Bomb (rosalarian.com)

Grass

Carl Sandburg

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. 

Shovel them under and let me work--

          I am the grass; I cover all.

And pile them high at Gettysburg

And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.

Shovel them under and let me work.

Two years, ten years, and the passengers ask the conductor:

          What place is this?

          Where are we now?

          I am the grass.

          Let me work. 

These poems, she said,

Robert Bringhurst

These poems, these poems,

these poems, she said, are poems

with no love in them. These are the poems of a man   
who would leave his wife and child because   
they made noise in his study. These are the poems   
of a man who would murder his mother to claim   
the inheritance. These are the poems of a man   
like Plato, she said, meaning something I did not   
comprehend but which nevertheless
offended me. These are the poems of a man
who would rather sleep with himself than with women,   
she said. These are the poems of a man
with eyes like a drawknife, with hands like a pickpocket’s   
hands, woven of water and logic
and hunger, with no strand of love in them. These   
poems are as heartless as birdsong, as unmeant   
as elm leaves, which if they love, love only   
the wide blue sky and the air and the idea
of elm leaves. Self-love is an ending, she said,   
and not a beginning. Love means love
of the thing sung, not of the song or the singing.   
These poems, she said....
                                       You are, he said,
beautiful.
                That is not love, she said rightly.

The Does' Prayer

The does, as the hour grows late,

med-it-ate;

med-it-nine;

med-i-ten;

med-eleven;

med-twelve;

mednight!

The does, as the hour grows late,

meditate.

They fold their little toesies,

the doesies.

Christian Morgenstern 

 translation by Max Knight

Blessing for the Raising of the Dead

This blessing

does not claim

to raise the dead.

It is not so audacious

as that.

But be sure

it can come

and find you

if you think yourself

beyond all hope,

beyond all remedy;

if you have

laid your bones down

in your exhaustion

and grief,

willing yourself numb.

This blessing

knows its way

through death,

knows the paths

that weave

through decay

and dust.

And while this blessing

does not have the power

to raise you,

it knows how

to reach you.

It will come to you,

sit down

beside you,

look you

in the eye

and ask

if you want

to live.

It has no illusions.

This blessing knows

it is an awful grace

to be returned

to this world.

Just ask Lazarus,

or the Shunammite’s son.

Go to Nain

and ask the widow’s boy

whether he had

to think twice

about leaving the quiet,

the stillness;

whether he hesitated

just for a moment

before abandoning the place

where nothing could harm

or disturb.

Ask the risen

if it gave them pause

to choose this life—

not as one thrust into it

like a babe,

unknowing, unasking,

but this time

with intent,

with desire.

Ask them how it feels

to claim this living,

this waking;

to welcome the breath

in your lungs,

the blood

in your veins;

to gladly consent

to hold in your chest

the beating heart

of this broken

and dazzling world.

paintedprayerbook.com

THE ONION

(From The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky)

“Once upon a time there was a woman, and she was wicked as wicked could be, and she died. And not one good deed was left behind her. The devils took her and threw her into the lake of fire. And her guardian angel stood thinking: what good deed of hers can I remember to tell God? Then he remembered and said to God: once she pulled up an onion and gave it to a beggar woman. And God answered: take now that same onion, hold it out to her in the lake, let her take hold of it and pull, and if you pull her out of the lake, she can go to paradise. 

The angel ran to the woman and held out the onion to her: here, woman, he said, take hold of it and I’ll pull. And he began pulling carefully, and had almost pulled her all of the way out, when other sinners in the lake saw her being pulled out and all began holding on to her so as to be pulled out with her. But the woman was wicked as wicked could be, and she began to kick them with her feet: ‘It’s me who’s getting pulled out, not you; it’s my onion, not yours.’ No sooner did she say it than the onion broke. And the woman fell back into the lake and is burning there to this day. And the angel wept and went away.”

Worst Comes to Worst

In the South Pacific Islands, there’s certain animals that don’t

Experience fear, like Galapagos iguanas

A newborn sea lion in the Galapagos Islands

They never had predators, so their adaptive responses

Evolved to be as calm as a pack of Dalai Llamas

So then, why do we have to live with violence

When this whole planet could be like a pacifistic island?

Do we need fear to escape invading aliens?

The only predators here are called Homo sapiens

And yeah, we can be dangerous but we can also be

Motivated by affection and reciprocity

Or by that Old Testament animosity: an eye for an eye

But that philosophy’s got the whole world blind

Let’s not pretend it’s gonna be a cake-walk to end it

If violence is an instinct, it’s not entirely senseless

But the logic of human destiny is reciprocal altruism

Yes we can change our perspectives

And as soon as this is widely comprehended

Then I predict we’ll be as calm as Galapagos finches

Worst comes to worst, my people come first

But my tribe lives on every country on earth

I’ll do anything to protect them from hurt

The human race is what I serve

Baba Brinkman

Lovers in a Dangerous Time

Bruce Cockburn

Don't the hours grow shorter as the days go by

You never get to stop and open your eyes

One day you're waiting for the sky to fall

The next you're dazzled by the beauty of it all

When you're lovers in a dangerous time

Lovers in a dangerous time

These fragile bodies of touch and taste

This vibrant skin -- this hair like lace

Spirits open to the thrust of grace

Never a breath you can afford to waste

When you're lovers in a dangerous time

Lovers in a dangerous time

When you're lovers in a dangerous time

Sometimes you're made to feel as if your love's a crime --

But nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight --

Got to kick at the darkness 'til it bleeds daylight

When you're lovers in a dangerous time

Lovers in a dangerous time

And we're lovers in a dangerous time

Lovers in a dangerous time 

Contains Flashing Images by Lily Hamourtziadou

The narrative of terror is 

the narrative 

of justifications, 

of explanations, 

of accusations. 

