Grimalkin by Thomas Lynch

One of these days she will lie there and be dead.
I’ll take her out back in a garbage bag
and bury her among my sons’ canaries,
the ill-fated turtles, a pair of angelfish:
the tragic and mannerly household pests
that had the better sense to take their leaves
before their welcomes and my patience had worn thin.
For twelve long years I’ve suffered this damned cat
while Mike, my darling middle son, himself
twelve years this coming May, has grown into
the tender if quick-tempered manchild
his breeding blessed and cursed him to become.
And only his affection keeps this cat alive
though more than once I’ve threatened violence -
the brick and burlap in the river recompense
for mounds of furballs littering the house,
choking the vacuum cleaner, or what’s worse:
shit in the closets, piss in the planters, mice
that winter indoors safely as she sleeps
curled about a table leg, vigilant
as any knickknack in a partial coma.
But Mike, of course, is blind to all of it -
the gray angora breed of arrogance,
the sluttish roar, the way she disappears for days
sex-desperate once or twice a year,
urgently ripping her way out the screen door
to have her way with anything that moves
while Mike sits up with tuna fish and worry,
crying into the darkness, “Here kitty kitty,”
mindless of her whorish treacheries
or of her crimes against upholsteries -
the sofas, love seats, wingbacks, easy chairs
she’s puked and mauled into dilapidation.
I have this reoccurring dream of driving her
deep into the desert east of town
and dumping her out there with a few days’ feed
and water. In the dream, she’s always found
by kindly tribespeople who eat her kind
on certain holy days as a form of penance.
God knows, I don’t know what he sees in her.
Sometimes he holds her like a child in his arms
rubbing her underside until she sounds
like one of those battery powered vibrators
folks claim to use for the ache in their shoulders.
And under Mike’s protection she will fix her
indolent green-eyed gaze on me as if
to say: Whaddaya gonna do about it, Slick,
the child loves me and you love the child.
Truth told, I really ought to have her fixed
in the old way with an airtight alibi,
a bag of Redi-mix and no eyewitnesses.
But one of these days she will lie there and be dead.
And choking back loud hallelujahs, I’ll pretend
a brief bereavement for my Michael’s sake,
letting him think as he has often said
“Deep down inside you really love her don’t you Dad?”
I’ll even hold some cheerful obsequies
careful to observe God’s never-failing care
for even these, the least of His creatures,
making some mention of a cat-heaven where
cat-ashes to ashes, cat-dust to dust
and the Lord gives and the Lord has taken away.
Thus claiming my innocence to the end,
I’ll turn Mike homeward from that wicked little grave
and if he asks, we’ll get another one because
all boys need practice in the arts of love
and all boys’ aging fathers in the arts of rage.

Love Is Not All

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink

Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain; 

Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink 

And rise and sink and rise and sink again; 

Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath, 

Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; 

Yet many a man is making friends with death 

Even as I speak, for lack of love alone. 

It well may be that in a difficult hour, 

Pinned down by pain and moaning for release, 

Or nagged by want past resolution's power, 

I might be driven to sell your love for peace, 

Or trade the memory of this night for food. 

It well may be. I do not think I would. 

Edna St. Vincent Millay

First Shot

Michael Leviton

When I was four years old, 

my mother took me for my first shot. 

We waited in a line 

of sobbing children, 

asking their mothers, 

“Will it hurt? Will it hurt?” 

The mothers all said, 

“No, it won’t hurt.”

I asked my mother, “Will it hurt?”

She said, “It’ll hurt a little 

but it won’t last very long.”

When it came time for my shot, 

I didn’t cry. 

The nurse told my mother,

she’d never given a shot to a child 

who wasn’t crying, 

that I was the bravest child 

she’d ever seen. 

My mother said it wasn’t about bravery, 

that the other children weren’t 

crying out of fear, 

but out of sorrow 

at the betrayal of their mothers.

Marked by Ashes

Ruler of the Night, Guarantor of the day . . .
This day — a gift from you.
This day — like none other you have ever given, or we have ever received.
This Wednesday dazzles us with gift and newness and possibility.
This Wednesday burdens us with the tasks of the day, for we are already halfway home
     halfway back to committees and memos,
     halfway back to calls and appointments,
     halfway on to next Sunday,
     halfway back, half frazzled, half expectant,
     half turned toward you, half rather not.

