Mysticism Matters
I yearn to practice
a mysticism that meets,
moves, mobilizes a piece of
the mundane world.
I hunger to use my gifts
of poetry and practicality,
of language and law to engage
part of the aching world.
My harness of Peter-ish
impetuosity matters not
at all, for I am hobbled
by blindness.
Please, use this moment
of light luminous
dark in time or no time
to reveal the next step.
Living Waters
Impetuous me favors the passionate tumult of Spring
river flooding. Sensuous me favors the indolent
caress of Summer river flowing. Reflective me
favors the penetrating seep of Autumn river trickling.
Even aloof shy me favors the chilled reserve of Winter
river freezing. But, all of me resists evaporation.
I resist the sucking pulling warm air wresting
me from known boundaries. I resist drifting unseen
to unknown parts. I resist the uncertainty of unformed
floating yearning rather to surround rocks, carve
new paths. I resist the ambiguous foggy drift.
But luckily, at times, I am yanked into air. There
beholding earth’s
anguish: Weep!
Weeping, raining,
puddling . . . perhaps
the beginning of an
exuberant Spring.
Small Change
Dropped from the counter of globalization
in the midst of economic transactions,
these human coins, illegal tender
get swept up into the dust pan of
national identity and border security.
These small coins of labor fall through
the cracks of caring, ending up in
dank dark pens—smaller than pennies
in the global wealth, taken as too
small to matter, mere annoyances
or possible threat to a sovereign nation.
These small coins are tossed into cages
of fifty, sixty jumbled together
on the floor, in corners, along barred walls.
They do not fit into ATMs. They will not
be received for deposit in the world economy.
They are spare change tossed on the counter
of globalization—and forgotten.
Byzantium’s Price
I.
The iconographer can work in words, actions
paints, enamels with equivalent results—
stark outlines of complex life reduced
to competing contrasts offering claret tunics,
scarlet cloaks, ebony eyes rimmed in silver
tears, terror. See them, this collection of raised
mortals, lifted above our heads to weep on us
argent insight, to light us to golden halo
hallowed truth.
II.
I am compelled to meticulously paint with steady
voice, steely nerves, aching heart my experience
of mid-Eastern life, of creature dailiness, human dread.
In the process, I pray these pictures penetrate
my neighbors’ hearts. I am surprised, shocked,
grieving, I would say, about the price I am called
to pay. In the picture laden air, vivid before our eyes
the clear lined definition smooths, seals away
the rough edged complexity of actual life. Feather
frayed borders are finished, etched, sculpted into
precise single moments, sharpened to penetrate hearings’
hide. But listen close to the source of my lament—
I too lose the multi-layered impressionistic colors
of experience. Repeated telling distills my memories
to bold lines, primary colors—losing touch with
pulsing life.
III.
The last iconographic movement caresses these flat forms
and faces with liquid gold, wafer thin highlights
on legend lives leaving radiant marks of loss
in the crucible of telling—reducing details, impurities
in the white hot urgency of impasse. Faced with the
hunger of the hearer it is worth the rough edged loss
to grasp the chance, paying the price demanded by
this stark iconic gift to risk releasing hope into
the darkness.
Morum Conversio (Daily Conversion of Life)
The challenge of stripping
wallpaper demands aggressive
questing for loose worn edges.
Ragged fingernails slip under
securing glue to liberate
a piece rewardingly wide or
frustratingly narrow—previously
applied in decorating fervor
removed in a new sensibility’s disgust.
Did I ever like this gaudy hue?
Bits and pieces held too long need
a tougher treatment—spit,
water, determination. Pristine
walls reveal fifty-year-old notes:
“Wallpaper here.” Ready for a
new design—a fresh start.
Jesus Wept
I.
Bold before me the businessman
laments Iraqi life—the impotence,
the waiting. Hunching forward he imparts
with strangled voice his secret view:
“I just want it over, one way or another,
we are dying slowly—let it be over soon.”
A tear, unshed, pools in his eye,
he murmurs, “I have a child.”
II.
The day my father cried for his daughter’s
death, hides in the shadows of my memory.
At her grave, his shoulders hunched against
the pain, he held his breath and sealed
himself from the vivid world. One lone
tear escaped control sliding down the line
that marked his mourning. He shuddered
once and stilled again, adrift in grief.
III.
Be assured that fathers weep for children
lost. Fathers weep for dreams
destroyed. Fathers weep while the world
spins on.
O fathers, my fathers, stop
this madness, stop this march
to graves and grieving—
leave the tears unshed.
Compassion’s Path
We walk a sandstorm of impotence,
isolated dread—the demons of our day.
We walk a sandstorm of half-truths,
lies of ochre, beige, tan, sepia confusion
pelted, buffeted by winds of war.
