"FLURRY" - A POEM

                 Flurry

Small flakes
barely worthy of the polysyllabic
description: precipitation,
brief interruption
of dull, unremarkable, overcast day,
undecided wisps, erratic flight
set light
crystals dancing as if each to its’ own tune
without masterful direction,
dire orchestration
of epic arctic gale memorable, named.
Just a flurry to you, my love?
Flash of
anticipation, interest, slight worry
that outburst might be harbinger,
first stir,
of landscape changing emotional event
unwanted beyond storied thrills
passion spills
to spoil the comfort of an orderly life,
the fall exciting, landing rough.
Not enough,
scant dusting brushed away without consequence,
no weather alert set to scroll,
the toll
all mine in the storm that changes nothing real,
yet adds to drifts of longing built
in flurries.

(Marthe G. Walsh)

Spring has arrived here in south Louisiana.  Azaleas are coming into bloom but are not yet in full bloom.  I'll post pictures in a few days.  Thanks to Marthe for the poem that describes the scene of what is hoped by many to be the last gasp of a hard winter in northern climes.

POEM FOR ST PATRICK'S DAY - MARTHE G. WALSH

                                      Just In Case

There’s a leprechaun in my tea – seriously,
a pale green porcelain figurine tucked between
the bags of shredded leaves, no cane on which to lean,
but clearly winking, conspiratorially.

Surprised, read the side of the box – the purveyors
of serenity by the cup appear to think
offering “fine collectibles” will make me drink
ever more of their product, reward conveyors
of mulch as beverage with a brand loyalty
driven by some obsessive need to have all twelve
characters in the series, but they troll and delve
into the psyche at their own risk, pointlessly.

This is no secret decoder ring, no cartoon
hero-movie-marketing-tie-in appealing
to six-year-old susceptible to the squealing
delight of laugh track peers, must-have-now-coming-soon
episode of consumption programming disguised
as entertainment, fantasy wish fulfillment
key to an economy built on discontent,
no precious-memory-by-kitsch niche plan franchised.

The little green men may, might, indeed, be coming
for me, but not through my tea or the Lucky Charms
that would only have set off sugar shock alarms
had they been allowed in deprived youth, and numbing
foiled entirely by sensible nutrition
considerations, thrift, parental volition
dismissing all things magical, mythical, missed
as useless to ponder as the frog left un-kissed.

Not prone to hoard, crave or worship acquisition,
put the elf on the shelf, nod to superstition.

(Marthe G. Walsh)

ALL ABOUT ME

My Facebook friend Chris Fewings dashes off poetry the way the rest of us breathe, and he wrote the bit of verse about me when I used the Louisiana French term "lagniappe", which means a little extra, something like a baker's dozen. I think the poem is so lovely and funny that I wanted to share. Besides, it's all about me! What's not to like?

She's the sunshine in the twilight
The little extra in Louisiana
The slug of something stronger
Slipped into my champagne.
She's the sparkle in the bubbly
Her hubby's evening star.
She's the toast of all on Facebook.
She's the rainbow in the rain.

Chris Fewings 23-12-13

Chris writes very fine serious poetry, which may be found at the link above.  I especially like "Open Your Hand".

On his "About" page, Chris says, "Influences on my poetry include R S Thomas and George Herbert, among many others. (I hope that sounds impressive.) My tastes have become more catholic with age, so I now delight in light verse almost as much as in “difficult” poetry."  Perhaps he delighted a bit in the light verse about me.  I know I did.

'TWAS THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS...

Yeah, That’s How It ‘Twas …

 

‘Twas the day before Christmas and all through the store

The clerktures were stocking the shelves with more more.

The shoppers were whisking their carts through the aisles

With nary a pause for the checker’s wry smiles

For the last minute frantic, seekers of sales,

Deaf to the howling of their lost children’s wails.

