A Thanksgiving Prayer

On this grey day,

When the empty fields

And the resting woods

Are so bleak, so beautiful.

We gather here

To thank you for your blessings.

Both Visible

And silent.

We thank you

For yourself,

For ourselves,

For each other.

We thank you

For the diverse blessings

Which fill our lives

In all ways.

Give us the grace

To see your gifts

And help us to love

You who are love.

In the name of the Triune God,

Amen.

Sext

Words

For being mere

puffs of air

are powerful things.

Why did you choose these

Lowly vibrations of nitrogen

And scattered marks on a page

To bear your wisdom?

Often they are:

Abused, transitory,

Misinterpreted,

And inadequate.

Yet you transformed

Us through them,

Revealing yourself

And the right way.

They are more than

26 soldiers, or even kings;

But bearers of

Grace, truth.

Gratitude

Thank-You notes are the bane of Christmas.

For weeks afterwards I’d scrawl

On pieces of plain printer paper

With a word, and perhaps a sketch,

About a gift that I have received.

I rarely received a reply.

Now I am free from this winter toil

But I don’t know what to think.

The world feels off when thanks

Doesn’t accompany a gift,

Appreciated or otherwise,

Its center weighs me down.

God teach me to give thanks so

In humility I may grow.

Vespers

A few months ago

I sat on the edge of a lake

As one of the short days of summer

Sank below the western mountains.

Then the breeze was strong

And clean. The cool air moved all

Around, drying my storm-drenched

Tent, and whispering “relax.”

We didn’t have enough to eat,

On that splendid evening.

But, when I wanted seconds,

She gave me the last of it.

I wonder if I can ever get

Enough of this mundane miracle

Of dinners and lunches,

And breakfasts and snacks.

I am a hungry man,

Stacking my plate two or three

Layers high at the cornucopias of

family reunions and thanksgivings.

There is so much food

On this earth: rashers, breads

Roasts, venison, soups, apples,

Beets, pies, wines, and curries.

I have nine or ten

Short decades to taste it,

Appreciate it, savor it,

Love it, share it.

I will never enjoy all of it,

But I can say

The small, inadequate words

I learned so long ago:

“Bless us our Lord,

For these thy gifts.

Which we are about to receive,

Through the Bounty of Christ, our Lord.”

Prime II

Triune God

True light behind all things

Your grace, you yourself

Stream down from heaven.

Through mist

And wafting spirals of smoke

You join our chipped and crazed lives

Not by accident, but intention

The hands hold your body aloft

Are wrinkled, callused, and pained

Joints crack, blood-dark purple bruises abound

Cuts are slow to heal.

You have chosen the humble to bear your glory

The simple bread of coarse flour,

And tasteless water.

Wine: dry and basic.

The Lord of heaven and earth is here
Let the wheat dance and the hemlocks bow.
While we climb that old, ragged hill
To rejoice at his table.

Compline

The Darkness of night

Mutes and dampens color all around,

Confining the artist’s palette

To midnight shades of green, blue, and violet.

I crouch in the darkness:

Protecting my paper from the rain

That drips from the clouds

While I pen these lines.

Beyond me, squares of yellow light

Stream across the night

Their shining glow inviting all to a room,

Warmed by a fire crumbling into ash.

Light is such a tricky thing:

Particle and wave, produced

So freely, so easily,

And so undervalued.

One could say that

Light is a well-defined mystery

Like… Christ or

The Eucharist he offers.

I walk Home.

Without light,

Or light from light,

I would be lost.

Simeon After Peter

Matthew 16:22

After years of begging

I expected him to be taller.

Is this the child that

Will free us?

Small weak and tired,

He doesn’t even struggle.

Perhaps he will grow

To become the strong man.

His weak flabby, arms will grow out

Of baby fat, into powerful bars of iron.

His limp legs now swing

Later they will run without end.

A carpenter’s son

Yes, that will make him strong.

Parents, proud parents, this joy

Will pierce you with sorrow.

As he raises and lifts,

He will change this nation.

Into a light, to be loved

And feared.

Terce

I go into the Garden to work
Sun-hungry stalks of corn ripple in the wind.

The dust I kick up, hoeing,
Hacking at the earth, wafts and twists away.

The grass and weeds I cut have moved in,
Their yellow stubble besiege the fence.

Stubborn roots tunnel under
To find the open space, the light. 

In spring, this earth was dark
And moist, crumpling under the slightest step.

Today, it is crusted and sun-baked
Waiting for the driving rains to fall.

I do what I can and bring the hose.
The earth drinks. I leave.

It still needs work-on another day-
Like my ever-healing soul.

For me, and (I think) for you,
To work these earths is good.

A Poetic Calendar

            For my series of advent poems, I intend to write a series of poems to be read every daily during the season as a meditation or devotional. Since the number of days in the season of advent may include as many as 27 days, a traditional calendar may be confusing, and so I will label the pieces according to liturgical time. For example, the first poem will be for the first Sunday of Advent, the second for the Monday in the first week of advent, and so on. Seeing as Christmas is a mobile day, the poem for Christmas Eve will be separate from the calendar putting the total number up to 28. As for Christmas, I will not write a piece for that day, seeing as it is in a separate season from advent. As far a presentation goes, I will probably avoid merely printing off the pieces, but Instead I will try to arrange them in a more decorative fashion, perhaps using them as parts of house decorations or a making my own advent calendar to house them.

            As for the actual content of the poems, I hope to express the great themes of light, darkness, the incarnation, and revelation by examining both the Catholic tradition and the natural world around me. In my opinion early winter is one of the most beautiful times of year, a time where falling snow transforms the darkness and death of fall into something that is still great and beautiful despite the cold and snow. I hope that my poems can capture some of this beauty. Similarly, I want to use the great history and traditions of Roman Catholicism to achieve the same feeling of hope amidst darkness, using it to paint an even broader picture than I can, using something beyond the sizable but limited pallet of the natural worlds beauty. One way I will attempt to achieve this latter goal is to base each week of poems on the lectionary readings for the previous Sunday. In addition, I may introduce certain pieces for notable feast days that occur during Advent such as the feast of St. Nicholas, St. Ambrose, and the feast of the Immaculate Conception. Like the Christmas Eve Poem these pieces will be free-roaming and can be inserted into the series of poems at any time.