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A POEM IN WHICH MY AUNT REINCARNATED IN ME
by Tolulope Ogedengbe
The day my aunt fell to death,
the house became heavy
with the aura of mouths
sore with grieving songs.
I was asked to sing a dirge in the middle of a rain
as would a soldier to his fallen friend.
I opened my mouth to the void of the night
and a bird in my throat broke free.
today, I felt my dead aunt reincarnated in me,
as I watch a woman surrender to grief, to everything
likened to tears and memories that remind me of a house where relatives burn candles
to mourn the demise of their loved ones.
"Brave Little Things"
by Terri Ruhter
The crocus pushes itself up through
Near-frozen ground,
Purple petals blossoming bravely,
Telling us that winter will end,
Spring will come,
And life will go on.
It doesn’t ask –
Why am I so small
Compared to the other irises in my family?
It doesn’t wonder –
Why do I flower in spring
When my cousins, whose stigmas make saffron,
Bloom in fall?
Like the crocus, we too
Are brave little things.
Most days on this broken earth
We do some small act or another
To right the world.
Reaching out to the lonely,
Feeding the hungry
Caring for the hurting,
Standing up against injustice,
Speaking out in truth and love.
But we are easily disheartened
When our efforts don’t bear fruit.
Our egos insist that we keep trying
To make a difference,
That we measure success
By progress, that if we
Do X or give X, then surely
The desired Y will happen.
And if it doesn’t, if we aren’t rewarded,
Then we have somehow failed.
Yet the crocus, harbinger of new life,
Doesn’t doubt itself or look for praise.
Like Teddy Roosevelt, it is wise,
Knowing that comparison
Is the thief of joy.
The flower just does
What it can, when it can,
Confident its colorful spring debut
Is a symbol of hope.
Why can’t we be the same?
Take a lesson from this humble flower,
Take the longer view, be assured
Whatever brave, small thing you do
Is like the one musical note that follows
A dissonant chord,
Resolving the discordant sound
Into a beautiful harmony
That only God can hear.
"Library"
by Bryce Christensen
“The vision of all is become unto you as the words of a book that is sealed . . . .” Isaiah 29:11
“ . . . and the books were opened . . . “ Revelation 20:12
Like spines of books arrayed along a shelf, the stones
That mark mute graves conceal dense texts, now closed
To eyes half-blind to trials that life imposed
On souls who wrote their names on pages shown
To no one, blinder still to what they’ve known
Since death, to Purgatory’s pains exposed,
Their earthy cries to godly chants transposed.
Grim tombs become dumb tomes, their authors prone.
But Easter dawn’s a promise: graveyard books
Will open, chapter after chapter spill
Their secrets into view, long hidden things
At last break open to inquiring looks:
Enigmas bound to lie in silence ‘til,
They’re read aloud by lectors riding wings.
"The Shattered Jars of Spice"
by Judith Krum
Between the dark and light, from night to morn,
The grave clothes placed in empty tomb instead,
The women came with myrrh for body torn.
With fear and terror they came all forlorn.
“Be not afraid. The Lord is ris’n,” he said,
Between the dark and light, from night to morn.
No body there to cleanse or to adorn.
They dropped the jars of spice, revealing dread.
The women came with myrrh for body torn.
No strength remained to help them, so care-worn.
They knew full well that they had seen Him dead
Between the dark and light, from night to morn.
The angel urged; they sped ahead to warn.
Feet flew as on they rushed, the news to spread.
The women came with myrrh for body torn,
But new fire kindled time to be reborn
With new and holy wine and sacred bread.
Between the dark and light, from night to morn
The women came with myrrh for body torn.
Black Nazarene
by Joe Bisicchia
You are far more than make believe,
far more than wood portrayed in suffering,
but the divine embodiment here amidst humanity.
And You make Your way.
You choose, You do, this way of thirst, to carry it,
the cross. You bare Your soul along our streets
through every Quiapo, on the way to crucifixion
seemingly day after day.
Even here, now. Your devotees opine in prayer
and look up to You. You, carved from mesquite,
robed in red sovereignty, hair braided of dyed abaca,
and halo, a golden crown.
And You are far more than this parade.
You are far more than any image, any charade.
Far more than any nativity infant figurine, handmade.
You are real. You are Love.
You, they know. The Filipino knows the passion
and suffering. The cross thou hadst died upon,
very emblem of their salvation. Only wood upon
wood, some may say, having fallen here,
having fallen to Manila via galleon centuries ago,
having fallen to humankind.
But this much we all may know—
this creation of Eden that You so very well carry,
this weight You bear as we all now look up
at You, is simply for all of us. Now, and always.
And in us, for us, the world, You spring forth Love.
For this, You thirst. For this You rise. For each
and every one of us.
Not because of any righteous ritual on humanity’s part.
But by Your mercy. And we of humanity joyfully sing.
Oh, Nazarine, we glorify thee!
