BE NOT OBLIQUE

Baptizing John,
dragging chains,
standing up.
What did you say,
when they came
to get you?
Something snide?
"She sure danced
her way
into my life."
Mumbling?
"One expects
better of a king."
Macabre humor?
Humor distracts.
"My eloquent mouth
now stuffed with apple!"
Or a touch of self pity:
"Whom did I fault,
fasting in the desert?
Cold feet in the river,
Whom did I harm
to pick up
the bill
for their banquet?"
But I somehow feel
none of these
slanting words
were your style.
Maybe tears in your eyes,
but speaking up,
out, forward,
"I never lost my head,
you're taking it
unjustly
selfishly, fearfully,
forgetting my small ones,
against all truth ...
truth hurts
heals
harms no one.
Don't look at me,
John.
How can I lie obliquely
lie down
not stand up
right or wrong,
plus or minus.
speaking out
my truth.

ON PASSING POTMAKERS

Does the Potter
mold red slushy clay?
Am I safely snuggled
in the Potter's hand?
Or do I risk,
form the sticky mud
gift from my Creator-Parent?

Is it genes
or is it will?
Eternal saving grace
or my
graceless slippery actions?
Mortals' immortal question!

Never mind
Just keep my wheel a-turning.
I'm not finished
till Easter Morn!

A CITY BOY HAS DOUBT

Chicago born,
loved that city
movement, freedom
people, life.
Never quite understood
grandpa's love for black
soil and yellow corn.
Grandma's reverence
for each blue curtained
cottage, small town's
life, people
freedom, movement.
But doubts came
watching slowly passing farms
filled with neat tractor
ruts, endless, no people!
owned by swank
suburban dwellers.
Then the city, station
shanty town,
piles of crushed stone,
heavy stone, concrete ties,
slabs of granite
fences for brick without mortar
huts, lean-toes
tires, junk, everywhere
lifeless piles.
But women, tireless
trying to take new homes
out of grass-less garbage, gravel,
seeking with their skirts
to check green algae
dead polluted ponds
to protect their own
suffering children-
"Suffer the children
to come unto me."

Somehow, Lord,
the city doesn't look
the same.
Perhaps I never really
saw Chicago slums
People crowded
like crows scratching
for space
Lazarus-like beggars
never getting even table
droppings from the diamond ladened
landed rich.
Never suffered with
people, children
never feeling
deeply longing
movement, freedom, life.

DON'T PULL THAT CURTAIN

Life is a game
I thought.
No, a play.
Better, a play
about a game.
The Hardy Boys on Land and Sea.
Will power
Grift.
Get up and do it.

But some say life's
an existential drama --
you almost have it,
but fate skips in
from the wings
to snatch it all away
as the curtain snaps down,
forever.

I've never believed in that.

But a tragedy
-- the spilt personality,
Othello conquering all
but too weak
to resist himself
with his alter-ego
lago laughing
in the
dark corners ?

St. Peter started out Hardy boy style,
left his net
to follow the Lord,
but dark forces brought
him to his end-"I do
not know the man "
as the curtain was ringing down
No existential quirky fate,
it was his split personality:
jumps out of the boat
only to sink without faith
beneath the waves.....

But not Peter,
not I,
want to do a tragedy.

Life's a comedy-
not a pie-in-the-face
nothing.
Curtain stays up
until the joyous dance,
a resurrection.
Peter made a come back
No, Jesus brought Peter back.

Jesus, looking at me,
motions to the curtain-puller:
"One moment please,
I have my resurrection thing
to do."

RESPECT

I caught a firefly or two
So let me tell you straight
Catching only tears the wings
or snuffs the life right out.
At least it flakes
across your hand
those pin-point flares
which you can watch
go blinking dim
to black.
So I'll respect
God's sparks in you
and let you flit about.
and you remember too
when you catch control
of me too tight
my creative sparks go blank.
But don't you really think
it's better fun
to watch the fire fly
In dark to see
those tiny lamps give
light and joy
to all who stand
apart and let them
Trace star circles
in the otherwise black night?

WISPS

We sat
two, three nights ago,
suddenly sharing
life changing
sometimes clanging
smoked filled moments.

