*Waiting for Warmth

the water is running

 as I stand before the mirror 

waiting for it to warm

 to wash, shave and comb my hair

waiting, too, for something else

a coldness in me to go 

in the light of a love  

that won't run out as I grow old  

in this winter a stillness stirs  

my eyes pool 

a spring clears my way  

washing me with tears

*Jerry Schroeder, Cap.

Seeing through the blood

In one word, tears flowed as blood 

spotting my face, my flesh, my outer garb 

as ev'ry inch of reputation built o'er years  

washed down the drain of history.

Truth will do this to you 

when the mirror's cleared of deflecting jell 

when scabbed sores drain clean of pus 

stored o'er the pain of covert sins.

Truth will be this as a word 

of sorrow for deeds in ignorance wrought 

or curiosity in search of light 

for in blindness humans fail  

are clowns in sad-face stumbling in the ring 

searching for some treasure hidden in the soul 

or resting 'neath layers of a burdened heart.

Truth's a word of freedom from the crucified

a dirge rising from the fallen blood 

a song for the sinner and the sinned 

beyond barren musings of a faulting mouth 

for it's seeing through the blood that counts  

that lays the path for a story's telling; 

there the Spirit soothes the rawness of the shattered soul  

reflecting rays of the exposing Sun.

During communion, while holding the Host, I often remind myself that I'm holding and eating the Lord and others. The eucharist is the reminder of God's wedding, through Jesus, to flesh and matter.  It is the mirror of the incarnation, of the divine's union with the universe.  It is a call to see, to behold, to confirm God's union with all creation, particularly with that of humans.  Affirming Gods' union with the world, like our brother Francis did, helps us to love the world and God in it.  It is the door to contemplation.  Holding Christ, drinking Christ, ties us to him, to his body the Church, and to every human being.  In and with Christ, it binds us in love to God and all. The eucharist is the in-our-heart challenge to be lovers, first and foremost, if we are followers of Jesus.  This is our, often, difficult and penitential challenge.  Our primary and salvational definition or title is encountered and enacted in this meal.  We're here to take and eat, to live and be him whom we receive.

 

The daytime of renewal

Cobwebs swept clean of spiders

fissures patterning the floor:

signs of the self in transition 

of figments falling apart.

The scent of perfume invades me

natural from bodies being out 

as the new day runs towards ev'ning 

as life is sweated out

Dawn had grabbed the daylight 

dusk has snatched the night

 taking each into their chamber 

for the renewing of their love

Wild the breeze in my cranium

  slow the pace of my breath 

as the daytime of renewal 

turns my feet toward another crest 

Augustine, for sure, is accurate

 when speaking of the heart:  

in God alone fulfillment  

in God, one's life is art

All our God-talk doesn't mean we are God-imbued or God-focused because God can still be used as a gun to keep people in line or to be eliminated.

 

Boxed

the lone ones crawl through tunnels searching for light

repeating the routes the brave ones traversed.

with heads out front and unsure of their footing

they move on their knees to what the journey presents.

As their eyes suck in the darkness

night weaves a wrap for their retinas to hold.

their voices long for ears other than their own

and silenced-sounds surrounding their world.

unaware that their freedom is a few bends ahead

where fresh-air pours in under the canopy of night

they stop to die in the box that's home

gift-wrapped, bowed and parceled as Sent. 

kill god

kill god

that God might be

freed from musts and needs

 and puerile dreams

from words and cash

and self-charming wants

from dread and gains

that bridle and tame

smash the idols

and set them free

for god is God

once God is God

un-bottled and

roaming free

 then one might find

what one has lost

by holding tight

to that One sought

Whisperings

Your 

almighty Word

leapt in

to serve

the likes

of Adam's clan

one Roman night

of Caesar's reign

when all of us

were drunk 

with sin

and 

wax-tight ears

were deaf

to hear

the Sound

which cracks

flesh-failed bars

midst 

the silent din

for

Hope.

 

*...there is an innate feeling that the person is of primary importance, and that the anger born out of the heart of life is often the only way to break open the path of truth... It seems that a person's life is decided very often by a few decisions to say NO.
-from Eternity, My Beloved, Jean Sulivan

*To Listen

fold yourself

without crushing

into a quiet

place

set aside

all device

notice

without strain

yourself

disappear

into 

presence

-Jerry Schroeder, Cap.

An After-thought

I take a walk into the yard

to watch and see the lilies grow

then I down the boulevard stride

and pass a bum in tattered "silks".

The poor lad lays upon the walk

and cries his brother-lips to mine

yet, spied, I look upon his face

and chase him back before the gate.

When orphans sit upon the fence

to watch my hurried gait stride by

it's only speed that soothes my mind

of all the pain that they've transgressed.

I circle back and pass the slums

but steer clear of those smelly sighs;

the people here are only rats

the very thought can slay their pride.

I scoot fast past a beggar's plate

and jaundiced when he wheezed his cry

for I need weed the lily patch

before the cloak of darkness falls.

Now that day has pleased me well

and life has scarred my sanctum'd bliss

'tis time I stop and think awhile

and check my spirit's blamelessness.