And Tasha and I o’er the fryers presiding,

Ignoring the new boss’s chatter and chiding,

Filled orders for chicken by the pound and the piece,

As if breading and oil (please just don’t call it grease)

Were first gifts by tradition, required with zeal,

To note the occasion, poor folk’s holiday meal.

Still, still, still, the union requires a break for us all,

left the tongs to the boys, made the dash to ladies stall

with only slight hope they’d not make a great mess

of our tidy, efficient, order process.

With ten long minutes to fill before punching back in

Snuck the bell ringer hot coffee to offset his gin,

Then wandered past cases I’d soon be re-filling

Thus thwarting the work rules that frustrate the willing.

When back from our rest what a sight we did see,

An ocean of oil from the fryers set free!

The filter valve left open in haste they did leave,

Even no-slippy shoes gave no help or reprieve

From the wading in hot slick they made on our break,

No help their limp shrugging, “it was just a mistake.”

With squeegees and towels and spill-eaze by the quart,

Set them to swabbing, a not so festive new sport,

While we re-filled the wells with fresh bubbly goo,

With orders yet pending, nothing else would do,

Despite visions of mayhem that danced in our heads

And wishing those slackers had stayed home in their beds

(a call-off less trouble than trouble created

By half-hearted work from the uncomplicated).

At the counter the customers gazed on it all

With wonder, amazement, not one wing we let fall

As we skated on tiles to meet the demand

For the fried and the baked and a spit on hand

To spin the rotisserie birds roasted whole,

See grimace as grin, let no feast turn to coal,

Their parties saved in one hundred piece lots,

no disappointing their own tiny tots

expecting fresh drumsticks with cocoa to go

as they wait for Santa in fresh falling snow.

The nameless in kitchens in stores far and wide

Will know what I mean as I set this aside,

Merry Christmas to all as you hustle away,

The store’s closed tomorrow, and yes just for a day,

If it’s chicken you want, call some elderly elf,

Or you’ll just have to make it your own sorry self.

 

(Marthe G. Walsh)

R. I. P. NELSON MANDELA

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West.
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever; I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

(W H Auden)

Thanks to my friend Jane on Facebook for posting the poem. Jane lives in South Africa.

BLEEDING HEARTS

Bleeding heart

Bleeding Hearts

On the neglected left side of the house
far from the showy beds of peonies
and iris, gladiolus and lilies,
the perennial drip of white from rose
valentine-ish hearts went on, undisturbed
by a lack of attention, unperturbed
by cuttings, divisions, replanting fuss
or the disdain of annuals primping
for a one-vase-stand, post-teatime limping,
they simply bloomed and bloomed, standing guard each
Spring over the hens and chicks once planted
at their feet to crowd out all unwanted
competition, avoid future weeding,
like delicate strings of paper lanterns,
soft pink light crucial to growing patterns
of the Sempervivum (always alive,
Latin for that common succulent flock,
ignored, but there, steady as the tick-tock
of purpose just beyond the grasp of men
yearning for control they only know how
to abuse in the shady here and now),
accident or plan, gentle harmony.
Whose hand was it first rent the innocent
pendant to make it bleed? By whose judgment
is sympathy unwarranted, wasted,
an inclination to compassion ruled
a shameful fault of the easily fooled?
Assumed dominion of a third party
cannot prevent the blamed from turning feral
when life requires freedom ephemeral.
Neither flower nor heart, no permission
needed to care about the neglected,
no emotion spare, unearned, rejected.

(Marthe G. Walsh)

Sempervivum or houseleek

A lovely poem by my friend Marthe.

Images from Wikipedia here and here.

IN DAVID'S EYES - A POEM BY MARTHE G. WALSH

In David’s Eyes
 for my friend, always “the Broms”

He said wait, at least ten years, maybe more,
if you must tell it, let it age, mature.
And so I have, waited, humored his sure
conviction that time and context restore.

Secretary by day, writer by night,
athlete at university, turned down
by seminary, denied alb or gown
because, for him, lying was just not right.