This Wednesday is a long way from Ash Wednesday,
   but all our Wednesdays are marked by ashes —
     we begin this day with that taste of ash in our mouth:
       of failed hope and broken promises,
       of forgotten children and frightened women,
     we ourselves are ashes to ashes, dust to dust;
     we can taste our mortality as we roll the ash around on our tongues.

We are able to ponder our ashness with
   some confidence, only because our every Wednesday of ashes
   anticipates your Easter victory over that dry, flaky taste of death.

On this Wednesday, we submit our ashen way to you —
   You Easter parade of newness.
   Before the sun sets, take our Wednesday and Easter us,
     Easter us to joy and energy and courage and freedom;
     Easter us that we may be fearless for your truth.
   Come here and Easter our Wednesday with
     mercy and justice and peace and generosity.

We pray as we wait for the Risen One who comes soon.

Walter Brueggemann (b. 1933)
Taken from his Prayers for a Privileged People (Nashville: Abingdon, 2008), pp. 27-28.

Desert Prayer

Jan Richardson- Painted Prayerbook.com

I am not asking you

to take this wilderness from me,

to remove this place of starkness

where I come to know

the wildness within me,

where I learn to call the names

of the ravenous beasts

that pace inside me,

to finger the brambles

that snake through my veins,

to taste the thirst

that tugs at my tongue.

But send me

tough angels,

sweet wine,

strong bread:

just enough.

American Christmas Card 2004

I met a man in Nigeria years ago,

an Ibo,

who said he had three hundred relatives

he knew by name.

His wife had just had a baby.

They were going to take it 

on foot

to be welcomed and marveled at

by as many of those relatives

as they could find,

even though

there was a war going on.

Wouldn’t you love to have been

such a famous baby?

I wish I could wave a magic wand

this Christmas,

and give every desperately lonesome

and hungry and lost American

man, woman, or child

the love and comfort and support

of an extended family.

Just two people and a babe in the manger,

given a heartless Government, 

is no survival scheme.

Kurt Vonnegut 

Editing Job

Carl Dennis

I'd cut the prologue, where God agrees 

To let his opponent, Satan, 

Torment our hero merely to prove 

What omniscience must know already: 

That Job's devotion isn't dependent 

On his prosperity. And how foolish of God 

If he supposes that Satan, once proven wrong, 

Will agree to forego his spite against creation 

For even a minute.

I'd keep the part where Job disdains 

His friends' assumption that somehow 

He must be to blame for his suffering, 

And the part where he makes a moving appeal 

To God for an explanation. 

I'd drop God's irrelevant, angry tirade 

About might and majesty versus weakness.

The issue is justice. Is our hero 

Impertinent for expecting his god 

To practice justice as well as preach it, 

For assuming the definition of justice 

That holds on earth holds as well above? 

Abraham isn't reproved in Genesis 

For asking, when God decides to burn Sodom, 

If it's fair to lump the good with the wicked.

Let Job be allowed to complain 

About his treatment as long as he wants to, 

For months, for decades,

And in this way secure his place forever 

In the hearts of all who believe 

That suffering shouldn't be silent, 

That grievances ought to be aired completely, 

Whether heard or not.

As for the end, if it's meant to suggest 

That patience will be rewarded, I'd cut it too. 

Or else I suggest at least adding a passage 

Where God, after replenishing Job's possessions, 

Comes to the tent where the man sits grieving 

To ask his pardon. How foolish of majesty 

To have assumed that Job's new family, 

New wife and children and servants, 

Would be an ample substitute for the old.

I Cry

Tupac Shakur

Sometimes when I'm alone

I Cry, 

Cause I am on my own.

The tears I cry are bitter and warm.

They flow with life but take no form

I Cry because my heart is torn.

I find it difficult to carry on. 

If I had an ear to confide in, 

I would cry among my treasured friend, 

but who do you know that stops that long, 

to help another carry on.

The world moves fast and it would rather pass by.

Then to stop and see what makes one cry, 

so painful and sad. 

And sometimes...

I Cry 

and no one cares about why. 

A Plankless Job

Luke 6:39-42

Lord,

With this plank

I only see drones

not doves.

