Because Bill so enjoyed the last poem I posted, I figured I'd put up a few more of note:
The Garments of God
God sits on a chair of darkness in my soul.
He is God alone, supreme in His majesty.
I sit at His feet, a child in the dark beside Him;
my joy is aware of His glance and my sorrow is tempted
to nest on the thought that His face is turned from me.
He is clothed in the robes of His mercy, voluminous garments --
not velvet or silk and affable to the touch,
but fabric strong for a frantic hand to clutch,
and I hold to it fast with the fingers of my will.
Here is my cry of faith, my deep avowal
to the Divinity that I am dust.
Here is the loud profession of my trust.
I need not go abroad
to the hills of speech or the hinterlands of music
for a crier to walk in my soul where all is still.
I have this potent prayer through good or ill:
here in the dark I clutch the garments of God.
-- Jessica Powers
*****
Before the Beginning
Before the beginning Thou hast foreknown the end,
Before the birthday the death-bed was seen of Thee:
Cleanse what I cannot cleanse, mend what I cannot mend.
O Lord All-Merciful, be merciful to me.
While the end is drawing near I know not mine end;
Birth I recall not, my death I cannot foresee:
O God, arise to defend, arise to befriend,
O Lord All-Merciful, be merciful to me.
-- Christina Rossetti
*****
i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any -- lifted from the no
of all nothing -- human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
-- e.e. cummings
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Friday, March 25, 2005
Good Friday
Today I give you one of my favorite poems, from one of my favorite poets. I wish you all a day of deep reflection on this, Good Friday, and a joyous day of fellowship and blessing come Sunday. He is risen, indeed!
Beneath Thy Cross
Am I a stone, and not a sheep,
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy cross,
To number drop by drop Thy Blood's slow loss,
And yet not weep?
Not so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;
Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon --
I, only I.
Yet give not o'er,
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.
- Christina Rossetti
Beneath Thy Cross
Am I a stone, and not a sheep,
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy cross,
To number drop by drop Thy Blood's slow loss,
And yet not weep?
Not so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;
Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon --
I, only I.
Yet give not o'er,
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.
- Christina Rossetti
Thursday, March 17, 2005
Ow! Stop it. This shirt IS green!!!
I'm neither Irish nor Catholic -- nor do I have any desire to go out and get liquored up and do things I'll regret -- so St. Patrick's Day is kind of wasted on me. I do wear green, of course, but that's mostly out of a desire to avoid pinch-happy (and often, conveniently colorblind) smart alecks.
But I was curious about the holiday today, so I Googled it. Now, I don't typically endorse the History Channel as an authoritative source of knowledge when it comes to Christianity or the church in any sense (I've read a few things by the alleged "scholars" they tend to interview exclusively on these topics), but they seem have a decent piece on their website today about St. Patrick himself and the history of St. Patrick's Day.
I'm making a concerted effort to listen to Irish musicians today, too. Yes, of course, everyone knows U2 (Arrow93 FM is playing their songs all day as well as giving away tickets to their upcoming sold-out concerts, in case you're interested), but I'm also a fan of the singer/songwriter acts, traditional Irish music groups and the lively "jig-punk" or "Celtic rock & roll" bands. Take a listen to The Chieftains, The Young Dubliners or The Prodigals today, if you can. And if you're in the mood to cry into your pint of watered-down green beer, immerse yourself in Dillon O'Brian's Irish-pathos-ridden "My Father's Son," a snippet of which follows:
I want you to love me
I want to be your golden one
But I can only be
My father's son
I want you to know me
I don't want to hide or run
But I will always be
My father's son
Have a happy and SAFE (designate a driver, please) St. Patrick's Day, everybody!
But I was curious about the holiday today, so I Googled it. Now, I don't typically endorse the History Channel as an authoritative source of knowledge when it comes to Christianity or the church in any sense (I've read a few things by the alleged "scholars" they tend to interview exclusively on these topics), but they seem have a decent piece on their website today about St. Patrick himself and the history of St. Patrick's Day.