At the end of our first week, sipping wine,
not that we liked it, concession to chic,
declared us allies, the suffering meek,
destined to outwit the front of the line.

I know you, all edges and sharps, trying
to make porcupines seem positively
cuddly – like it – the mask, deceptively
aloof -- won’t work with me. I do prying.

Kansas slow, rippling wheat fields in his speech,
way of being, youngest of eight, like me,
confused by the view of society
that last meant spoiled, ruined, like some old peach.

Let me read his short stories, half the play
never finished, but not the novel, shy
about that, evasive until the why
was too clear to miss, a hospital stay.

No amount of prayer or therapy or
pledges of celibacy were enough
to fix or satisfy his father’s tough
Baptist will or mother’s RC ardor.

He simply couldn’t, with direct question,
say anything other than exactly
what he thought he knew, carefully, aptly,
but true, without guile or wise digression.

He knew what he couldn’t do, so tried not
to hate himself, but haunted by childhood
belief in authority, saw no good
in being fully himself, with sin fraught.

Immune system failing fast, the gay plague
new, frightening, friends disappearing, gone
in denial, fear, means of help withdrawn,
loss of job, insurance, excuses vague.

He did not want me to read of his one,
just one, failure to contain, defeat, hide
his fall, the reason he’d been cast aside
by family, church, not prodigal son.

Let me make the call to the one brother
who might understand, might help, when the first
bout of pneumonia scared us both, cursed
or not, family, surely … wrong answer.

It’s just you, my dear, dear Empress of the
Eternal Ephemera. They think death
is my just reward. Coughed another breath,
closed his eyes, as if that would protect me.

Retreated into dark laughter, childish
games to pass the time when he was too weak
to write, chutes and ladders with the freak
former altar boy, bruised, near the finish.

Portmanteau, his favorite word, better
than pedestrian baggage, imagined
his story fine lingerie examined
by nuns at the thrift store, blushing chatter.

Tried to convince him to unpack, reduce
the weight, the volume, to just a valise
lightly carried, trust God’s wisdom, release
the burden of human error, abuse.

His answer, the burning of the pages
typed in pain, preserved in plastic binders
long stacked on brick and plank shelves, reminders
of hope fading with the AIDS, in stages.

Wept, when I brought an Episcopal priest
brave enough for communion with modern
leper, outcast, sinner, to his cavern
of private despair, in one touch, true feast.

Bathed him, still shyly insisting on swim
trunks for the immersion, demure, proper
but craving the gentle soaping, lather
and warm water defying all the grim.

Wrapped his emaciated six foot two
in blankets fresh from the dryer to warm
the perpetual shivering, the storm
within raging, winding down, but not through.

Made the call, after spreading his ashes
in the Charles, as requested, his mother,
“Oh, if only I had known ….”  A kinder
me would have comforted, spared the lashes,

“That’s what everyone says, to pretend,
soothe their own guilt, knowing full well the lie
of it, your shame in wanting him to die,
to stop being your lost, a wound opened.”

It was not kind, but it was my hand that
wrote his letter, begging, at last, for her
forgiveness, love, one final little stir
of maternal instinct, last words private.

There was no reply. Just a look exchanged.

In David’s eyes there was a knowing,
and I was honored by its showing.


Marthe G. Walsh

"In David's Eyes" by Marthe G. Walsh.  © 2012 Marthe G. Walsh.
Reprinted with permission of the author.

Marthe's two books of poetry, Among the Thorns and Heretic for a Loving God may be purchased at Lulu.

GROTTO ON BAYOU LAFOURCHE

How long the grotto in honor of Our Lady has been in place on the bank of Bayou Lafourche in Thibodaux, I have no idea, but, only the other day, when I picked my grandson up from day camp, did I first take note.  The grotto is on the main road through town, which makes it quite visible, and I wonder how I could have missed seeing it for however long it's been there.

The grotto stands next to a peaceful scene of Bayou Lafourche, which is a tributary of the Mississippi River. 

