JERUSALEM

St. Brendan and the Whale; 17th Century Engraving
Courtesy Meisterdrucke

They really are like islands—
When they rise the water greens,
Their backs soil-brown within a stronger blue

Deep in the sea a light-green light is rising,
A light is rising—
A sight and sound of breathing whales

An island rises, green of gardens and a brown,
A blood-hot brown Jerusalem
From underneath, St. Brendan

You did not lie, nor will the saint-pure traveler
When this Jerusalem
Arises like a city from the depths

JERUSALEM

They really are like islands—
When they rise the water greens,
Their backs soil-brown within a stronger blue

Deep in the sea a light-green light is rising,
A light is rising—
A sight and sound of breathing whales

An island rises, green of gardens and a brown,
A blood-hot brown Jerusalem
From underneath, St. Brendan

You did not lie, nor will the saint-pure traveler
When this Jerusalem
Arises like a city from the depths

LOVERS

A small green meadow floating on water
Dragonfly wings that feather their oars,
Harlequin props that wave—there are four—
The delicate lashes of green-eyed summer

A yelp from a frog—it breaks through the skin
Of the alga-light-green covering—
Chestnut craters vanish as soon
As algae float in and heal the wounds

Bent reeds bow at the famished fish
Who nibble the bottom of this green dish—
Mosquito larvae, goggled-eyed imps
Bubble their microscopic lips

Rich are the curved and supple reeds
Who bobble the edges where they feed
On nitrogen mud their slim address,
Till nightfall calms these restless rest

Green-eyed summer leans against fall
Who loves but ends this green pastoral

THE RELICS OF SAINT FRANCIS

Habit of St. Francis of Assisi
Courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Not him but his pathetic robe
The true flag of Assisi
Laundered and preserved, but not filled up

Inside the empty socket of Subasio
The pines, the wrens, the sliding sun
The yellow curving wall of Francis’ cell

But not the fragile bones and skull
The melting muscle and the insubstantial blood—
The imitative whistle lives

Or did you know he whistled with the birds?
He sang with them, and they with him
Some echoes now to last forever

In this dying world there is a wave
Attenuated yet alive
And his was strong and rises still

It was not sound, for that requires air
It was the wordless run and trill of prayer

(October 4 is the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi.)

MOUNT SUBASIO

José de Ribera (1591–1652), “Saint Francis of Assisi”
Courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Mount Subasio, a cleft
The refuge of the primal friar

Was there not a blessed peace
A silence in which one could hear?

No gossip and no violent words
To break the caul of innocence

Bird song only, never scandal
Nor the rattle of a rumor

Only wholesome rain and snow
The soughing of the virgin wind

Calumny, malicious prattle
Such are mankind’s fond delights

Francis, tell us, how the wounds
Even so have not yet healed

For as stigmata printed him
Bleeding from the hands and feet

The jealous curses of the race
Ascended even to his cell

“WILL YOU BE CLIMBING?”

Gray Squirrel on Sunflower
Courtesy Facebook

As squirrels find their sunflower
High up on a green tower
So we die and then we climb
Above the garden plot of time

Where God has planted where He chose
Between the seconds us in rows,
Asks us in the afternoon
“Will you be climbing to Me soon?

Then move this way to where the blade
Of immortality is made
For it has flowered over time
And now the dusk advances—climb!”

How can I be the one who’s planted
And the climber too—the answer?
Every being is a seed,
A plant, a soul and then a need

AS THE SUMMER ENDS

In the street, above the street
The feather of a jay, floating—
Summer being over, the chicks are raised
To scream elsewhere
At the robbing crow
And the crouching cat

My Lord God Jesus Christ
How long will this go on
Before You end the comedy,
The bitter farce?

We are so tired of ourselves
Of thievery, and robbery, and violence
End over end, from now until forever
Never learning, never changing
Curse upon curse
Theft upon theft
And no remorse

As the feather floats
So will I come
On some fine autumn day—
Beware, or unaware
It shall not matter—
Silent are the feet
And blessed is the light
And I tell you this
As summer ends

LITTLE BATS

Flying Bats
Courtesy Edge of the Woods Nursery

Little bats are flittering above the paddock
Their spirals rise and pivot as the quarry tacks—
They fall and what they look for is invisible—
Mosquitoes in the shadows are unseeable

Tame ponies snort and pat the gentle dust—
Cicadas rasp—the shrilling gassy toads,
The climbing frogs their intervals adjust
Beside the night-blind forests and the empty roads

Now the air is cooler and the forest black—
Flittering above the paddock little bats
As though there were another thing that hunted me
Invisible in spirals as I twisted free

“Come, turn around and do not be afraid,
Be of good heart and see what I have made”

THE NAMELESS

Isaak Levitan (1860–1900), “Autumn Leaves”
Courtesy WikiArt

A horde of brown leaves, tan leaves, gold leaves
Flowing in migration
From the caves of autumn

Now the blur of six months dusk
And now they twitter, scrape and whine
Rush to the water’s edge
In a horde, a beast, a living body
Made of dead leaves

Who are they—rushing to the water
Who are they—do they have names
Do leaves have names?
No, as all the dead who ever lived
And ever will
Just so the dead are named

Then who will know them, tell,
Who will know?
Now they lift themselves and fly—
Or are they lifted—who can tell,
They seem to be alive—
Let them be at peace, for One who knows them
Will name them on a day
And lift them too—
All prayer is that,
For that we pray