Wednesday's psychiatric clinic
Great City's charity hospital.
Dad remained
almost silent.
A middle-aged lady
eyes furtive
darting left and right
midst young
demanding questioning
future rising doctors.
Her round old style
black hat
center of attention
two wispy strands
black dull straight
lines sticking out
the upturned rim
curling round her ears.
Not pretty, not ugly
then why
at twelve young years
did I stare
from the start
never forgetting,
not her eyes
but that circle hat
those two crazy curls?
"She's from the other clinic,"
nurse read the chart,
"Doesn't like the doctor there."
She? she couldn't comment,
just reaching out ... when
One unsmiling, serious
always polite, intent
young practitioner
lifted the hat, murmuring,
"Let's have a look at your scalp."
There stood her hair,
woman's glory
naked before men's eyes.
She had plucked
one by one
over the months
each single hair,
leaving only here and there
short batches of bristle stubble.
My father looked sad now,
hearing business words,
"You'll just have to return
with your papers
to that other far off clinic.

But my Daddy said, "We hope
to see you again
sometime.
Like wisps of smoke and mist
curling down a deserted street
this bleak scene swirled
around the corners of
my sometimes saddened soul.

But now I stop
stand possess
penetrate this
once murky
grace giving moment.
The power, tenacity
of self-hate
indifferent neurotic pride
winter's cold life killing...
But enough of wisps?
Winter's end for me.
Let struggling wraith-like
bare black branches
always reach for warmth
clear gentle sun.
So tiny tots
blue winged birds
may glory in their green.

CHRIST DOWN

I want to slid
slip down rocky
roadless shear
steep sharp hill
face, Afraid? Fearful?
Fantasy riddled wretched
helpless ghosts, No, down!
Down I could fall, down
sprain the back
bruise blue to blood
shin bones, even
end of leg broken.
On the faceless flat below
He lies stretched,
feet crossed,
arms straight out;
head thorn filled bloody
chest, back, face,
no hole spot.
For Christ's sake, don't stop,
don't pause, hesitate.
But down down to
the prostitute motherless
child laborer cheated
wife beaten casteless
Christ.

MADAM MOTH WITH LADY BUTTERFLY

Last night, nothing to do, I saw
alone, late, day before Christ's Birth
Madam Butterfly, Puccini's made-me-sad songfest.
Have you seen it? silk soft faint regal robed Japanese
Girl of fifteen married, throwing away culture, family, friends
for a cad, callous American gunboat half-adult.
Her house with sliding bamboo transparent pink
tinted pastel doors glowed sadly like her hope
of his faithful love as he leaves the harbor, her with child.
When she sang to her doubting maid wife dreams of his return:
Ship first a dot on the horizon, then larger than
New life in the harbor, now her hero hurrying up the path
making no doubt of his love, but she with their son
Would hide for a while "just for fun." I cried
Remembering now a ghetto girl dressed in dark almost rags
no silk, no curtain calls, no maid to confide in
son at breast abandoned too by one cruel vicious vagabond.
Tin roof shack not softly transparent, but leaky
Cold. No hope, no wish for his return again in drunken
Dangerous male mood. Puccini's Madam Butterfly gave
back her foreign citizen child, ending her pain with father's
Ceremonial sword inscribed so carefully: "He who cannot live
with honor, dies with honor."
I make no moral judgment, but in a man's world
shouldn't the man take the curse for her confession of despair.
I doubt my stumbling song does justice to my unlettered
modern Madam Butterfly, who like a moth singed her fragile
Wings on man's sacred matrimonial flame. But now in my libretto
soul book of verse she lives with child in holy honor.

DON'T MAKE ME, LORD !

Introduction: The occasion of the poem was that one of the Jesuits here is returning to the States under doctor's orders.

Do I
want
to go
back ?
Let me
stay
to see
the end of
the movie
I began
in the middle,
see
you,
my favorite
heroes
and heroines
play out your
comic - tragedy
I can't
walk out
into the busy
cold street
of strangers,
miss
the good cries
and laughs,
the warmth
with you,
You too seem to
wish
to sit with
me
in my comedy
through the
end,

NO LOVE LOST

Introduction: This poem was written on the occasion of Fr. Tom Gafney's murder in Nepal. He had a drug rehabilitation center, among other social works some of us think that this work got him in trouble with the drug dealers. The funeral Mass brought thousands of people together, Christians, Hindus, Buddhists. Also, as you can see in the poem, the whole time brought up other memories.