With this plank

I only see darkness

instead of light.

With this plank

I only see 

what I want to see.

And now

You want

to remove it.

Just so I can

see things 

the way You do.

Introduction to Poetry

Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem

and hold it up to the light 

like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem

and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room

and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to water ski

across the surface of a poem

waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do

is tie the poem to a chair with rope

and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose

to find out what it really means.

End of the Line

Luke 15:25-30

I

followed the rules,

did what I was told

and what do You do?

Where

in the rule book

is this

behavior forgiven?

Even more,

where

in the rule book

is this

behavior celebrated?

And even though

You insist

this is what 

Love does

to those who return

to Graceland

(in spite of the rule book)

there is

no way

I will 

enter this house.

That Business is Our Life

Luke 18:9-14

“We fear the publican’s acceptance 

because we know precisely what it means. 

It means that we will never be free 

until we are dead 

to the whole business 

of justifying ourselves. 

But since that business is our life,  

that means not until we are dead.”

--Robert Farrar Capon

To a Child Dancing in the Wind W.B. Yeats

I

DANCE there upon the shore;  

What need have you to care  

For wind or water’s roar?  

And tumble out your hair  

That the salt drops have wet;         

Being young you have not known  

The fool’s triumph, nor yet  

Love lost as soon as won,  

Nor the best labourer dead  

And all the sheaves to bind.  

What need have you to dread  

The monstrous crying of wind?  

  

II

Has no one said those daring  

Kind eyes should be more learn’d?  

Or warned you how despairing  

The moths are when they are burned,  

I could have warned you, but you are young,  

So we speak a different tongue.  

  

O you will take whatever’s offered  

And dream that all the world’s a friend,  

Suffer as your mother suffered,  

Be as broken in the end.  

But I am old and you are young,  

And I speak a barbarous tongue.

A Drinking Song

WINE comes in at the mouth

And love comes in at the eye;

That's all we shall know for truth

Before we grow old and die.

I lift the glass to my mouth,

I look at you, and I sigh. 

William Butler Yeats

Forty Years Later

(After the fall)

It is my prayer,

 it is my longing,

 that we may pass

 from this life together--

a longing which shall never perish from the earth, 

but shall have place in the heart of every wife that loves, 

until the end of time; and it shall be called by my name.

But if one of us must go first,

 it is my prayer that it shall be I;

 for he is strong, I am weak,

 I am not so necessary to him

 as he is to me --

life without him would not be life; 

how could I endure it? 

This prayer is also immortal, 

and will not cease from being offered up 

while my race continues. 

I am the first wife; 

and in the last wife 

I shall be repeated.

Mark Twain

To Jesus on Easter By Vassar Miller

You see the universe, as I see daylight,

opening to your heart

like fingers of a little child uncurling.

It lies to you no more than wood to blade,

nor will you tell me lies.

Only fools or cowards lie. And you are neither.

Not that I comprehend You, who are simpler

than all our words about you,

and deeper. They drop around you like dead leaves.

Yet I can trust you. You resembling me—

two eyes, two hands, two feet,

fives senses and no more—will cup my being,

spilling toward nothingness, within your palm.

And when the last bridge breaks,

I shall walk on the bright span of your breath.

Was that You?

Was that you,

that gentle wind in the trees that sway,

the wind that cools the shadows

on a steamy summer day?

Was that your breath, a soothing message from you

that moves the grains of wheat.

The devil has breath too,

and when it comes it breaks

the tall trees in two,

it rips and rages, destroying the old,

makes nothing new.

Father, thank you for your breath

that relieves us from the summer heat.

From A Year of Prayers by Jack Bartlett

The Prodigal Clippings

Can angels experience regret?

I’m thinking specifically of the

fallen ones, the ones herded up

and driven over the edge of the

clouds because of their mutiny?

Do you think one or two or three

of them might’ve enjoyed it for

a season, because c’mon it is fun

for a while, but then missed the

comfort of foursquare and pearl?

I bet they were welcomed home

with feasting and singing but I

believe there was also a price of

return: the prodigal clippings.

But, you say, what about grace?

Well, I say, ask them, they know,

for they are the angels of mercy.

John Blase

Putting it All Together

Many in our culture

regard youth as good

and old age as bad.

But is this true?

