UNLESS THE LORD BUILDS THE HOUSE...

Washington National Cathedral, Washington DC

proper 27 meditation

Oh hear now how the proud claim, “I built that!” –

smug in abundance, demanding of praise,

no credit to the carpenter,

anonymous hands bought and bruised to raise

temples of conceit on the habitat

of the wild, the poor, the stranger.

“Unless the LORD builds the house,

their labor is in vain who build it.”

The tests and triumphs of mere mortal rule,

at best, may imitate a discerned

intent of our one Creator,

at worst, displace eternal gifts un-earned

with fleeting fragile robes consumed as fuel

to warm bare greed’s known successor.

“Unless the LORD builds the house,

their labor is in vain who build it.”

Oh Lord, oh builder of The worthy home,

let not our eyes be blinded by false pride

or the bribes of an oppressor

tempt a hungry soul to forsake the guide

of Love that feeds and shelters as we roam.

Praise to Thee, one true confessor.

(Marthe G. Walsh)

St James' Episcopal Church, Bear Creek SD

IN CASE YOU HADN'T NOTICED...

...we have an election coming up.  I can't think of better commentary than the poem below, once again by Marthe G. Walsh.  I guess I should name Marthe poet laureate of Wounded Bird...or something. 

                                                 Imitations of Morality

The scratch of gust blown leaves, stubborn yellows, brown

the last of reds rusted on their way to mud

            just beyond the pavement’s crown

               of civility, the thud

of campaign weary feet tracking voters down

in last gasp desperation of fanatic

            assertions of perfection

               possible in election,

    ignore the gush of faulty candidates erratic.

The patch of virtue tended, meant for harvest

by the flame of ultra-conservative torch

            is but withered interest

               in protecting those who scorch

the very fabric of the soul to invest

with new authority a male government

            not just hostile to women,

               dismissive of each human

   without a suit of cash to cover raw resentment

of all “those people” living their own way,

without permission, without the “guidance”,

            rule of oppressive patriarchs sway,

               smug and proud of their own ignorance

that in secret makes them nervous of prey

turning to stare down the profit stalker,

            challenge the right of a small elite

               to take, to hoard, to gorge on red meat

   while masses starve at the table of the slick talker.

The long, slow fall of a losing argument

turns to an early, ancient, mean, strategy

            of claiming to know God’s intent,

               noblesse oblige theology

that strips away a woman’s right to consent,

to control her own body, the intimate

            used to intimidate, shame, unhinge,

               the tactic of unholy fringe

   threshing force from rape to see sacred seed proximate.

The thatch of suspect false ideology leaks

and rots in the rain of words worth remembering:

            Truth from clouds of glory peeks,

             trails the liar dissembling,

clings like the stench of death while greed prevails and speaks

as if justice were the exclusive property

            of any self-proclaimed elect.

               Truth shines, the timid to protect,

   through fog of moneyed might to reveal equality,

       not some fleeting, fashionable stance or politic,

       just neighbor loving neighbor without fright dogmatic.

THE DODOS OF OUR DAY

The Dodos of Our Day 

Pity the pretend defenders of decency, 
the protests of baffled bullies in the pulpits 
of patriarchal privilege who’ve long relied 
on the fiction of feminine weakness and sin 
to justify the unearned dominion of males 
so easily distracted, disturbed and undone 
by the merest glimpse of soft flesh, of female skin 
that the only way to control themselves is to 
smother women and girls under cover of veils 
and social rules that treat all issues intimate 
as property safe only in male possession. 
Pity those cold and desperate to re-assert 
authority over bodies not theirs, frantic 
with fear of women thinking, working, threatening 
the oppressive cultish deference to all parts 
masculine required to preserve the lie of strength 
exposed in equality, in women living 
by their own choices, without “father’s” permission. 
Sad it is to see the Akins, Imams, Romneys 
irrational flailing ignorance in defense 
of a “right” devoted to hiding the ego 
fragility of the few who must be “in charge” 
to feel secure, the few who over-compensate 
for their own faults with weapons and words demeaning. 
Pity them, so dependent on their own fiction 
that just a little truth can mean their extinction.

(Marthe G. Walsh)

The flightless dodo bird is extinct, but it's human namesake is not...alas.

Many thanks to Marthe for the poem.

