your pack, shoulder your load,
To walk alone now that gray wintry road;
Where you will wander I can have no part,
Before you leave you shall cut from my heart
The brotherhood which we together sowed
Gath’ring from ours what you feel you are owed
Making of our end your own fresher start.
I cannot fault you for this your hard choice,
No more than I can follow where you go,
But if I may here one thing only stress
From halls now absent your echoing voice
Let it be this: always trust, ever know
That daily I’ll pray the Lord you to bless.

In memory’s unobserved corner there hides a small boy
So tired of sorrow he no longer cared even for joy.
With a wounded child’s wisdom he thought it to be prudent
To take Mister Spock and make himself the Vulcan’s student
Not because Spock was very stylish or outwardly cool
(Though he was cool); but rather, tired of feeling like a fool
He set out to tread this path, the unsmiling Vulcan way
He sought to do what Spock would do, to say what Spock would say.
He made his mask the untrembling visage, sans all motion,
Took for his own that grave face ungoverned by emotion,
Because even if it felt like interiorly dying
This inhuman discipline must beat unmanly crying
For a Vulcan’s arched eyebrows and a Vulcan’s pointed ears
Were worth the trade considering the dearth of Vulcan tears.

There! In the hill country! Can you not see?
Behold the swaddled babe, God in the flesh!
Compose new hymns and new psalms! It is He!
Write an icon! Paint the scene! Build a creche!

Carve a statue of the mystery great,
Chant aloud the heav’nly consummation
Spill oceans of ink in tomes to debate
The metaphysics of incarnation!

Record it, however you are inclined!
For He has spoken, the Lord above you,
He shan’t take it back, He’s spoken his mind,
Through the infant He declares: “I love you!”

The good God who made all things that are visible
Being good, formed not only mere rock, tree, and bird
But placed in their midst the man, who is risible
So that he may delight even in the absurd

For man, wand’ring the antediluvian wood
Buried in the swaddling shade of the ancient trees
Consumed with wondrous awe, all reverential should
Doubtless alone fall idolatrous on his knees

But lo, beautiful mirth, a sweeter, gentler law,
Makes him rather roar, as into laughter he’ll burst
Humor inescapable once kneeling he saw
That the bashful old forest did laugh at him first

He only gave one new order
Only once did he say,
“A new commandment I give you,”
Kneeling on the floor
Washing his friend’s feet
Betrayed by a brother
Abandoned by the rest
Bound in chains
Enduring false accusations
Forbearing mockery and laughter
Flayed alive by terrible scourging
Crowned with thorns
Mocked further, reviled
Judged and condemned
Crushed and burdened
Marched up the hill
Dragged up the hill
Nailed to the tree
Hanging, suffocating
Forgiving
Dying
Praying
Dead
Heart pierced
Still giving
“Love one another,
As I have loved you.”

That’s all

Generations from now, your mark made upon God’s green earth,
After dozens of celebrations of your day of birth,
On that day when you, old now, exhale your last whispered breath,
And the bed on which you recline becomes your bed of death,
When your poor wingless soul is snatched up in your angel’s flight,
And naught but our Lady’s mantle guards you ‘gainst the cold night,
When you find yourself stripped before the Just Judge and His throne,
And now without defense are made all your past sins to own,
When the book of your life is read, when there rings in your ears
Your virtues and your vices, strengths and stumbles, all your years,
When there’s room no longer for excuses, appeals, or sighs,
When through your tears you are forced to meet His great fire-lit eyes,
You need not wonder how He’ll greet you; I know it, I think:
“Thanks daughter, for I was thirsty, and you gave Me to drink.”

I heard that Russian tongue but once
Slavonic syllables spilling with facility
From the lips of a venerable old man
An aged Croat friar reciting poetry

His eyes shone with that joy authentic
Which is the sweet fruit of deep, long, suffering
A happy man who remembers pain
A brave man who has not forgotten fear

With sly wink and a mischievous grin
He reminded his shocked parishioners
That his schooling was not Croatian
That his youth was Yugoslav

Naturally, we asked about that red time
When red meant a new order
When red meant fire burning churches
When red meant martyr’s witness

But he only ever said one thing:

“They killed thousands of priests,”
Was how he summed up the wrong,
And with a grim grin he added simply
“But… we were strong.”