In the sage, youth and age are married.

Wisdom and folly each been lived fully.

Innocence and experience now support one another.

Action and rest follow each other easily.

Life and death have become inseparable.

The sage has experienced all opposites

and lets them come and go

without clinging or fretting.

Therefore the sage can talk without lecturing,

act without worrying about results,

and live in contentment with all events.

The first part of our life

was spent separating things into categories:

good and bad,

like and dislike,

me and you,

us and them.

Now it is time to put all the pieces back together

into a seamless whole. 

The Sage's Tao Te Ching: Ancient Advice for the Second Half of Life 

by William Martin

Hurry

We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store

and the gas station and the green market and

Hurry up honey, I say, hurry, hurry,

as she runs along two or three steps behind me

her blue jacket unzipped and her socks rolled down.

Where do I want her to hurry to? To her grave?

To mine? Where one day she might stand all grown?

Today, when all the errands are finally done, I say to her,

"Honey I’m sorry I keep saying Hurry—

you walk ahead of me. You be the mother."

"Hurry up," she says, over her shoulder, looking

back at me, laughing. "Hurry up now darling," she says,

"hurry, hurry," taking the house keys from my hands.

**Marie Howe

Lessons in the Afterlife

Luke 13:24 / Luke 14:1-14 

Lord,

after we get through

the narrow door,

save us from

the temptation

of charging forward

in Your banquet hall.

Let us remember

that rushing 

doesn't work 

in a place

where the last

are served first.

Selection from Sirach 3

Humility

My child, 

be humble 

in everything you do, 

and 

people will appreciate it 

more than gifts. 

The greater you become, 

the more humble 

you should be; 

then the Lord 

will be pleased 

with you. 

The Lord's power is great, 

and he is honored 

by those who are humble. 

Don't try to understand things

that are too hard for you, 

or investigate matters 

that are beyond your power to know. 

Concentrate on the Law, 

which has been given to you. 

You do not need to know 

about things 

which the Lord has not revealed, 

so don't concern yourself with them. 

After all, 

what has been shown to you 

is beyond human power to understand. 

Many people have been misled 

by their own opinions; 

their wrong ideas have warped their judgment.

The More Loving One

by W. H. Auden

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well 

That, for all they care, I can go to hell,

But on earth indifference is the least 

We have to dread from man or beast. 

How should we like it were stars to burn 

With a passion for us we could not return? 

If equal affection cannot be, 

Let the more loving one be me. 

Admirer as I think I am 

Of stars that do not give a damn, 

I cannot, now I see them, say 

I missed one terribly all day. 

Were all stars to disappear or die, 

I should learn to look at an empty sky 

And feel its total dark sublime, 

Though this might take me a little time. 

The Little Monk and the Samurai: A Zen Parable

A big, tough samurai once went to see a little monk.

"Monk!"

He barked, in a voice accustomed to instant obedience.

"Teach me about heaven and hell!"

The monk looked up at the mighty warrior and replied with utter disdain,

"Teach you about heaven and hell? I couldn't teach you about anything. 
You're dumb. 
You're dirty. 

You're a disgrace, an embarrassment to the samurai class. 

Get out of my sight. I can't stand you."

The samurai got furious. He shook, red in the face, speechless with rage. 

He pulled out his sword, and prepared to slay the monk.

Looking straight into the samurai's eyes, the monk said softly,

"That's hell."

The samurai froze, realizing the compassion of the monk 

who had risked his life to show him hell! 

He put down his sword and fell to his knees, filled with gratitude.

The monk said softly,

"And that's heaven."

To the Holy Spirit

O Thou, far off and here, whole and broken,

Who in necessity and in bounty wait,

Whose truth is both light and dark, mute though spoken,

By Thy wide Grace show me Thy narrow gate.

Wendell Berry

SUNDAY SERMON BLUES

Mark 8:21

If Jesus preached this Sabbath,

Would He:

Ask his Father to disable all the smart phones

while He spoke?

Wait in silence

until all hearts were turned toward Him?

And after He spoke

would He ask

as He did of His followers,

"Do you understand what I have told you?"

And we nod our heads,

knowing we missed the kickoff

of the Cowboys game

or 

silently

cursing we will be behind 

the Baptists

at the cafeteria. 

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.