The opening to the left of the statue of Mary curves through to the side of the grotto, to what purpose I can't say.

The top photo shows the corner of the bench where visitors can sit and pray, or meditate, or simply rest a while.

Now that I've discovered the structure, I'd like to know something about when it was constructed and by whom.  I Googled, but I found nothing. 

The photo to the right shows the side opening of the grotto.  As you see from the green moss or lichen (or whatever) growing on the stones, the structure has been there a while.

To the right of the grotto is a paved area large enough to park two cars.  The entire concept is well-planned and well-constructed.  Now that I've discovered the grotto, I want to know more.

UPDATE:

Grotto

Our Lady stands
In the small grotto
Built by unknown hands
On the bank of the bayou
And prays in peaceful repose

(June Butler - 7/17/2013)

LITTLE DYINGS

Little Dyings

Thinking today of the
Hundreds of little dyings
In my long life.

Little dyings, little risings
So the path winds the
Way to the end,

The end that is a new
Beginning with no more
Dyings, large or small.

(June Butler - May 2013)

THE TRINITY

PEREDA, Antonio de
The Holy Trinity
Szépmûvészeti Múzeum, Budapest

Trinity

Three in One.
One in Three.
The Father loves the Son.
The Son loves the Father.
The Father and the Son love the Spirit.
The Spirit loves the Father and the Son.
The Father, Son, and Spirit loved creation into being.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.
....

And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.
....

And John testified, ‘I saw the Spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and it remained on him. I myself did not know him, but the one who sent me to baptize with water said to me, “He on whom you see the Spirit descend and remain is the one who baptizes with the Holy Spirit.” And I myself have seen and have testified that this is the Son of God.’

(Gospel of John, Chapter 1)

Image from the Web Gallery of Art.

GAYLE - GONE SEVEN YEARS TODAY

My sister Gayle

I love Gayle, and I still miss her, and I expect I always will. The picture shows her getting ready for a party, and Gayle loved parties. She's wearing a tuxedo, which was the style for women some years ago.  Gayle and Frank, her husband, came to visit us, and apparently we were to attend a party.  When she unpacked her tux, I said, "Gayle, come see."  I went to my closet and took out a nearly identical tuxedo.  Too funny.  If I remember correctly, we did not wear our tuxedos to the same party.

Gayle was the person closest to me whom I've lost.  I love my mother, but we were not really close, although we were together quite a lot.  She was a good mother and, in many ways, a strong woman, as good as she could be under the adverse conditions of our family life as we were growing up, but she was emotionally distant.  My youngest sister died too young.  I love her, too, but for many years she was estranged from our family, so when she died, I grieved, especially that we were out of touch for so many years, but I didn't miss her constant presence.  I finally forgave my father before he died, but to say we were in any way close would be a lie.  We were on speaking terms, and that's the good news.  There you have our family life.

Though Gayle lived in Kansas City, we were in touch nearly every day, either by phone or by email.  I'd guess we would be communicating on Facebook if she was alive today.  I think of her often and wish so much that we could talk.  Gayle's husband, Frank, and her children, Donna, Gretchen, and Eric miss her presence, too.

Rather than resting in peace, I hope Gayle is partying in the great beyond.  I wrote the poem below on the anniversary of her death five years ago.  

Why Couldn't You Stay?

You walked away; you left us
Bereft, bereaved.
How could you go?
It wasn't your doing,
I know, I know.
Yet, how could you go?

Two years passed and gone,
Slipped away.
After you left, I'd think
I'll call her; I'll email.
Oh no! None of that!
You won't answer.

Now I know you're gone.
No thoughts of visits to come,
Seeing your face, hearing your voice,
The sound of your laughter.
Sadness lingers, emptiness remains.
Why couldn't you stay?

June Butler - 04-27-08

The photo above was taken in the Tower of London when Gayle and I traveled together a good many years ago.  The picture makes me sad, but it's the perfect metaphor for me for her death.  She was full of life, and she would have wanted more time, as we all would have wanted more time with her, but go she did.  God bless us every one.