O Knowledge! Thou, in vestments plain and white
Art deceptively appareled, for deep
Runs the well of thy treasures; human sight
Cannot fathom the depth of such wealth. Leap
Into her pasture, poor searcher! Her sheep
Are ne’er shepherded awry; you will find
Her embrace the true fortune of the mind.

O Knowledge! Vision to a brain born blind!
O Sweet sight intellectual! I’ll praise
Thee, who alone art so gracious, so kind
As to seek out poverty so to raise
Up the poor captive from the witless maze
With gifts abounding, though unseen. I’ll sing
Thee, who in false silence makes truth to ring!

O Knowledge! Do thou my petition grant,
And come, my pauperdom to richly bless,
Break up the noisesome dark with thy fair chant!
O consoling balm to ignorant stress,
Thy seal upon our anxious minds impress;
For when the glass of our wits seems filled up,
Thy divine outpouring deepens the cup.

[Disciple]
O Father, how fortunate you were!
The desert’s silent ***** was your mother
You were reborn pure from the cave’s barren womb
Solitary, the Spirit alone was your Master

[Anthony]
No, my son, you are the blessed one
You need not seek shelter amidst the shifting dunes
Nor pursue proverbs in the echoing cave
For you hold the key to your earthly prison

Your demons have an “off” switch

[Disciple]
The pagans you fled sinned more nobly than I
For their gods of copper, gold, and stone
Were as grave as graven, stern and austere
They took first fruits and wine libations

My household gods of wire and screen
Are profligate faeries, far from divine
They glut themselves on only one sacrifice
No fruit nor flesh, but precious time

My enemies do not bind me with iron
My hands and feet are all too free
But my heart is void of empty space
Neurons and blood by media shackled

At a touch I can summon angels of lust
Phantom ****** to make Bacchus blush
Daring Venus turns away, ashamed
At our new religion of utter abandon

I am a pauper, suffocated by luxury
Industry poisoned by comfort’s surfeit
I carry idols in my pocket
And the neon glow never fades

Father, save me

[Anthony]
My son, you ask a hard thing,
But you will have it.

So long have you laughed in atmosphere absurd
That your lungs are too weak to breathe fresh air
So long have you danced with abandon in flight
That your feet are too soft to tread the coarse earth

But pretend at angelic fancy no more
Cut off your wings, and plummet
Plummet, with ultimate abandon
And break against the bedrock of reality

Crawl, crawl, ***** in the darkness
Drag yourself until your soul learns strength
Walk, walk, the narrower path
Climb, climb, the perilous ladder

The water from these streams is true
It will seem icy, hard, rude to your throat
But drink, drink, until you’ve learned wisdom
Till your poisoned palate learns again to taste

Courage, my son

The real world, the right way, the good life,
It will not grow softer
But you will grow stronger, alive
Till your heart learns to sing again

Courage, my son

He’s just finished. He’s had it. And that’s it. What does he want?
Something else, maybe.
What is the problem, exactly? He knows. He’s tired.
He can’t bear it anymore, and supposedly that’s good?
That’s a good thing? It’s unbearable. That’s it. We’re done. He’s done.

He’s out, finished, won’t be having any more.
Will my father hear me? I don’t care if he listens.
But, will he say something; will he look me in the eye
And meet my gaze and hold it, will a tear stand in that eye
(It doesn’t have to fall, in fact I’d rather it didn’t),
Will I know that He cares and is just as helpless as I am?

That’s it. I don’t even need to be saved, not from this: how can I?
The removal of any one thing
Or even all the barbs and thorns would not restore peace.
But a communion of helpless suffering? That would make it bearable.
Share this with me, and let me see it. I have to see it.

I can’t imagine it, it has to be real,
And I have to see it with my eyes, and that’s it.
Perhaps the tear could even fall. Weep with me, weep silently.
No, raise your voice, wail aloud with me.
Lament, and let me know for one blessed moment
That I don’t have to be so alone. It’s crushing, it’s truly suffocating.
Please; I beg, on my knees, prostrate; I beg.