It is the narrative of 

the names and faces 

of the innocent. 

It is the narrative 

of the helpless and the poor, 

the millions of refugees, 

the bodies found and picked up 

from the streets of Baghdad, 

buried in mass graves, 

unidentified, unclaimed. 

We are the lucky ones, 

who witness the horror from afar, 

our TV screens, 

our newspapers, 

our computer monitors. 

We can watch in shock and awe, 

as it all unfolds, 

less and less frequently now, 

safe from the missiles, 

safe from the car bombs, 

the only danger 

those flashing images 

hurting our eyes. 

That’s why those reports come with a warning.

Every Grain of Sand by Bob Dylan

In the time of my confession, in the hour of my deepest need
When the pool of tears beneath my feet flood every newborn seed 
There's a dyin' voice within me reaching out somewhere, 
Toiling in the danger and in the morals of despair.

Don't have the inclination to look back on any mistake, 
Like Cain, I now behold this chain of events that I must break. 
In the fury of the moment I can see the Master's hand 
In every leaf that trembles, in every grain of sand.

Oh, the flowers of indulgence and the weeds of yesteryear, 
Like criminals, they have choked the breath of conscience and good cheer. 
The sun beat down upon the steps of time to light the way 
To ease the pain of idleness and the memory of decay. 

I gaze into the doorway of temptation's angry flame 
And every time I pass that way I always hear my name. 
Then onward in my journey I come to understand 
That every hair is numbered like every grain of sand.

I have gone from rags to riches in the sorrow of the night 
In the violence of a summer's dream, in the chill of a wintry light, 
In the bitter dance of loneliness fading into space, 
In the broken mirror of innocence on each forgotten face.

I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea 
Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, other times it's only me. 
I am hanging in the balance of a perfect finished plan 
Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand.

Copyright © 1981 Special Rider Music

:

Saint Peter

Malcolm Guite

Impulsive master of misunderstanding
You comfort me with all your big mistakes;
Jumping the ship before you make the landing,
Placing the bet before you know the stakes.

I love the way you step out without knowing,
The way you sometimes speak before you think,
The way your broken faith is always growing,
The way he holds you even when you sink.

Born to a world that always tried to shame you,
Your shaky ego vulnerable to shame,
I love the way that Jesus chose to name you,
Before you knew how to deserve that name.

And in the end your Savior let you prove
That each denial is undone by love.

A Prayer in Brokenness

O God,

I cannot undo the past,

or make it never have happened!

– neither can You. There are some things

that are not possible even for You

– but not many!

I ask You,

humbly,

and from the bottom of my heart:

Please, God,

would You write straight

with my crooked lines?

Out of the serious mistakes of my life

will You make something beautiful for You?

Teach me to live at peace with You,

to make peace with others

and even with myself.

Give me fresh vision. Let me

experience Your love so deeply

that I am free to

face the future with a steady eye,

forgiven,

and strong in hope.

Celtic Daily Prayer 

The Cure

Katharine Harer

baseball is a good antidote for death

where else do we mutter belief scream

hope over green grass bathed

in light where else do we coach the best

out of one another

it's all right baby

you can do it

settle down guy

you'll be okay just hang in there

we need you buddy

we need a spark

be the ignitor man

our whispered pleas combine over rows

of seats and peanut calls and pour into the ears

of our boys fixing them

with our best hope the best we have to give

nowhere else do we do this together

reverently from some untapped place

in our chests saved for our children

and our lovers we thought we'd used it up

but listen to us croon making our voices

carry just the right mixture

of love and demand

our throats are sore

the peanut shells under our feet flattened

from jumping up and sinking down again

our heats extended

pumping belief

into this one afternoon

you can do it

you can do it for us

do it now come on

do it now

The Greeter

Robert N. Watson

He’s not the Reaper, but he does stop by

To say, to everything that’s ever lived, “Nice try.”

Adam's Complaint

Denise Levertov

Some people, 

no matter what you give them,

still want the moon.

The bread, 

the salt, 

white meat and dark,

still hungry.

The marriage bed 

and the cradle,

still empty arms.

You give them land, 

their own earth under their feet,

still they take to the roads

And water: dig them the deepest well, 

still it’s not deep enough

to drink the moon from. 

The Candidate

Mt 15:22-24 / Mt 19:13-14 / Luke 15:1-2 

They did their best

to keep the marginals

away

from the Candidate.

The children.

The sick.

The possessed.

 For a moment

they let down

their guard,

 and find Him

dining with sinners.

And the Twelve

frustrated

with Him

wonder,

"How is this guy 

ever gonna be 

our Messiah?"