FEAR ITSELF

MICHELANGELO Buonarroti
Last Judgment (detail)
Fresco
Cappella Sistina, Vatican

Fear Itself

Fear itself …
that is the thing explaining
why bombers bomb
why we cannot control guns
why the Pope suppresses nuns
speaking “radical” humanist words
why “real men” loathe nerds
and arm themselves against
delusions of apocalypse.
Fear is the power of coercion
trumping all notions
of civility, compassion “fittest” assumed to mean
the ruthlessness of nihilists
protecting their own small niche
at the expense of all “soft” targets
“not my problem”
“take care of our own”
dismissing the thoughtful
the adaptive, the truly strong
who mean it when they say
life itself is sacred.
Fear is the tool of men
protesting too much, claiming
to be defenders of liberty
when what they are protecting
is their consumption of advantage
their right to shoot, to profit
to procreate any way they choose
but not you, not you
you must be frightened into
compliance with their rule
their privilege, their proprietary
fist enforcing the lie of superiority
“emotion” labeled “girly” “useless”
except when it is “manly anger”
an excuse to pretend the violence
is just … but it is just their fear
their adrenaline addiction
raging, tolerated, “just the way it is”
not inevitable
just the way things will be
until the greater we
says no
passes the laws that prevent
paranoid bullies from expecting
and getting
our cooperation in their death industry
fear itself.

(Marthe G. Walsh)

Image from the Web Gallery of Art.

CHRIST'S ENTRY INTO JERUSALEM

DÜRER, Albrecht
Small Passion: 6. Christ's Entry into Jerusalem
1511
Woodcut
British Museum, London

Palm Sunday - John Keble

And He answered and said unto them, I tell you
that, if these should hold their peace, the stones
would immediately cry out. -- St. Luke 29: 40.

Ye whose hearts are beating high
With the pulse of Poesy,
Heirs of more than royal race,
Framed by Heaven's peculiar grace,
God's own work to do on earth,
(If the word be not too bold,)
Giving virtue a new birth,
And a life that ne'er grows old -

Sovereign masters of all hearts!
Know ye, who hath set your parts?
He who gave you breath to sing,
By whose strength ye sweep the string,
He hath chosen you, to lead
His Hosannas here below; -
Mount, and claim your glorious meed;
Linger not with sin and woe.

But if ye should hold your peace,
Deem not that the song would cease -
Angels round His glory-throne,
Stars, His guiding hand that own,
Flowers, that grow beneath our feet,
Stones in earth's dark womb that rest,
High and low in choir shall meet,
Ere His Name shall be unblest.

Lord, by every minstrel tongue
Be Thy praise so duly sung,
That Thine angels' harps may ne'er
Fail to find fit echoing here:
We the while, of meaner birth,
Who in that divinest spell
Dare not hope to join on earth,
Give us grace to listen well.

But should thankless silence seal
Lips that might half Heaven reveal,
Should bards in idol-hymns profane
The sacred soul-enthralling strain,
(As in this bad world below
Noblest things find vilest using,)
Then, Thy power and mercy show,
In vile things noble breath infusing;

Then waken into sound divine
The very pavement of Thy shrine,
Till we, like Heaven's star-sprinkled floor,
Faintly give back what we adore:
Childlike though the voices be,
And untunable the parts,
Thou wilt own the minstrelsy
If it flow from childlike hearts.

Image from the Web Gallery of Art.

FEAST OF GEORGE HERBERT - PRIEST AND POET

A Wreath

A wreathed garland of deserved praise,
Of praise deserved, unto thee I give,
I give to thee, who knowest all my wayes,
My crooked winding wayes, wherein I live,
Wherein I die, not live: for life is straight,
Straight as a line, and ever tends to thee,
To thee, who art more farre above deceit,
Then deceit seems above simplicitie.
Give me simplicitie, that I may live,
So live and like, that I may know thy wayes,
Know them and practise them: then shall I give
For this poore wreath, give thee a crown of praise.