 

*What's good about the soul is that, without splitting it up, you can give  it away to a crowd, and still possess it.
-from Eternity, My Beloved, Jean Sulivan

 

poetry is an avenue to the inner self
words I'd speak if a hearing one would listen
thoughts rising from the depth of me
wishing an exchange with an open one
feelings not yet free to risk
that I might be understood and accepted




the WITHIN without

A caged Bird-of-Paradise
barred within shaped wires
is my beauty-self: soul
fluttering from perch to perch.

Paradise Bird multicolor feather-coat
looking outward toward the peer-in'ers
with hope for that door to break
that upward flight of freedom may be mine.

Desire, ever patiently nudging toward escape
expecting that moment of revolution someday
lay warmly upon the heart-fired breast of mine
never dying 'till Life Itself be Promise.

Up to Life is my Within urge
like solid fibers of my inner core.
Break through surely will someday be
bringing, in fact, freedom to my soul.

Sleep says, "Come!

Go with me."

It's nightfall.

only here in america

only here in america
you're free to kill in america

pistol-mad in america
unionized in america

buy a gun in america
stamped made in america

kill another in america
with the n.r.a. in america

shoot your parents in america
go scot free in america

get shot in america
plead insane in america

judge'll free you in america
it's your right in america

own a gun in america
the law will prove it in america

 

Cosmic Ray

   Straight through

                                                                        pierced

                                                                        and pained.

                                                                        Shot and

                                                                        tensed

                                                                        bent down.

                                                                       Squirmed by...

                                                                       tossed

                                                                       to me.

                                                                      That ray

                                                                      marked

                                                                      "him", pierced.

when feces
block you
enema yourself
then scour
at the in-gathering
of sin
in the one
where
forgiveness calls_




Christ, I hate your nails, I loath your pints of blood.
-Anon.

Artificial Passion

I.

What's artificial is their passion.

Its' akin to the "Just Like" colognes

from the dollar stores:

no pain, doubts

nothing hot enough to burn someone;

nothing raw enough to expose ones blood.

It's sanctity that's dead letters in a book

ones we dream "if only's" about.

II.

I trip upon my struggles

my pretences to follow you

to cling tenaciously with passion

to whatever I need to mimic you.

Your feet have pressed into the land

that mark of  passion that's real obsession:

red roses soaked in gall

beaten and stirred to the sweetest fragrance

borne stately like thorns ringing the skull

and binding like nails through ones wrists.

You rub against my coward's flesh

to summon me whene'er you call

your niggling spirit pushing me

through tears difficult to swallow.

III.

there's no escape but death

no assurance to measure ones step.

Send quickly then your Paraclete

and coax me up your hill.

I'll cry Abba-Daddy, give me candy

cause I'm scared to taste your meat. 

When we attempt to turn ourselves into gods and goddesses, we quickly find ways reminding us that we're human beings, fallen and broke.

 

groaning into holiness

i am a bruised vessel
empty and cracked
waiting to be patched
peering into clouds
searching for a scoop

groaning into holiness
born of the worn earth
i live in a field of cautions
setting out, stiff of heart

an uptight preacher of the Word
the irony borne on crumpled bones
asleep in hope
beneath a wreckage of doubts

what am i to say to the weary-worn
forlorn of heart with thirsting souls
but that we encircle the table and have a drink
partake of bread
affirm our common bond



*The virtue lies in the struggle, not in the prize.
-Chinese fortune cookie



*Art ain't about paint.  It ain't about canvas.  It's about ideas.  Too many people died without ever getting their mind out to the world.
-Thornton Dial



*...we are what we a have lost.
-from the film Amores Perros [Love's a Bitch]



*Religions get lost as people do.
-Kafka

 

Detail from a painting in Detroit

Freshness

I look out my window into the dawning day
into the grey fog holding back the sun and its ray.
A patch of green surrounds a yellowing tree.
The words of robins thrown back and forth
are met by sparrows, cardinals and crows
who interject unique sounds, peculiarly their own.
This is the beginning of a promise to be uncovered
the peeling away of night for the freshness of today
filled or fraught with pleasure and pain.

Thus we walk into the surprise of the unveiling day:
live the fog, the mist, the promise of discovery.
We wait like the tree set in the surrounding green
for the unfolding that arises before our awakening eyes.

 

from an exhibition at the National Gallery of Art

a moment

just one moment

of care

or love

a touch of grace

a smile or kiss

a smoothness refreshed

of down-inside-ness

immersed

renewed

for a soul-change

re-graced

for a moment 

just one moment

let me be 

in-gripped

...some urge, some call, some challenge
drawing toward Some-Thing

how am I to know or discover
'cept search in the nether world of silence and need
into the abyss laying before my feet

within my head...my heart???

I struggle along the path of discovery
pressing before me, pulling me around
toward the Question calling forward
That which haunts my waking hours

don't run; walk blindly into the Night
where Light illumines the cranial of darkness
and All-One seeks stretches out before you
in the Now without end

 

*If you can discover your essential beauty, in spite of all your problems and imperfections, you are on the way toward well-being.  A preliminary step is simply to accept yourself with all your failures and imperfections. You must get the ego out of the way-the thought that you are so exalted that in your refined state you would be perfect.  Acceptance is the beginning of genuine and honest self-love, a requirement for perceiving your own beauty.