Oh, corpse! Yet not a corpse at all
Though from the bleak tree you did fall
And though no breath now swells your lungs
Your voice, once praised by mortal tongues
No longer sounding in our ears
Bloodless lips kissed by women’s tears
All blood exhausted from gashes
From blows and nails and vile lashes

But what a secret lies here; hark!
This bruisèd frame the promised ark
A chamber where all souls are hid
Hell trembles at his love-mad bid
For while grave death his chamber keeps
His flesh unsouled, he merely sleeps
Mark, dear heart, where the Master lies
This wounded flesh, it aches to rise

Hail to thee, Poets!
For you, like every man, woman, and child who
Has ever smiled or frowned truly from the heart
Have recognized the melody of the familiar song
Which plays in the depths of the mind,
Bringing sweet harmony to human thoughts.

Hail to thee, Poets!
For you have not recognized the song in vain
But, the verse having danced onto the conscious stage,
You met her and matched her step for step,
You drew her close and embraced her
You held her hand and allowed her to kiss you.

Hail to thee, Poets!
For though the song could not be pronounced by human lips
And the love could not be captured in our poor language
You danced the steps because the song was worthy
And with ink you conjured shadows and signs
Which point past the veil to the beauty you have tasted.

Hail to thee, Poets!
For you have exalted the poverty of men’s words,
Elevating them with sweeping style
Giving them new and brighter and deeper hues
Making them swirl and leap and caper gaily
With skillful rhyme and rhythm and tone.

Hail to thee, Poets!
For when structure ceased to liberate
And metre began to confine
And your newlywed wordplay could speak for itself
You cast off fetters and let fly the pen
And your verse became a waterfall of rushing lyrics free.

Hail to thee, Poets!
For you listened intently to the chanting of nature
And contemplated reverently the stone and cloud alike,
With awe you made both fern and frog your brother
And meditated childlike upon the horizon’s lap:
With these songs you painted for us Creation herself.

Hail to thee, Poets!
For you have apprehended a parabolic knowledge,
And grasped a new understanding in allegoric light,
You have made yourselves the masters of the wisdom of riddles,
And laboriously studied a secret language spoken in words divine,
An enigmatic tongue in which no man is fully fluent.

Hail to thee, Poets!
For when you had exhausted all that is outside,
You turned inwards, examining your secret soul,
You sung to us hopes and fantasies and mind’s murmurs,
Giving personality to thoughts once hidden,
You introduced us to the muses who dwell within your heart.

Hail to thee, Poets!
For you did not blush to share your sufferings
But bared to God’s light your inmost wounds,
Wrenching the darkness from your core,
And with the cord yet uncut (for we haven’t yet discovered how to sever it)
You wrote with the viscous ink of man’s sins and pains.

Hail to thee, Poets!
And above all, for this:
You gave us love, charity, amity- O Love!
Love, over all and pervading everything;
Love, misunderstood and no less exhilarating,
Love, good measure, pressed down, and flowing over!

Hail to thee, Poets,
And give me your blessing!
I am not counted amongst your number
But I am your student, your brother, your lover,
Let me sit at your knees and drink of your water,
You honor me with your friendship, I repay it gladly in full.

The president of the assembly stood,
Ready to give his speech. He checked a thrill
Which nearly overcame him, for he would
Now accomplish something new; there was still
One frontier, only one, on which man’s will
Had not yet been imposed - destiny had
Chosen him; to shy away would be mad.

“Esteemed peers,” he cooed, “You are now aware,
Surely, of our scientists’ wild surprise,
A shock in which all of us have a share:
Life! In outer space! Right before our eyes!
I shall not waste your time with pretty lies -
The hard truth is, our position is grave:
We’ve our dear Earth and our people to save.”

A worried murmur, according to plan,
Broke out then - a signal of confusion
Which in the right hands (his hands, of course) can
Give credibility to delusion
And bring to life a fearsome illusion,
A terror of no small utility,
All resistance rendered futility.

“My dear patriots of Earth, understand,
I beg you, I come not to cry alarm,
No, but rather merely common sense and
That kind of vigilance which steels the arm
So as to guard our hearth and home ‘gainst harm
And war and slavery and needless pain
And the vile rule of the alien brain.