 (George Herbert)

PENCIL - MARTHE G. WALSH

 

pencil

there is something satisfying

in the friction

the drag of graphite

across a blue lined page

reassuring, the slightly slower

pace of pencil

translating synaptic surges

into symbols meant

to convey the thing

I was not supposed to say

   (erase the worst of it

   the jarring jagged bits

   too painful for response)

feel the sharp shaved point

soften under it

this pressure to covey

in loops and strokes and dots

all the woulds and shoulds

and swollen knots

of life sharpened and ground

and sharpened again only

to shorten into nubs

   (rubber long gone to

   endless hesitant revision)

I do not toss away

sentimental fool

to keep the spent penny tool

of impermanence

never mind the humility

inherent in the reluctance

to commit to ink

   (brush away pink and gray

   lint of things best not to think)

the world it seems

has no use for either

random longhand thought

or the scratching glide

on rough recycled sheets

analog obsolete profitless things

unlikely to go viral

privacy maintained by

disinterest, not firewall

the 2.5 preferred to the

more common No.2

for a small pleasure

whole generations will not know

the future’s quill

my Ticonderoga

shorter now

  (Marthe G. Walsh)

I obliged Marthe by picturing her favored 2.5 pencil.  The poem is in response to Elizabeth Kaeton's post on her blog, Telling Secrets, on using pencils.  If I were on Facebook, I would definitely click "Like" upon reading the poem.

"TENSE" - A POEM

Tense

What was or is or will be, no sense

in this craving certainty

facts on which to safely stand, defense

the default pose of wisdom

as if all imperfect past pretense

of knowing could guarantee

passage through high reeds or forest dense

tangle of conformity

assumed, silent threat of violence

individuality

an idea, in practice the province

of lone eccentricity

tolerated in rare great talents

muffled in society

where ritual mutes the mass conscience

to accept disparity

as the price of managed turbulence

balance of security

held in place by a gossamer fence

decorum of brevity.

The perfect, not without flaw, complete.

Some believers claim just one

error free leader, teacher, God’s Son

fret that he/she/it with us is done

indulge the urge to compete

mark clear grace with penitence

as if the gift was some short-term loan

a debt re-paid in fragments

pain the test of unearned interest

currency of consequence.

Love, the real thing, is given, not lent

no tensile integrity

of high wire show, by no human rent

just response ability

the impulse to pray, a need intense

to veil the fragility

of subjunctive, iffy existence

in terms of nobility

power vested in high thrones

armaments, mobility

secrets glorified, the work of drones

scorched credibility

on the altar of the last unknowns

what shall not, cannot, should never be?

To lose the true living sense

present tense, that life is, is holy

each and every one intense

precious, not some beta test worthy

only if one can convince

some self-appointed authority

eager or reluctant prince

to hold Love bestowed as surety

against the void, the absence

of even one, small, humanity.

(Marthe G. Walsh)

"Love, the real thing is given, not lent..."   True and lovely words.  Thank you for the poem, Marthe.  It is all good.

LIMITATIONS

David Hayward - “the need to leave” (watercolor on paper, 7″x10″)

Limitations...

...of age

...of arthritis

...of energy

...of time

Contrary to the words of the poet, it is not, as they say, satisfactory...at least not yet for me and may require a lengthy period of adjustment.  I think of Walter Cronkite's sign-off, "And that's the way it is."  Except for loosening of time constraints, the other limitations are unlikely to change for the better.  The task is to keep them at bay for as long as possible, so they don't worsen too quickly.  And what is too quickly?  Well, too quickly to suit me, who doesn't care for the limitations at all.

At the age of 78, I'm bound to think of mortality and view the future as somewhat compressed, right?  Some folks, like Grandpère, live in denial of the reality of death, but when I was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 51, I looked death in the face, and there was no turning back to denial.  To me, it's both funny and tragic when people deny death.  I'll never forget the time I told GP, "The death rate is 100%," and he said, "For whom?"  My black humor did not go over well.