I'm making a concerted effort to listen to Irish musicians today, too. Yes, of course, everyone knows U2 (Arrow93 FM is playing their songs all day as well as giving away tickets to their upcoming sold-out concerts, in case you're interested), but I'm also a fan of the singer/songwriter acts, traditional Irish music groups and the lively "jig-punk" or "Celtic rock & roll" bands. Take a listen to The Chieftains, The Young Dubliners or The Prodigals today, if you can. And if you're in the mood to cry into your pint of watered-down green beer, immerse yourself in Dillon O'Brian's Irish-pathos-ridden "My Father's Son," a snippet of which follows:
I want you to love me
I want to be your golden one
But I can only be
My father's son
I want you to know me
I don't want to hide or run
But I will always be
My father's son
Have a happy and SAFE (designate a driver, please) St. Patrick's Day, everybody!
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
The End is Near
That's it, we're thinking. All things are coming to a head.
Sure, sure -- wars and rumors of wars, earthquakes, mudslides, tsunamis, crazy happenings of biblical proportions, all of that. But that's not all.
Over the course of the last year -- and with increasing frequency in the last month or so -- Amy and I have experienced a number of strange occurrences that seem to be moments of closure, re-emergences of things and people from the past, or answers to long-unsolved mysteries.
People we haven't seen in years find us. People we haven't seen in years, and for whom we have been actively searching, suddenly appear in places we'd already thoroughly searched. And today...well, this one requires some backstory. Here's a little piece I wrote about a crazy lady by whom Amy and I are fascinated (and with whom we are, I'll say it, mildly obsessed):
***
September 2003
I'm sitting happily anonymous in the Koo Koo Roo at lunch today, next to the window, by myself, and wondering what to write about. From the numerous brief moments of eye contact I've had with the usual crowd of muscledudes, firefighters and junior suits, I consider writing about how it must be socially acceptable to stare openly at people who are eating unaccompanied at lunchtime in Southern California.
I glance outside at the people sitting around the umbrella-covered tables, and she catches my eye. Alice.
Alice is my favorite checker at the drug store. Small and mousy, probably in her mid-to-late forties, a little crazy in an "I'm trying desperately to hold it all together, but it's kinda leaking out of me" sort of way. She always mutters, laughs nervously. No eye contact. She announces the prices of things as she scans them:
"Dollar fifty -- that's a great price. Two-nineteen on sale this week, not bad. Seven ninety-nine, not bad, not bad. Not *good*...."
Amy and I have both, on separate occasions, seen her walking in our neighborhood or waiting at a bus stop at the bottom of the hill. We both have been more than tempted to offer her a ride somewhere, or just to follow her stealthily to satisfy our curiosity about her dwelling place and its proximity to ours. House? Apartment? Cardboard box on the bluff? Of course, our better judgment has ruled that doing either of those things would only fuel her skittishness, so we've refrained. But we talk about her as if someday, someday....
I always see Alice alone, and I wonder about her life. If she's lonely. If she has friends, or sisters. If she's ever been in love. If she works at Sav-on because she can get a good discount on her medications. If she knows what she's missing, or if she's missing anything at all.
I have these elaborate fantasies about befriending her. Somehow, though, I can never bring myself to do it. Once, at the very crowded Coffee Bean, I saw her standing in line to order as I was waiting for my ice-blended. Someone two people ahead of her answered his cell phone and began to have a conversation. This angered her. She began espousing her thoughts, full-volume to everyone and yet to no one in particular, on how rude it is to talk on a cell phone in public. How rude, how intrusive, how distasteful, how disrespectful!
How very semi-controlled she was, with little tributaries of the angry river just under her skin breaking through to the surface and dripping out of her. She walked over to where I was half-praying for a quick "here's your drink" and a hasty retreat, and half-curiously-hoping she would address me and sense who I was.
She stood next to me. There was little room anyplace else. And without looking at me, she continued her rant, seemingly expecting me to chime in and agree, though I couldn't possibly have inserted a single word into the stream of her opinion. Finally, someone distracted her just as the barista called my name, and I was able to escape. The whole time I had been wondering what she would have done had I said, "Isn't your name Alice? You're my favorite checker at Sav-on; I always choose your checkstand no matter how long the line is."
She would have freaked out and killed me with a knife, I'm almost sure of it.
But there she is again today, looking different. Almost normal. She must just be out running errands, because she's dressed up, wearing a long beige-and-white plaid skirt and a sweater, instead of the telltale blue smock.
Could it be she's with other people for once? I see her talking to someone, even happily. Smiling, still somehow with that slight dullness behind her eyes. Who's she talking to?