“Nay! Say I, never! We shall not consign
Our children to languish under hands, claws,
Or hooves of oppressors; they shall not pine
Away, waste away, labor to feed maws
Of monstrous fiends which heed not human laws.
No tentacled tyranny shall hold sway
While one man yet breathes to stand in the way

“Of whatever horrific despot waits,
Biding its time till the moment to spring
Upon us unprepared. Lo! At the gates
A bleak myriad of foes come to sing
Our doom! When sweet freedom ceases to ring
In mankind’s valleys and plains, it will be
A dark day, our darkest; I would not see

“It, personally, given the choice. No,
I for one will not submit to the yoke
Extraterrestrial when there is so
Much yet to be done to save us. No cloak
Lies o’er my words; I speak plainly: I spoke
With clarity of the awful menace
Threat’ning Cairo, Tokyo, Baghdad, Venice,

“Riga, Beijing, New York, Seoul, all the same;
I’ll speak with equal clarity on hope -
The space-bound devil has not won the game,
Not yet; our hands aren’t bound by Martian rope,
Not yet; we’re not yet forced to merely cope;
For if we’re brave, they’ll find, meeting our ire,
That man’s first and last invention was fire.”

Now the delegate of the Holy See,
His eyes wide, his face flushed, raised his hand, rose,
And offered: “Esteemed peers, it seems to me
That we move too fast to so quickly close
The case on this matter as though the woes
Suggested by our president were now
Presently among us! I don’t see how

“We are prevented from supposing that
Our strange new neighbors are lovers of peace;
How are we obliged to dream he grows fat
On the bones of the innocent? Increase
Your lens, widen your minds; war without cease
Is inevitable only if he,
The alien, quite un-alien, be

“So near to us as to think only from
Within the confines of man’s warlike heart,
Marching to the dread beat of our own drum.
Be wise, be men, play the peacemaker’s part.”
The assembly roared him down. They would cart
Him out, they’d have none of it; this was no
Place for men of God; the rule Divine so

Providentially governing the Earth
And Heaven above had only control
Over mankind and the place of our birth;
Space, foreign stars, the void, seemed then to pull
Down all blessèd sovereignty and give full
Force of reality to fearsome Hell,
The tyranny articulated well

By the president suddenly made real
And final in all of those assembled:
A black kingdom of fear which they could feel,
A blind hatred of all that resembled
Not men of Earth; the hall shook and trembled
As with one voice the assembly took up
The chant: “Burn them! Burn them all! Burn them up!”

As they chanted, far away, on pink sands,
Dancing in the light of a silver moon,
Cheers and clapping of ethereal hands
Of a people who, not realizing soon
That they, folk who laugh, weep, learn, sing, call, swoon,
And wax poetic no less than clay men,
Would be born and die no more, marked that then

Festival was begun, a feast of light
Inaugurated here to celebrate
A sacred dawn for a people who might
Have been able to, were it not too late,
Compose a psalm to overthrow hate,
Intoning a verse to dash chains that bind,
And drawing to unity those who’d find

Solidarity, fraternity, all
Those things which make harmony and life sweet;
But alas! For these poor ones who would call
All creatures brethren, they with dancing feet
Would an extinction all untimely meet,
Pondering aloud, all childlike, “Surely
This fiery dawn is breaking too early?”

Here we go, it’s Final Jeopardy, this one’s for the win:
“Doing the same thing over and over and expecting
Different results.” And oh, this is it! The answers are in!
“Insanity,” quoth Einstein, which he ought to, respecting
The fact that he is, of course, a genius. But I, poor me,
I answered: “What is practice?," happy with the crowd of fools
To be numbered; and I won, morally speaking, you see,
Because insane though I may be, I remembered the rules.

He may be too smart to repeat any troublesome task,
But like a good, simple fool, I had a question to ask.

Hail, King Arbor, vice-regent of the paradisal garden!
Adam’s mentor, teaching man the mysteries of seeds and fruit,
Guardian watchman, standing sentinel over both Cain and Abel,
With offended roots drinking the blood of sins original.

Assemble now your princes, the Date Palm and Fig!
Noble Pomegranate lifts his head at your summons!
At your right, your queen, Tree of Life, heavy with fairest fruit,
Your son, Tree of Knowledge, flourishes at your knee!

Men once exiled, you reign alone steward of Eden,
Antediluvian memory recalling the primordial peace,
Reminiscing over God’s evening strolls in your leafy shade,
The soil has been tainted, but your sun shines ever pure unchanged.

