Monthly Archives: July 2013

Nature

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My soul must be crooked –
not curved – I mean. It must
have angles and open boxes,
not fissures, cracks, or splits,
but myriad unclosed cubes.

For as round as my universe is,
for all the atmosphere and vaporous aura,
for the spheres of planets and bright balls of gas
shining around my sky, my soul must have
corners.

My windows fit into hollow columns
in which they are slid up and down.
The columns allow for crevices on the sill
and there collect all the bits of ground and air
thrown at the house as it stands in the weather.

Over the years the dirty stuff turns to muck
and the muck hardens. So I soften it with water
and wipe out the black soil, brown pine needles,
white-ish bird droppings and iridescent fly carcasses,
flinging it all into the yard below.

This is stubborn work. I use a thick, strong knife,
and soft cotton swabs, and yet some triangles
of muck remain. The clean sill shines and looks like
beginning. The tiny corners look
suspicious.

There is a smooth, curvaceous love
inside my soul. Yet, it lives within
some flat walls, a free-will-construction
I don’t quite understand,
and even though I let
Christ’s waterfall
pour and power out
the muck,
and even though I shine
a new beginning,
and even though I take
knife
and
swab,
water
and
rag,
my corners
collect the muck
that divides,
and traps.

I know that smooth curvaceous love
is Christ’s. I must listen for it. Ask him to fill in my
corners, to round me out, make my soul spherical,
like the innumerable cellular structures of my body,
like the ever-advancing curve of time and space,

let my unclosed cubes take on
the elliptical pathways of planets,
protecting love from my mired,
messy corners, letting love sail
beyond my edges

and swoop back,
giving and receiving
in a bolstered, mysterious
free-will-construction
I will some day understand.

“Confession is a beautiful act of great love.   Only in confession can we go in as sinners with sin and come out as sinners without sin.” ~ Blessed Teresa of Calcutta

Lonely Writer’s Song

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“When my spirit is failing within me,
still, Lord, you know my paths.” ~ Psalm 142:4

The middle of the day
is dead of night to me,
the evening even more;

But Lord, you know my heart,
my mind, my soul; you are near me
upon this desolate shore.

When everything is darkness,
when everyone has fled
and I am left alone,

You, Lord, are my comfort,
the rock
upon which I build my home.

And though you seem to hide,
to forget,
to care not where I go,

Each morning I awake,
I remember,
it is you whom I should love more.

For it is you who brings the morning,
brings the sun
and wakes my soul,

You who lifts my spirit,
calms my mind,
and makes me whole.

Lessons from the Baby Guru (I)

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Flecks of black dirt dot
the skin beneath his bottom lip
as he holds aloft
the pink geranium,
by the blooms,
its white ceramic pot
nearly empty on the cement step.
He is proud: “Look!”
“Look!”

How many times have I grabbed a moment
by its bloom and yanked it
straight up and out of its cozy place,
letting the roots dangle in the air,
leaving the pot nearly empty
and feeling prideful: “See,
see!”?