We walk a sandstorm of drifting elusive
truth, wandering ways and blind following.
We walk a sandstorm eroded by demanding
doubt, overwhelmed by the horror swirling
round invading lungs and lives.
We walk a sandstorm of promised grief,
aching temptation to hunker down, hide
until a more propitious time.
But in this time of alluring weakness,
in this time of fearful groaning, cold
blind logic, anger rising, remember
the clear eyed anchor of our resolve.
Remember the eyes of Mayada, Sara, Rita,
Assan, Abdullah, Makbulla and many more.
We may be blinded in the outward journey
but remember this inner core.
May the eyes of family, terrors of family
set fire to our impotence, stoke our resolve,
melt the cold stone of our hearts to yield
to tears. For like rain, tears shed settle
sand storms. Like rain, tears shed
clear the air. Like rain, tears shed
reveal the path. So let us weep.
Let us embody healing tears. Let us
be copious tears to settle our
country’s storm.
Cultural Snag
The Mexican claret shawl drapes in informal
elegance across my Anglo shoulders. I lean into
the thin warmth, sheltering from the drizzle
breeze. The hugging textured center of this native
cotton cloth solidly claims my back, arms, wraps
round me, but, I confess, I detest the fringe.
I loathe the interfering fringe that catches on door
knobs, chair backs, rings, keys, a wide variety
of protruding parts of my jagged speeding world.
The pesky fringe jolts me in mid-certain stride
or dramatic gesture and snags the disquieting
wonder: Should this fluid disturbance to my warm
comfort be tolerated or snipped?
Coffee House Contemplation
Marvel at this convivial cup that quenches
a dual life—a jolt of froth and flavor,
foam and fragrance. Ah! Cappuccino!
Poised, waiting to be drunk, we see
the brown, the white, the blurring
line of demarcation.
But in the sacramental moment of
sipping—two are scorching one
then gone! Mmmm! Cappuccino!
Grief
A sudden onset of grief seeps
like humidity into all the crevices
of life. Like humidity, it hampers
lungs, constricts the heart, acts
as a barrier to rapid movement.
Humidity, sultry humidity, envelops
all of life, wilting the crisp edges
into human messiness. Humidity
like grief, eventually congeals,
coagulates, precipitates and weeps.
In clearing sorrow, life meanders
to the aching edges and waits
for promised dryer air, while treasuring
the all enveloping steamy incapacity
of grief.
Loaves and Fish
I always joked
that the miracle of loaves
and fish was: sharing.
The women always knew this.
But in this moment of need
and notoriety, I ache, tremble
almost weep at folks so
hungry, malnourished,
faced with spiritual famine
of epic proportions. My heart
aches with their need.
Apostle like, I whine:
“What are we among so many?”
The consistent 2000 year-old
ever-new response is this:
“Blessed and broken, you are
enough.” I savor the blessed,
cower at the broken and
pray to be enough.
Ode to an Unmade Bed
The unmade bed served as mute testament
to the fullness of life exuberantly embraced—
a not looking back or worrying
about the unsquared corners.
Rumpled blankets grabbed
in the chill of midnight
tossed aside at dawn in the leap
for something new.
But this unmade bed served
as a haven in the darkness,
caressed evening weariness,
eased the sometimes ache of night.
Perhaps it goes unmade in tribute
to the chaos comforted,
to the ready welcome it offers
post toil, post tears.
Perhaps it goes unmade as a dream
catcher—so far beyond control
a tribute to faithful willingness
for something more.
Challenge to Be Church
Daunting undaunted autocrats agitate
my fluid world with righteous proclamations
stirring me up to equally righteous views—
claimed to protect myself, my different slice
of truth. But Incarnation—or is it Resurrection?
Pentecost?—all enliven me to know
we embody You, God, in all paradoxical life,
even the righteous defensive edges. I tremble
at Your call to love the autocrat—in them and me—
shedding the worry for my firm flimsy thoughts,
fragile self. Dare we risk a leap together,
plunging into darkness and being lost?
Or is it found?
Incarnation
Let gratitude be the beat of our heart,
pounding Baghdad rhythms, circulating
memories, meaning of the journey.
Let resolve flow in our veins,
fueled by Basra’s destitution, risking
reflective action in a fifteen-second world.
Let compassion be our hands,
reaching to be with each other, all others
to touch, hold heal this fractured world.
Let wisdom be our feet,
bringing us to the crying need
to friends or foe to share this body’s blood.
Let love be our eyes,
that we might see the beauty, see the dream
lurking in the shadows of despair and dread.
Let community be our body warmth,
radiating Arab energy to welcome in the foreign
stranger—even the ones who wage this war.
Let us remember on drear distant days,
we are a promised Christmas joy
we live as one this fragile gifted life—for
We are the Body of God!