"A Round of Resilience"
by Brian McAllister
This too shall pass, though not as fast
As all our strength and faith would hope,
Such anxious waiting that at last
This too shall pass.
Our little lives have such small scope
That all our troubles seem so vast,
But if we see an end, we cope.
And then when all our cares have passed
And we no longer have to grope
In dark, our fears all in the past,
This too shall pass.
"Midnight Swim"
by Sam Barbee
Fireflies celebrate solstice, each starburst
a perfect plunge. Provide pulse, bedazzle outlines
of maple and holly, black fringe against silver midnight.
The night-ocean submerges each silhouette.
Random flickers off each leaf, bats and night birds
breaststroke in moonlight. Rocking behind the porch screen,
we excuse today’s malice. We sway, once fulfilled
to witness little, now witness everything.
Find ballast for each grievous sting. Frogs, buoyant
about a neighbor’s pool, belch, deafen us with their rippling joy –
arouse what we can imagine tomorrow: cloudless
altar and truer tongues dispelling snarls of revision.
We are heroes, backstroking darkness, doing our best
to retain esteem. In the morning we will bury dry bulbs
like beads, plant the seeds and husks for blooms: colorful waves
to cleanse remorse and rhetoric; splice regret with awe we are eager to tread.
"At Jean Beaty Park"
by Jolene Nolte
Vancouver, BC | February 14, 2021
Cascading over the concrete retaining wall,
the green ivy’s encased in a transparent pillar
of ice as if to preserve some proof of life.
Here on the rocky beach the snow’s just now softened
to rain, punctuating the bay’s surface. Container ships,
anchored for now, make me wonder how the rain sounds
from inside. What good are the goods they contain
in an uncertain future? We ramble over rocks, take in
the half-visible scene: To the north, the Coast Mountains’
mist-veiled peaks. To the east, obscured skyscrapers.
To the west, gray ocean blurs with gray horizon, but you
I see clearly in your black hair, black coat.
One arm encircles me, the other holds your wide umbrella
over us, rain drumming steadily on its skin. I wear cut-off
ochre gloves, run my fingertips through your thick, soft hair.
Your ears and cheeks are cold, but your lips are warm.
Dear God, yes, his lips and breath are warm.
I’m all sensation as I take you in.
I’m a vessel you drink from and fill, drink from and fill
as the rain falls and the waves crest and crash.
We pause. I see your brown, gold-flecked eyes
gazing at me. You don’t know it, but all
I can think is, “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Dear God, I don’t want to hurt him.
I seal my intention, my prayer with kisses
on your neck, your cheek, your lips.
Neither of us knows the future.
The tide’s coming in.
"Redemption at the Red Lobster"
by Terri Ruhter
Phil hugs me tightly before we’re seated
At the chain restaurant of his choice.
It’s such a viselike squeeze, such an eager embrace
That I am left breathless.
This kid brother of mine - the one I didn’t see
For years, the one my siblings and I didn’t contact
Because he was needy, alcoholic, angry, so high maintenance
That a phone call or text message left us drained -
Is showing a different face.
My husband and I are treating Phil and his girlfriend to dinner,
Checking in on him in a noblesse oblige kind of way
Because Phil is the prodigal son of our family,
The one who drank, overspent, lost his job, lost his driver’s license,
Got evicted and became homeless in Minnesota,
Land of 10,000 lakes where the cold in winter
Hits your face like a frozen fist.
He is the one who squandered his inheritance
And never made it home before his father died,
Leaving it up to us, his brothers and sisters,
To welcome him back.
But we never did.
This is not to say we didn’t have A PLAN.
We gave Phil plenty of advice over the years:
Downsize, cut your expenses, get rid
Of that useless stuff in storage, go into rehab.
We were full of shoulds and incensed when he
Never listened.
But the Phil we met at Red Lobster
Was a man transformed, weepy but
Full of gratitude for his job of six years,
Redefined by the purpose and status it offered,
Redeemed by the most unlikely of saviors,
A middle manager at a top five bank.
This stand-in for the prodigal son’s father, or maybe for Christ himself,
Took a chance on my brother, hiring him and saying:
Phil, I wish I had more employees like you.
Manna from heaven to a man starved for grace.
My takeaway from Phil’s story
Is that you never change a soul
By telling him what to do.
But you might alter him forever
By telling him he’s worth something.
Was the proof in the pudding?
We were all too full for dessert,
But when the bill came
Phil picked up the tab.
"Lent"
by Jim Ryan
A candle flame gives strength enough
Ash Wednesday eve to raise
“the poem of humanity”: Christ’s cross.
The cormorant, ambiguous symbol,
spreads its wings to dry in the sun.
Penobscot Bay washes against the rocks.
There’s poetry there too.
Purple shrouds the crucifix. The candle’s
burden of illumination: dust thou art.
Ashes sign your forehead with black wings.