MEDITATION ON JOB BY MARTHE

"Job's Torment" by William Blake

for my friends of faith who may not be reading my favorite church blog ... on occasion I write a little meditation based on the assigned texts for the week that my friends in Boston use (composed of things this amateur sees when reading, thinking about what it all might mean) ... and by the way, it makes the most sense if you read the texts noted ... a little thinking of a day ...

peace be and be

Marthe

Proper 22 Meditation

Job 1:1, 2:1-10, Heb. 1:1-4, 2:5-12, Mark 10:2-16

Ah, Job, no doubt of his integrity 
while certain of his blessings, fresh with vows 
of faithfulness and works of charity, 
flush with the love of his generous God! 
His obedience stood up to the loss 
of goods and servants and even offspring, 
no sin of the lips, no curse did he toss 
into his well of naked suffering. 
To love and to be loved with one’s whole self, 
a yearning children know and adults hide, 
shroud in rules, dusty scrolls on a shelf, 
to veil hearts hardened in the to and fro 
of risk and error wandering, contracts 
masquerading as the holy union 
of created partners drawn to compacts 
of unconditional love responding, 
receiving, rejoicing in its one Source. 
Naked as Job, innocent as children, 
a trust no mortal sunders in the course 
of jealousy or trial -- one true gift: 
      for a soul once bound to God, no divorce.

(Marthe G. Walsh)

Posted with the gracious permission of Marthe.

Image from Wikipedia.

"SEPTEMBER 29th, A PENDING AS IF"

September 29th, A Pending As If

The chill begins, the softer bright
of shorter days, the slow adjustment
of chattering wings long last flight
toward the heat of promised love
as if instinct could be memory
of steady guidance from above.

Wiser ones than I know it’s true,
“faith is living as if in great hope”,
from seasons dark springs life anew;
objective harsh reality
counsels rational despair to seek
something more, One we cannot see.

Into the light some call fading
launched a flare of words, once desperate,
of the loneliness of wading
in the run-off of others’ hope,
in the wake of lives that matter;
did they not care? Or think the rope

coiled at their feet was there for show
but not for rescue of the flailing
ones comfort shuns and cannot know
if the illusion is to be
maintained that optimism alone
can change the course of history.

As if – imagination’s gift,
and one last line of poetry,
a ribbon cast into the rift
between what is and what might be,
if only as if could be enough –
leaves flame, fall, mute to gravity.

(Marthe G. Walsh - September 2012)

Marthe is a new online friend who wrote the poem above and graciously gave me permission to publish her work here on Wounded Bird.  The poem is truly fine writing - so beautiful and so perfect for the season.  Of course, the words resonate for me in a very personal way as you see if you read the words beneath the title of my blog.

The photo is not the most beautiful of autumn foliage pictures, but it is mine.  Here in south Louisiana, we do not generally have much leaf color because the first frost often comes too late in the season after the leaves have begun to fall from the trees.  A couple of years ago the weather and the stars aligned just right to produce the colorful tree in front of our neighbor's house.

Marthe's two collections of poetry are available at Lulu.    

LITTLE LORD WILLARD

How little Lord Willard aspires to rule!
So proudly attended the plutocrat school
with Dad’s reputation and money in hand,
sharp pencils and spreadsheets assembled a band
of legal and fiscal finaglers supreme
to pillage and plunder and finance his dream;
outsourcing, bankruptcy and capital gain
with zero concern and a cold hard disdain
for regular workers, producers of goods
on low or lost wages destroyed neighborhoods,
called stealing “creating”, insisted on stealth
to cover the truth of raw arrogant wealth
despising “other,” not so clever as their own
at gaming the system, reaping seed once sown
with intent to encourage the average
to strive, help the poor to rise, not leverage
the risk of vultures too greedy even to wait
for the maimed to expire their hunger to sate.
With ambition not limited by conscience,
Lord Willard, now Mitt, purchased the governance
of an unlikely state full of blue Democrats,
“fixed” the budget with fees, a no tax technocrat
without learning the first rule political:
voters are people, not trends or cyclical
losses deleted with the click of a mouse,
a lesson critical to win the White House.
Public service not mentioned in this current
election, but Mitt, demoted to servant
might just be the ticket to inject something
humble into his bubble of pretending
his elitist view is best for a country
of equals humoring his kind, the fake gentry.

(Marthe G. Walsh - September 2012)

Marthe calls the poem doggerel.  I call it Romney to a T.