I didn't feel so good
that funeral day
if you want to know
the truth.
Friend of almost 50 years cruelly
murdered alone-
Who did it ?
No-love-lost big-money-men
if you ask me.
Throat slashed right through
blood soaked sheets, walls
splashed in awful patterns, distorted
surrealist nightmare subconscious dreams.

Blue green churning water
slanting mood changes
sitting above the lake munching
lunch with quiet friends.

What else could I
tell you? about it all?
Well, one thing, I cried
at the funeral mass when
The preacher-man, our superior,
promised flatly just one thing:
"We shall continue his work,"
me looking at blind, lame
stumbling, blank-eyed drug rehabs.
Then tears came again, bowing head, hiding
face, giving seeking sharing comfort
with almost forgotten friends, remembering
"We shall not be disloyal
to his work, our commitment."

Rowing, clean strokes past reeds
into deep water, sun strong
warming my stretched working back
pulling hard for distant island.

Then, let me tell you one good moment
in the confusion, song and Mass
prayer just over, I standing at
rear Church door, up came
Tom's first real patient
through the dim 20 years or so
I remember Tom's words, "They
cheated his land away. But
I'll get it back. Still who,
who to trust? Where's the hard
sure rock of truth. Let me tell you,
It isn't easy, this social help."
Tom's first case, that disturbing day,
some white hairs now, deep face lines.
He took time to greet me-his
last remembrance for revered
sacred, patron guru friend.

Beating the bank with artificial
bait, drifting down river, white water
rapids, trees bending low,
hunting dog enjoys the chase
mother duck wagging her babes
under the over hanging bank brush.

WOMEN AT THE WELL

Out clear seeping
sweet and cool
"Not too much,
not too little,"
told the mother,
Clear liquid renewing now
each vein, life vessel
for her bouncing son,
Daughter reviving
daintily patting cheeks
moist and clean.

Then they came,
company men
chopping, cutting
Leaving little left
selfish to slash each
and every shoot.

Deeper sank the precious
once pure water
between the clean
resounding
slabs of stone.
Now covered
with greenish crust
and blackening mould.
No longer sweet
not yet reeking rancid.

As straining mother
gathers her stragglers,
petulant son,
pouting daughter.
"Above," promising
as she stirs
with reluctant fingers
half sunk leaves,
revealing only
dark, dead, deadening wasted water.

DAWN PEOPLE

Light blue
faint grey
dawn's hope
fills the window.
Bird chirps
car roars by
thermometer under tongue
fingers feel the steady pulse
all normal!
Toy fears
fade
new day
blurs night's
phantoms.

Look, Jesus,
to sick
with no end
to pain stretched morning...
beyond pills
Noon and 'eve promise
only death.
To mothers
forced to greet
the slack eyes
of their dear
lumps
without food
to nourish listless
dears.
To mentally warped
depressed
frenetic
frantic
vomiting nonsense
in loneliness
peace gone
empty sunless
barren field
called day.

I pray again:
"Make us fearful happy
dawn-people
know this:
We alone bring
hope and care
to the dawn-less."

THANKS TO THE NEPALI PEOPLE

Water bursts
then bubbles
through the open sluice
hope, joy
to the dry clotted earth,
the stalks of rice.

A giver?

But if the board
stays closed,
the living water
flows
on and on
finally into the river
lost forever.

BROWN SPIRITED TO GREEN

I live in a place of no snow. On the walls,
In the cracks, where the shade is the ruler of all,
Through the winter and first of the spring with no green,
Brown plants, on the steps of the temples unseen,
At the monsoon cascade with a gush
As on Pentecost Day shine green in the rush
Of the drops in their hurrying stream past the dead
Now awakened to life moss quickened in bed.
And just so, in retreat of the failure of years,
You friend, in those hopelessly colorless sorrowing fears,
With a staring, forgetting and sorrowing look,
So away from all hope, sit blank and forsook.
So you'll be, when His Breath in the night through your friends,
In their warmth blows clear of all fears and then rends
Your Heart, so you'll be no more brown, no more sick
But a pulsing and spiriting soul of the quick.