Some...*guys*...Hollywood hunk-types. Then I see they have a German Shepherd on a leash next to their umbrella-shaded table, and it all makes unfortunate sense. Alice and I have talked about dogs at Sav-on; she loves them.
I was so rooting for her, so genuinely hoping Alice had some good-looking actor friends, perhaps admirers. But she was talking to the dog. Smiling at him. Gently stroking his head.
She's still alone.
But so am I, today, and I wonder what the difference is.
***
So, guess who I met on the street today? That's right. Alice. She was walking in my direction with a big dog, and I saw my opportunity for conversation. "Beautiful dog."
"Thank you. Want to meet him?"
Door open, foot in. I said I recognized her from Sav-on. She said this 125-pound Rottweiler/Australian Shepherd mix named Milo is the dog she always talks about. When I mentioned my involvement with Guide Dogs of America, and that I sometimes puppysit for other people, she asked me if I might be interested in watching Milo for her when she goes on vacation in July.
Hi, total stranger. Please come into my house and take care of my dog four months from now. HUH?!?!?
So, of course, I said it was a possibility. How can I resist looking into this window of her life, at her invitation? She now has my cell phone number. Am I playing a dangerous game? We shall see. I hope she calls; I want to see where she lives.
I'll bet she collects Hummels.
Of course, I immediately called Amy (far enough out of Alice's range to avoid any unwanted cell phone rant on her part). "The end is near," I said. "I just talked to the Sav-on Lady."
Sure, sure -- wars and rumors of wars, earthquakes, mudslides, tsunamis, crazy happenings of biblical proportions, all of that. But that's not all.
Over the course of the last year -- and with increasing frequency in the last month or so -- Amy and I have experienced a number of strange occurrences that seem to be moments of closure, re-emergences of things and people from the past, or answers to long-unsolved mysteries.
People we haven't seen in years find us. People we haven't seen in years, and for whom we have been actively searching, suddenly appear in places we'd already thoroughly searched. And today...well, this one requires some backstory. Here's a little piece I wrote about a crazy lady by whom Amy and I are fascinated (and with whom we are, I'll say it, mildly obsessed):
***
September 2003
I'm sitting happily anonymous in the Koo Koo Roo at lunch today, next to the window, by myself, and wondering what to write about. From the numerous brief moments of eye contact I've had with the usual crowd of muscledudes, firefighters and junior suits, I consider writing about how it must be socially acceptable to stare openly at people who are eating unaccompanied at lunchtime in Southern California.
I glance outside at the people sitting around the umbrella-covered tables, and she catches my eye. Alice.
Alice is my favorite checker at the drug store. Small and mousy, probably in her mid-to-late forties, a little crazy in an "I'm trying desperately to hold it all together, but it's kinda leaking out of me" sort of way. She always mutters, laughs nervously. No eye contact. She announces the prices of things as she scans them:
"Dollar fifty -- that's a great price. Two-nineteen on sale this week, not bad. Seven ninety-nine, not bad, not bad. Not *good*...."
Amy and I have both, on separate occasions, seen her walking in our neighborhood or waiting at a bus stop at the bottom of the hill. We both have been more than tempted to offer her a ride somewhere, or just to follow her stealthily to satisfy our curiosity about her dwelling place and its proximity to ours. House? Apartment? Cardboard box on the bluff? Of course, our better judgment has ruled that doing either of those things would only fuel her skittishness, so we've refrained. But we talk about her as if someday, someday....
I always see Alice alone, and I wonder about her life. If she's lonely. If she has friends, or sisters. If she's ever been in love. If she works at Sav-on because she can get a good discount on her medications. If she knows what she's missing, or if she's missing anything at all.
I have these elaborate fantasies about befriending her. Somehow, though, I can never bring myself to do it. Once, at the very crowded Coffee Bean, I saw her standing in line to order as I was waiting for my ice-blended. Someone two people ahead of her answered his cell phone and began to have a conversation. This angered her. She began espousing her thoughts, full-volume to everyone and yet to no one in particular, on how rude it is to talk on a cell phone in public. How rude, how intrusive, how distasteful, how disrespectful!
How very semi-controlled she was, with little tributaries of the angry river just under her skin breaking through to the surface and dripping out of her. She walked over to where I was half-praying for a quick "here's your drink" and a hasty retreat, and half-curiously-hoping she would address me and sense who I was.
