Nightmare

When seasons did not change

and Spring was dead,

she could not hear the birds sing.

Every day was night,

and the clocks stopped.

Iced up in silence it was,

the ringing in her ears

deafening.

Taut,

tensed,

frozen,
waiting,
she turned 'round
to see herself,

but Memory had slipped

behind

the mirror.

Unclassified

Parceled out,

separate slots,

varied,

discrete,

side-by-side,

intersections,

crossroads,

uphill,

downhill,

circles,

colorful,

muted,

flashy,

sedate.

The Angels Are Laughing

Enjoying both a migraine and a missing space bar this morning, I am consigned to brevity, pencil eraser repeatedly pushing down a tiny white plastic piece encased in an equally tiny plastic square . . . the looking down then up bringing on a kind of seasickness.

Perhaps a droll sight for the angels, as they shake their heads and wonder, "Why does she write when she feels that way?"

Even "she" doesn't know, as she continues on her dizzying, inexplicable journey.

Come to think of it, it's a relief not to have to know everything, to now and then throw up one's hands, enjoy a huge belly laugh, and exclaim to the skies:

"I have absolutely no idea!"

As Nothing

Sincere words offered to a chilled heart

Received as a cheap auction bid.

Message shattered like glass against a wall,

shards of well-meaning humanity

so much debris on the ground

to be stepped over.

Lucid

Weighty words spoken
(ache physical in my heart) . . .
How familiar their sense
I could not express.

I took my full heart
outside
late that night.

The skies were Lenten,

clean black awash with moon,
breath of Spring whispered low,
light and grey shadows
hinting "hope."

Childhood watchful,

alert to this new peace,
left Memory to join me,
trusting.

Suffering Japan

May God help the Japanese people.

Our Lady of Akita, pray for us.

http://www.ewtn.com/library/mary/akita.htm
(Copy and paste into new URL line)

Our Lady of Fatima, pray for us.

http://www.fatima.org/crusader/truestory/truestorytoc.asp
(Copy and past into new URL line)

Mother and Father

Questions loom so large,

the chasm is gaping . . .

but I don't fall in.

God is the 

Safety Net

surrounding me, 

no matter which way I tilt;

while Blessed Mother

serenely takes up

the dangling threads and ragged ends,

weaving my tattered world

back into 

order.

Soul, Transported

Armenia 
of Ararat

Martyred red
Steeped in hymn

You call my name

and I don't know why

Your language soothes

my ears

Your music arrests

my heart

Your priests cry out

through the winds

from the fields

to the mountains

upon which

in my soul

I pray.

~ Obstacles cleared, healing won't brook waiting.  Nature billows forth, and the truth has rights of its own. ~

Contradiction

In the body, healing doesn't dally.

Platelets rush in to stem bleeding and assist collagen renewal.

In the spirit, healing often sits

in intermittent repression

awaiting a plush chair

and an assigned time slot per week into which

a paid stranger inserts "growth."

No freely compassionate shoulder is this,

but a hired one;

the ruling manual,

Godless.

How strange that

even the most devout Christians

will refer wounded souls

down this thorn-strewn path.

This, when we have

The Divine Physician

and His Sacred Heart --

an implicit potential for understanding

easily eclipsing the narrow tunnels

of atheism.

We do not 

realize

what we have.

Von Hildebrand, however,

knew.

Roses from Egypt

Deep green carpet, 

soothing, serene;

lush forest for a baby.

Legs of gleaming gold,
Tabletop chamfered glass;
Chairs upholstered leafy green,
Wooden arms, chocolate brown . . . . .

 

Hues of earth and sun.

Nefertiti bust, stark and arresting,
Royalty poised on mantel;
Salmon roses in pewter vase
Inscribed on bottom, "Misr:"

Egypt.

" . . . 'Course he isn't safe . . . . ."

There are moments, even hours, when I ask myself if I'm not self-indulgent, absurd, and downright foolish for yearning to write, for desiring to communicate with the world at-large.  Writing then seems to be a potentially humiliating business, and I, "spilt milk." 

It seems, at such times, that the truly smart ones are those who sit back and let other people do the creative calisthenics, as in:  "Better you than me." 

This is an unpleasant thought which engenders an uneasy feeling.

I suppose it all comes down to how much I have invested in my own dignity, in being "smart," and in "playing it safe."  Writing decidedly does not feel "safe" in terms of "protecting the self."  It may not be terribly "smart," either.

Perhaps I am, after all, just a writing fool.  Although the implications of stupidity are alarming, being a writing fool, in itself, doesn't feel particularly bad.   My logic is simple:  The more I reach out, the more chance I have of meeting Jesus "on the way."

This I do not want to miss.  For what, or for when, might I be "reserving myself," otherwise?  The more alarming thing, to me, would be to treat myself as though I'm a pickle in a jar, awaiting optimal brining.

I'm not a pickle, and the time is now.

"Safe?"  said Mr. Beaver;  " . . . Who said anything about safe?  'Course he isn't safe.  But he's good.  He's the King, I tell you."  (C. S. Lewis: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe)

A Million Lamps

Listening to Rimsky-Korsakov's swirling and ecstatic symphonic suite, Scheherazade, I become aware of Our Lord's ineffable sweetness and consolation in the rising waves of sound.  I am surprised to realize just how distant has seemed this Voice of my Friend.  I am thrilled to feel His Presence, suddenly so near -- not merely the promise of Springtime, but Divine Springtime, Himself.

"I am here with you, listening, as I have been all along.  How could you have doubted?" asks He, wordlessly, in my soul.  With that, a thousand birds burst into song and a million lamps light up my skies.

Like Martha's sister, Mary, I bask in the silent embrace of His Knowing, Easter rising within me once again.

(To listen to the beginning of Scheherazade, copy this URL:
http://youtu.be/s_pkRH2DZuw.  Next, open a second browser window, and paste this URL to the new URL line.  Set your volume high because the recording volume is low.)

Inclination, or Memory?

When does something to which we are drawn represent not merely a "liking" for "x," but rather an infant's lost memory of that which was once deeply familiar?

The Bearing of Gift

Brilliance unseen,
Life cast down,
Incomprehension
Swirling 'round.

Insights like lasers
(Diamond-tough)
Lay waste to lies . . . 
Jewel honed in the rough.

Carpenter-steady,
Judgment serene,
All angles considered,
Compensations foreseen.
 
Thought-symmetry, pure,

Yielding starbursts of color:

Pain crystallized
In the mind of a brother.