Monday, February 13, 2012

Inside The Dawn

The view from the Cross
gets clearer now
 these years have
trained me to its embrace.

The fiery pain
uniting my soul into
its eternal reality
sustains my aching heart
left bleeding by the
darkness of sinful states.

From this vantage point
I can see the dawn
rising clear and quiet
upon the horizon
where only my inner eye
watches from
this place of repose
upon the wooden beams
far beyond the scene of
mortal crimes
our race is so intent upon.

One day this death of self
will step inside the dawn
I see moving in
 tender fingers of sunlight
caressing downward
these mountain slopes to
whom I will bid farewell,
and, as the song says,
 be gone
like the dawn turns to day.

Thursday, January 5, 2012

Where Magic Dwells


We are created
to be hungry for stories,
told and treasured
in myths, fairy stories,
unto parables and proverbs,
(to ponder in our length of days)
given as
food for the wayfarer's soul.

There are those who
cry out against imagination,
condemn Harry Potter
as bad magic
yet, it is these very people
often in high places,
who would treat the Holy Eucharist
as magic.

Don't get me wrong.
It is the wayfarer's holy bread
when in the state of grace.
Indeed, it as a magic potion
transforming death to life.
However,
in the sorry state of sin
it will poison the soul
with condemnation and grief.
Unworthily eaten
it cannot save your soul.

Be careful, you who are guardians of
this greatest Treasure,
the words of St. Catherine
might be pronounced against you
for she says
God will use you to feed his flock
then send you into that fiery darkness
imagination could only hint
in stories told.

Harry knew all about these evils
fought constantly in battles
unasked for.
Even he had to practice
magic's hard daily work of living,
finding love where there isn't any.

Friday, December 9, 2011

Autumn Cloud

I would be that cloud
spread grey upon the mountain top
lounging along the ridges
like Cleopatra herself
surveying this valley
on a sight seeing excursion
in autumn.

There from the heights
I would gaze into this valley
where first I opened my eyes
in a time of peace and plenty,
and one day to see with final gaze
all that is born must die.

Sometimes memory takes me prisoner,
it makes me step into
the warmth and brightness
found in that childhood kitchen,
 the gathering cold of season changes
once more creeping with icy fingers,
leaving the country darkness deep around,
excluded from that warm and safe abode.

There are times when Time is a bus
whose steps I descend
to slip quietly away
like that cloud
into memory filled
with light still shining bright.

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Dots

The crows fly home as evening
spreads them like black dots
against the fading light
falling as darkness dwells
with stars in the night sky
reflecting so many points of
light our gazing eyes
are drawn to.

Upon the printed page
the music notes wait patient
their turn to sound those
mysterious marks, dots on
a page written
not unlike the Impressionist brush
dividing color into single dabs
across a vision on canvass.

All these small marks, even
those that divide words
into sentence and phrase,
symbol my life,
a single dot in history's
long and arduous way.
It is easy to be overwhelmed
by this reality
of small and finite being.

There is a sacred space
found hidden in the marks
deep on hands and feet
outstretched upon a cross
where I find refuge
and meaning
To the insignificance of this self.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

My Fan


I am in love with my fan
these hot, humid days of summer.
I refer not to the human kind
that stand on street below
eyes raised towards my window
bothering me by flash and noise.
No, a box shape electrical in motion
sits on my window sill
swirling air to coolness in the
darkness fallen oppressed by the heat of day.

Its steady noise hides all,
protects me from the madness of sounds:
the cars that roar up the street
always it seems in a hurry,
hides the conversations broadcasting
beyond the intimacy of porches
bouncing yard boundaries
into windows gaping with the heat,
muffles the drunks sent home
by closing signs on bars
their drunken soliloquy kept
far from my silent slumbers.

The bliss of white noise and wind
blowing from my electric watchman
the outside world cannot intrude
on my poor thoughts
relishing the morning coolness
I lie curled within its safety
giving me sweet pause
in readiness to face the dawn.

Thursday, August 4, 2011

To a Youth

I cannot follow you down
through that winding path you choose
in tangles of forest undergrowth
I fear the evil presence
who lives somewhere nearby
above those sharp rocks
underneath the perilous
overhang of cliffs.

I wandered there many
years ago from now
the deadly one caught me unawares,
my heart was torn
left bleeding in the dawn
before a sunless sky.

I cannot follow you down
my steps will not leave
the sureness of the chosen path
leading ever upwards
into the shining light of day
I reach back into the shadows
with hope for that day
you send your gaze upwards
through all those leaves of grass
and see into that sky
we were born to call our home.

Saturday, July 30, 2011

Sketch of a Young Soul

When Melanie was twelve she was given an introduction to the Catholic tradition of mental prayer. From this instruction in the classroom there arose an exchange of letters between herself and the teacher based on the Carmelite tradition of prayer and St. Thomas Aquinas.

