Go down, step off
into the deep waters
they say…at least
they used to say.
Now we skip our
minds along the surface
hoping never to sink
into the unknown.
But is in the depths
where stillness sits
under the pressure of
context and history.
God holds my breath,
from beginning to end.
Every fear of drowning
exhaled to His lungs.
How I long to go down
Again and again–
each dive extended
in His presence.
The wandering rise of morning light
Mingles in and through the crowns
Of oak and elm like broken speech.
The halting of a haunting while
This day breaks into pieces on the ground.
Light falling all around, resting on
Seemingly impenetrable surfaces.
Leave lie its’ yellow demure as it lay
in silent reflective yawns.
“Come. Recline. Bathe in my pouring.
Light loads I give you stretched
In Sabbath shine.”
The first borne is a refocusing,
A wonderment which halves
Your heart in the mystery of it all.
Each half, if bonded together,
Is a doubling of your thrums,
And a healthy enlargement.
One little child is all it took.
You’re in a new identity.
We all see it, that cradling
Look you give over and over.
The center of gravity shifted,
And there you are swirling
round and round.
“What child is this?”
Is a daily question now…
Somewhat rhetorical,
Yet asked again and again
As if for the first time.
This is for all the new mothers and mother’s to be. Particularly Voilet, Kaleena, Chandra, and Sammy
In over the dark,
Light settled on the
Bone limbs of branches.
A covering sigh
Of winter’s last whisper.
An overcast came down
To surround our small
House in the wood.
Afternoon winds on the way
To dust off the etchings
Of grace, of the silence.
Yet, for now, I can
Rest my eyes on the
Cold insulation of a
Forest waiting for full
Spring, white to green.
How often I forget.
Eyes, razor-like, look on,
Gaze along the horizon,
While stars spindle down
Into my soul like a midnight
Dream, scraping the chill
Off my bones, off my bones.
*
A local poet named the dark-
Wide-skyscape beautiful; love.
I’m still looking around at
The fading shadows of
Deep evening and shallow morning.
The moon glow lifts my eyes
Off the ground, off the ground.
*
My cricked neck wearies,
So I settle in the low,
Lay in the dimple of the
Long grasses; their back and
Forth in the breeze frame
The heavens declarations
Off the heights, off the heights.
A few months ago I began lighting a candle as part of my morning ritual of coffee, reading, praying, and writing. The little light sits off to the side and after a while goes unnoticed…until recently.
We bought a house in the dead of winter. What emphasized that fact was more and more empty drawers and taped up boxes. When my candle dwindled down to uselessness I went for a replacement, and the only available were several Christmas gift candles. We had bought the kind which sound like a mini-crackling fire. Figuring this would add a bit more ambience, I gave one a go.
A couple of days in, I noticed slight slips of concentration, more than usual anyhow. This particular little light of mine had much to say. The conclusion: candles should be seen, not heard. I don’t dismiss these crack candles out of hand. My muse did though. She thought it distracted our communique. “You’re not listening hard enough,” She’d say. “What’s up with gibbering candle there?” She’d ask.
What would it be like if all candles crackled? Imagine a fine dining situation with the love of your life… The glow highlighting the subtle curves of facial recognition. Eye contact melting into soul connection. Soft conversation. After a few minutes the spit and sputter of the center lit ambiance highjacks the focus of togetherness. Instead of staring at each other, you’re gazing at “it.”
Or you walk into your catholic parish to light a votive or two, say a prayer, and sit quietly under the vaulted ceilings. But no, not today, because it sounds like a brush fire in the foothills. You can’t even hear your own echoing steps on the marble floors.
I repeat, candles should be seen, not heard, when it comes to keeping silence and listening. Now, fires in the hearth are different. They are destined to speak, give off light, warmth, and an ambience for deeper refection. Campfires too. Bring a guitar, marshmallows, wieners, a circle of Adirondack chairs, and a recipe of reciprocity is complete.
But a silent light, holy light, serves sometimes as a reminder to close our lips. Let us find place to still our souls for a bit, open the flue of our hearts, and pray. Welcome the Muse if need be. Let the lit wick melt the waxy elements of a hurried worried life.
“I am the light of the world.” Jesus
P.S. I do like the crackling candles, by the way. They serve a purpose, but fail in joining my quiet time in the morning.
So close, just beyond this busy corner.
Has to be here somewhere.
I see the rushed paces, flushed faces;
Blank stares and unawares.
Happens every year, the fight to hear…
The little drummer boy, Angels on high,
My mother’s tired sigh.
Christmas past pasted
Like cards around doorways.
New pajamas, mistletoe,
And a ceramic manger made
By my godmother.
Call me sentimental,
But the collective memories
Settle on the tree, tinsel-like,
Scattered, glimmering.
Does anyone use tinsel anymore?
I’m older now, as you gather.
I’ve got enough history
To fill a stocking anyway.
Midnight Mass, candles all around
The silent night of dreaming
Of peace and place and a Person.
All shall be merry,
And all manner of Christmas shall be merry.
“I Am the Light of the world.” Jesus
Loosen my grip,
Oh Lord,
Make my hands
And heart
Humble receptors
Of Your love.
Have mercy once
More.
Grace me to
Wrest free from
Which I cling,
And what is clinging,
and give rest.
I rest in Thee.
Psalm 131 Matthew 11:28,29 John 14:27
When was the last time we skipped?
Not a meal.
Neither church.
A kiss goodnight?
*
I’m talking about skipping, literally.
Down a sidewalk.
In a park.
Along a hallway.
*
When was the last time our hearts
Skipped a beat;
Lept a leap?
Bounced in hope?
*
Come, take my hand.
See the floor,
The path ahead?
Let’s skip instead.
“Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me.” Jesus
John 14:1
The morning after I got the call
Frost clung to the fields of grass
As the sun brimmed the horizon.
Trees blushed, cast off leaves,
Drifted down, settled like shadows
Of colored light, circular, gathered round.
*
I remember a morning like this,
The dawn, yawning, spreading
The shadows of our bikes like
New mercies over warm pavement.
We were faithful to the road,
The open road he knew so well.
*
That day there was no double-clutching,
No whine whistling of his tractor trailer.
We were hugging the white line as the
Scenery scrolled by, slow and deliberate.
Peripheral perceptions keeping pace,
A sweaty grace.
*
It was a simple day back in ’80.
Pedals orbiting, words bouncing back–
Then forth, sometimes caught in the spokes.
Prayer wheels spinning, and changing gears.
We were present to each other,
One of the greatest gifts on this side of the line.
*
John had passed me now,
Riding ahead, pedaling toward
The Light of the world,
He looked over his shoulder and
Through a dipped lower lip said,
“Put the pedal down brother. Look!”
John Barrett
September 20, 1958-November 2, 2021
Beloved husband, father, grandfather, brother, and friend.
Gerald the Writer 