She stood next to me. There was little room anyplace else. And without looking at me, she continued her rant, seemingly expecting me to chime in and agree, though I couldn't possibly have inserted a single word into the stream of her opinion. Finally, someone distracted her just as the barista called my name, and I was able to escape. The whole time I had been wondering what she would have done had I said, "Isn't your name Alice? You're my favorite checker at Sav-on; I always choose your checkstand no matter how long the line is."
She would have freaked out and killed me with a knife, I'm almost sure of it.
But there she is again today, looking different. Almost normal. She must just be out running errands, because she's dressed up, wearing a long beige-and-white plaid skirt and a sweater, instead of the telltale blue smock.
Could it be she's with other people for once? I see her talking to someone, even happily. Smiling, still somehow with that slight dullness behind her eyes. Who's she talking to?
Some...*guys*...Hollywood hunk-types. Then I see they have a German Shepherd on a leash next to their umbrella-shaded table, and it all makes unfortunate sense. Alice and I have talked about dogs at Sav-on; she loves them.
I was so rooting for her, so genuinely hoping Alice had some good-looking actor friends, perhaps admirers. But she was talking to the dog. Smiling at him. Gently stroking his head.
She's still alone.
But so am I, today, and I wonder what the difference is.
***
So, guess who I met on the street today? That's right. Alice. She was walking in my direction with a big dog, and I saw my opportunity for conversation. "Beautiful dog."
"Thank you. Want to meet him?"
Door open, foot in. I said I recognized her from Sav-on. She said this 125-pound Rottweiler/Australian Shepherd mix named Milo is the dog she always talks about. When I mentioned my involvement with Guide Dogs of America, and that I sometimes puppysit for other people, she asked me if I might be interested in watching Milo for her when she goes on vacation in July.
Hi, total stranger. Please come into my house and take care of my dog four months from now. HUH?!?!?
So, of course, I said it was a possibility. How can I resist looking into this window of her life, at her invitation? She now has my cell phone number. Am I playing a dangerous game? We shall see. I hope she calls; I want to see where she lives.
I'll bet she collects Hummels.
Of course, I immediately called Amy (far enough out of Alice's range to avoid any unwanted cell phone rant on her part). "The end is near," I said. "I just talked to the Sav-on Lady."
Saturday, March 05, 2005
The Birthday Avenger
My dear friend James gave me endless grief when I turned thirty: the jokes, the comments, the intimations that I might know more about the Old Testament than I'm letting on.
So here we are, two years later. Look who turned up on James' front porch this morning with a bag full of handy products such as hemorrhoid cream and denture adhesive.
So here we are, two years later. Look who turned up on James' front porch this morning with a bag full of handy products such as hemorrhoid cream and denture adhesive.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
FREE ICE CREAM Public Service Announcement!
Hey -- did you guys know that today (March 2, 2005) is Yahoo!'s tenth birthday? To celebrate, they're giving away FREE ICE CREAM to their members. Seriously! If you have a Yahoo! account, you can print a coupon (good today only) for a free scoop of Baskin-Robbins ice cream.
Oh, look at the time. I have to go...um...run a quick errand....
Happy Birthday, Yahoo!
Oh, look at the time. I have to go...um...run a quick errand....
Happy Birthday, Yahoo!
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
A Hip-Hop Public Service Announcement
Some of you may not yet be aware of Gizoogle. It's a...search engine you will simply have to experience fo' yo' ownself. Be sho' to click on "translate page" when you get a good search return, mah brotha.
Meanwhile, in a shocking turn of events, I just read on Yahoo! News: Rapper 50 Cent Feuds With G-Unit Member. Does G-Unit KNOW what's really going on here? I mean, 50 Cent has already terminated Units A through F, and is working his way through the alphabet in an effort to retrieve the "S" that was stolen from the end of his name! Someone stop him before he does it again! Will they never learn?!? G-Unit, run! Run like the wind!!
Meanwhile, in a shocking turn of events, I just read on Yahoo! News: Rapper 50 Cent Feuds With G-Unit Member. Does G-Unit KNOW what's really going on here? I mean, 50 Cent has already terminated Units A through F, and is working his way through the alphabet in an effort to retrieve the "S" that was stolen from the end of his name! Someone stop him before he does it again! Will they never learn?!? G-Unit, run! Run like the wind!!
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