    From a young age she had loved the stories of the saints and when she moved to the Catholic school in the city, away from the little country school she had attended for the first three years of elementary education, her great delight was the library. 

    In it she found the Bobsey Twins, which led to Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys but more importantly, a junior series on the lives of the saints. She had worked her way through them all before she sat in the desk in the Grade Seven classroom and became a student of prayer. In this peaceful and orderly setting she explored the questions that entered her mind and at the end of the year, with the permission of her parents, her teacher became her spiritual director.

    The next year she entered the large public school and the teen-age years of emotional development with its ups and downs. That year she had had a premonition of the enormous cost of the spiritual life and she had recoiled in fright. The Divine fisherman had given her lots of line to run from Him and the results had been mentally distressing. Being lost in the woods of life was excruciating.

    Her youthful pride had led her to believe that the graces she had received were very commonly given.

    She was aware of external traps to be avoided but her effect upon other people and her own inner thoughts lacked awareness and self-control. Nor did she understand that idolatry is a subtle master.

    Sitting on the Lourdes wharf, the summer camp not far from her home, one late autumn afternoon in the sunshine, Melanie faced into her fifteen year old self and found that she wanted a foot in both the world and the spiritual life. Why couldn't she have both, why was there a choice to be made? Now at fifteen, faced with the need to change sheer wilfulness into the pursuit of a real spiritual life she obeyed her director and settled down to become a docile student once again.

    This choice brought her into conflict with the other adults in her life: her parents, parish priest and, indirectly, the bishop. She was forbidden the necessary contact with her spiritual director which resulted in great unhappiness as well as many rebellious attitudes on her part. It was a stormy year.

    The summer Melanie turned sixteen she met some priests and young people from Kelowna at the summer camp. When autumn approached she made a last minute decision, encouraged by the principal, to move to that city for grade eleven in the only Catholic high school in the diocese. Her parents reluctantly agreed to this strange twist in events, perhaps feeling, as she did, that a break in the tension and impasse between them would be welcome.

    It was a lonely year in many ways. It took four attempts to find a home, each move and circumstance made her grow up a little more.

    Being young and full of energy she joined the school drama club and played the lead role in the autumn drama, an old maid who commits murder, and in the spring she had the comedic role in the school musical.

    Guitar masses were sweeping through North American liturgies, youth movements such as Search were happening all over the diocese. She joined the youth choir, singing the folksy tunes that were making the rounds and more legitimately, she did music for the Search week-ends where folk music actually had a real place.

    She taught Grade Two catechism and learned she wasn't a teacher. Controlling the rambunctious boys took all her energy and when they made their First Communion, at long last, she hoped that something real had penetrated their little heads. She also joined a Charismatic prayer group. She was the only young person involved and although the older women liked her company and were kind she quit soon afterwards. She had to admit to herself that she was just making things up and felt uncomfortable.

    In the late spring a workshop was given by a free lancing Carmelite nun. The workshop's theme did not remain in her memory. What did remain was the experience of spiritual restlessness. Or was it just the novelty factor, the flavor of the month? Whatever the original intention, the week-end event turned into an experiment in defying Eucharistic discipline.  Promoted by this nun, it was decided by the participants that Anglicans and Roman Catholics should be able to share the Eucharist and so they did.   When Melanie reported this to her director he was indignant and scolded her for being involved. She felt ashamed but somewhat defiant, mostly through ignorance and not wanting to criticize the adults she had looked up to.

    The summer of her seventeenth birthday saw her filled with the conflicting experiences of the past year. She wanted to return for grade twelve in Kelowna even though in her heart of hearts she knew it wouldn't work. She had to face into the reality of having a spiritual director who told her to return home and dig in. Melanie was torn in two directions. How could she obey? It was so difficult. She knew her parents could not afford another year yet, inside, she resisted the truth.

    One hot summer day she rode her bike into town, buffeted by a spiritual headwind. All she could do was pedal and when the dreaded interview was over and she had agreed to obey she was astonished at how happy and free she felt. At peace once again with herself and her parents she found the freedom she had longed for. Her Dad gave her a small car and everything about her life fell into place.     

   The next autumn after graduating from high school she moved out of her parents’ house and into town to be with her spiritual companions and attend the local Catholic university college. Her life began to change. One day in the previous year upon entering the church she had had a brief vision of a man she did not recognize. Later she had another glimpse at this stranger and she began to suspect that for all her talk and activity in his name she didn't know him.

    One day he appeared directly to her and asked her what penance she was going to do.

    "Penance, what penance?" she had answered Christ.

    There was silence.  Her rudeness betrayed her inexperience.

    She did not understand why she had been questioned about penance, but somehow she sensed it was the gate to a life with Christ, together on the road that beckoned: the salvation of her soul and those of many others.

      It would mean criticism and rejection by those who knew her as she withdrew from that world into the embrace of penance. At nineteen, she was ready for her future, hidden in the will of Him, who was knocking on the door of her heart.