rise high enough,
the Darkness laughs.
He thought,
maybe I make the Darkness
laugh. At least that’s something,
isn’t it?
Gods of Small Things
Let us be gods of small things,
lords of mice and roaches,
bastard sons and daughters
of happy, smiling gods
who bless their acolytes
with touchdowns and close-in parking.
Let us stand to the ends of things:
parting notes of postludes
in empty sanctuaries,
apologetic exits
whispered at the door,
the echo of the deadbolt.
Let us walk the hallways after
light and hope burn out,
read from silent liturgy
prayers addressed to no one,
hear from mislaid hymnals
music no one sings.
Let us raise the chain link fence,
last fence around the Table
that bars the way to all
lest any come unworthy
to take the meal, until
the meal is taken from us.
Let us be the wrecking-ball;
swung from moral heights
we bring down the house,
then hang condemned when done,
the evidence against us
stone not left on stone.
But let us be at last the rain
that falls on wrack and ruin,
washes out the stain
—see, even now it falls—
and waters wheat and vine
and pools in broken fonts.
A Prayer Before Advent
Mark 13:24-27
Hurricanes Season. Texas, Florida, and the Caribbean. 2017.
In the winds that howl, the deep’ning dark, as rains begin to fall,
and the hopes we cherish most in life are shrouded in their pall,
then at last we lift our vision; then at last we strain our ear
for the word of sweet deliv’rance: our rescuer draws near.
Teach us, Lord, to rescue others, and to find as we are found,
until all your people reach the shore and stand on higher ground.
O that you, O God, would tear the skies and to the earth descend
‘mid the trembling mountain’s tumult, ‘mid fear that knows no end.
Though the stars may leave their places, constellations cease to be,
though the world we know and all we love lost to memory,
still we wait, Lord, rapt in wonder, ‘til morning’s sun shall rise,
‘til the clouds are rent asunder, and the tear of heartache dries.
‘Til that day, before the table spread, the font, the spoken word
we will gather as a people and let lament be heard
for your promised reign of glory, for tomorrow’s dawn of peace,
for the helpless and the hopeless, the prisoner’s release.
Quickly come, Lord, to your people! The night grows e’er so long!
We believe, but help our unbelief, ‘til all our hearts are strong.
Note: This poem was written as a hymn, to be sung to the English hymn tune, THAXTED (drawn from the “Jupiter” movement of Gustav Holst’s suite, The Planets).
Adventus*
When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let us go now to Bethlehem. . ..” (Luke 2:15)
What proximate apocalypse arrives tomorrow?
Lost key lost love cancer butterfly extinction
blood on the floor of sanctuary schoolhouse—
must we endure yet more of heaven’s plan?
Do you dare to raise your eyes, peek between
the stars to see the angels turn for home
after they have ransacked all your dreams?
After the dream comes the dark.
“Be not afraid”: why do the blessèd say this
when the only reasonable response is fear
or maybe flight if you can make your feet work?
Are you not supposed to fear the beast?
When you meet a bear—or host of angels—
with your back against the wall, will you stand
your ground before the feral claws of glory?
After the glory comes the dark.
Do you yearn to leave the sheep and wander
into town to search for manger mother
child aglow with heaven’s subtle light;
leave the eastern palaces to track a star,
offer