Wake not, dear pilgrim, this sleeper
His time is not yet come
He’s not been caught by the reaper
The reaper’s caught by him
He’ll prove that his love runs deeper
Than all of Hell’s despair
All of mankind’s sins are cheaper
Than his crucified gift
The peak of his heart is steeper
Than death’s ravenous throat
He will be his brother’s keeper
And has adopted us

Regret demands that broken be the chains-
A sudden reversal, with eyes fast shut,
Blindly blotting out till nothing remains
All that belongs to the deep, painful cut-
Thus demands guilt, shame, remorse, and fear, but
Healing declares that this shan’t be striven
For: nay, naught forgotten, but forgiven.

Where were we when they killed Him? Where did we
Find ourselves in that sixth hour, when there fell
That sepulchral darkness, and none could see
Ought but tree and nails? We know well

Where Caiaphas stood. He rose to gloat and
Jeered at Him who dared to suggest He would
Raise the Temple of God by His own hand;
“Let Him come down, save Himself, if He could!”

Judas was in a different tree - he prayed
Not, believed not, hoped not; but hoarsely sang
A curse against himself who had betrayed
His Teacher, and resigned himself to hang.

Peter, Rock, the chief, nowhere to be found;
For he in fear ran to a lonely place
And stretched himself out upon the cold ground
While burning tears of shame streamed down his face.

Poor Dismas, hanging, recognized his sin.
The bleeding thief sought pardon from his Lord;
He begged, seeing the peril he was in,
He touched the King’s heart before the cruel sword.

John, the Magdalen, and the Mother too,
Kept vigil on ****** sand ‘neath the Cross;
That Mother’s heart which alone truly knew
The height and depth of the world’s present loss.

But where was I? What was my part, you ask?
I’ll confess it, though I cry and stammer
With cowardice: when I finished my task,
I stood, mouth agape, and dropped my hammer.

I cannot answer the man who despises the dust he is made of.
And you, O skeptic, who profess to know nothing - how shall I argue?
If you would learn a room by shutting your eyes
And discovering by touch what e’er you can find
I shall not prohibit thee.

“But it is rather that
I know nothing with certainty,” say you.
Very well.
I shall go and find someone who does.

“You are naive,” say you.
Oh?
“It is arrogance,” say you,
“To suppose you have discovered the well of truth.”
Ah.

Well, enjoy wandering your trackless wastes
And I, I shall drink from this well,
This sweet Oasis.
You say it is not Truth,
But if that is true,
I cannot understand why I am free,
Dear heart.

Dear heart,
I will still be here when you thirst;
The well will not run dry.
Come then, and be satisfied.

O Understanding! What Wisdom unveils
And Knowledge sees, you delicately grasp,
Untying knots and unfurling the sails
Of comprehension! Lock’d chains you unclasp
All gently, treading underfoot the asp
Of bitterness and division. O Thou,
Before whom petty conflicts scrape and bow!

O Understanding! Thou fair surmounter
Of all obstacles! No adversary
May with stumbling folly hope to counter
Thee or thy designs! Earthen and airy
Obstructions alike tremble, the very
Thought of thee putting to flight problems of
Heart, mind, soul, from below and from above!

O Understanding! Come unto me, poor
One that I am, come, grant that I may see
And drain the headache’s source! Show the way, or
Speak the password, or bestow the bright key
Which unlocks the nightmare’s gate - I beg thee
(Knowing, O spirit, that you hear my call),
For with thine aid I can scale any wall!

O Wisdom! What are you? And how can I
Name you? Even the philosopher, who
Calls himself your lover, and who would sigh
To possess you, can he weave a wreath to
Crown you worthily? Will anything do
To offer fitting homage? My poor song
Shall, truly - if you should help it along.

O Wisdom! I shall praise you! You, like light
Which scythes through crowding darkness, are a blade
Which sunders the veil, driving into sight
What ignorance hides; and, having been made
Manifest, your glory shall never fade.
You slip past the warden’s dark, foolish walls
And cause dawn to break in black prison halls.

O Wisdom! Hear me, as I thee invoke,
With haste fly to me from thy golden throne,
For I would take upon myself thy yoke,
I would thy precepts, all sweet, gladly own,
For without thee I should be quite alone,
E’en with friends abounding (and golden must
Her throne be, I know, for gold does not rust).