Anyway, I'm easing into a completely different mindset about life in general and my own life.  There are so many things that I want to do and so many changes that I want to see happen before I die, but I know I will not do or see most of them, and I must come to acceptance and ease with the reality.  The difficulty is to sort out the priorities of what is still possible to do and move out of stasis.

If you detect a pinch of depression in my diary post, you are probably correct.  It's there lurking at the edge, but I've not yet fully acknowledged and accepted it yet.  We've experienced a good deal of turmoil and distress in our extended family, and, though the situations have improved, I feel I'm allowed a bit of depression now that things are looking up...if that makes any sense.  My depression is not severe, the descent into a black hole sort, so I carry on in hopes that this, too, shall pass.

To all that I've written here, I must add that it's my faith that lifts me and carries me.  The knowledge that I have praying friends who will support me through the tough times, is of inestimable value.  Without my sense of God's presence, I'd face all of what happened recently and all of what's going on now with much more angst, (though angst there was and is) and much less equanimity, and so I say, "Thanks be to God."

You’ve got your limitations; let them sing,
And all your life will waken with a cry:
Why should you halt when rapture’s on the wing
And you’ve no limit but the cloud-flocked sky?...  

(From "Limitations" by Siegfried Sassoon)

Easy for you to say at the age of 34, Sassoon, but not so easy to practice when you're 78.  Still, the thought is worth a place in my mind, and the ideal is worth a reach.

The lovely painting at the head of the post is by David Hayward aka nakedpastor.   He posted the painting noting that it was available for purchase.  I waited a few days, but I found the painting irresistible and bought it.  In the poem beneath the painting, David says:

You’ve kept your place. You’ve held your ground. You’ve filled your space. You’ve stayed in bounds.
But something calls. You know you must. You forsake all. You will be blessed.
It’s time to go. It’s time to leave. This much you know: this is your peace.

The wonderful painting caused me to reflect on life, how we are always in motion, leaving and forsaking, traveling, and arriving at new places and eventually led to this post, for better or for worse.
 

A BLESSED AND MERRY CHRISTMAS

  Santos Nativity - Puerto Rico
Late 19th century - Unidentified artist,
     Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

Jesus Dear

One glorious night in stable cold
A Babe is born in days of old.
O Mother Mary, do you hear
The angels sing of Jesus Dear?

As Jesus Dear your arms embrace,
You see His face so full of grace.
Your overflowing love abounds,
Hearkening to the angels' sounds.

Your arms around Him keep Him warm.
You vow He'll never come to harm.
Yet in your heart there dwells a fear
Of hurt to come to Jesus Dear.

A shadow of a cross falls o'er
To pierce your loving heart well sore.
O Mother Mary, what distress
To mar the blessed happiness!

He'll grow in wisdom and in grace,
A Babe no more in form and face.
Sweet Mary, do I see a tear?
Weep not; He's yet your Jesus Dear.

(From Luke: 2)

June Butler  - 12-24-09

Quite by accident, I found the poem above that I wrote three years ago, which was not in the short list of my poetry on the sidebar.  I'd completely forgotten about it, and I'm a bit puzzled, because I rarely write in regular rhyme or meter.  So here's the bit of verse, for better or for worse.  When the muse visits, which is not often, I write.  Whether the effort is worthwhile, is not for me to say.

Below is one of my favorite folk singers, Kate Rusby, the lovely woman with the lovely voice, singing an English Christmas carol.

English folk singer and songwriter Kate Rusby singing traditional English Christmas song Sweet Bells (arr. Kate Rusby and Damien O'Kane; words by Nahum Tate, 1652 - 1715)

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.

IN MEMORY OF JONATHAN'S GLENNA

 

(June Butler 10-24-2012)

Jonathan blogs as MadPriest.