-Thomas Moore

 

Detail of a painting in Detroit

To Read

A Honey Locust Tree

I

long

through

the gauntlet

the forgiveness

between us

the green

in us

the silence

around us

*Jerry Schroeder, Cap.

*...gratefulness is the measure of our aliveness.

-Br. David Steindl-Rast

 

Spring sings forever

rev up each day, fresh
bearing the scars of yesterday
heading for the sun
with antsy feet and dancing heart

be as strange as freedom

you're as weird as God

what difference does it make?

if your challenge is a calling
keep walking

sin or no sin, God forgives
forming wonders out of nothing

keep moving

the Parousia appears soon enough
unexpected, o'er the rise
with a toll, under stress

flowers bloom and winters melt

Spring sings forever


Is God going to disappear because of the fairy-tales of an atheist or someone is popular or because someone says that God doesn't exist?  God "disappears" when I stop being "godly", being "imitative" of Jesus.  Besides, God is capable of taking care of Itself.  God's been through this before.



the kiss comes slow

the kiss comes slow
somewhere after words
after a hawing that's cautious
like a fox sneaking through the grass
surveying the prey before springing.

it's a dance with hesitation:
a gleam in the eye
a breath off the lips
a reach beyond the waist.

so what does one do in-between
in the pause
in the hesitation to move
in either direction
between the "yes" or "maybe"
the "if"
the cautious "if"
of not knowing where you'll go
if the look is "come"?

i watch the mys'try unveil:
Salome bursting with lust to distract the king
to drop his guard before the truth hits home
and he's fallen over himself
to suck the eyes that beckon in.

*Everything Depends

on being

            in

on eating

                what is

within

                                   yet beyond              

not being

         up

but down

              wardly

mobile

-Jerry Schroeder, Cap.

 

Migration

The sky is specked with spots of black
with tweeting feathers toward the south-land fly;
from whence they come, these home-torn flocks
these decors of a graying sky?




Vapel

Nine pointed star upon the top
Trinity thought (the triple tier);
ancient beauty in modern dress
stands out high upon the hill.

the soaring pipes to thrill the ears
floating stairs, a baptistry below;
terrazoed floor, no noble support
and glass to hail the ready light.

A tapered altar and Christus glorified
the stained glass a story tells;
'pon the mensa the burning stick
symbol of Christ, Eternal Light.

Within the walls, beautied all about
all vessels there, the Messe smocks;
all this in that gloried spot
but oh,...how empty, how empty!

 

 

here you are, Woman
in the black night glowing
a flame of hope burning
in your soul, your earth
awaiting the Light, Forever
the Ever Before the Ever After
for the sake of children, Adam-darkened
for us children, Jesus-Brightened



sometimes
I march forward in fear
with the strings in my drawers
struggling to hold me back
but I move on
forward
not sure if I'll remain where I'm heading
or slide back into the straight-jacket of my comforts
where uneasy is the norm

long have I lived with this fear
long in the chair of death
electrocuting me a thousand times
sharper than needles poked in my flesh

but this morning I rise
to something new it seems
a way of might
a way of bright
a new possibility of conquering
that which has held me back and down
o'er these numerous years

I rise and leave for the challenge
knowing not whether life or death will champion me
as I strive to be someone new
stretching to fly and taste the air



Basquiat
you poor dead man
played over and over with
like a plate of glass
cracked and scattered upon the grass
where the non-touched fall
breaking the stride
striving toward a goal
that the boogaloos placed upon their heads

you are them
peering through the the eyes of monsters you shared
through the canvasses you spread
o'er the thin entry ways of the seething world
wondering why you made these ugly screens
staring into their eyes their souls
wondering how you arrived
as in heir to their stores

and I look at you hoping
hoping for another suck of weed or vice
another key to open your soul to the world
of acceptance of funds of fabulosity
that your daddy would know it's you
you
and no other that you
who etched a stretch of life
to free your inner gasp
formed in black and colored stripes
running loose and flowing free
toward a day when you'd be someone
before you're dead

but death grubbed you before your time
deformed your breath
before the day you thought
you'd be walking the earth
famous
graced
without a stitch

yes you're dead
truly dead
while many rave the screens
you slew and left behind
filled with stories they'd never hear
they'd never hear

 

waiting for you to laugh

wanting you to laugh with the roar of abandon
from a belly aching with the joy of angels

to catch the sprites of springtime
dancing cartwheels 'cross your face
to witness zebra stripes giggling
and hyenas pause to applaud

o what pleasure to savor
to hear you laugh above the storm

ready to rise

i.

i am a mountain ready to rise
pushing at the crust o'er my life
in a drive to move beyond the borders
of the fears, doubts and laws
bounding the spirit within

i want to grow

ii.

so, why mountain won't you rise
push your nose above the terrain
break the crust encasing your heart?

iii.

pull through liberated
with the might of your mind
shoveling back the words
locking  you down



The Hook of Habit

This IS what happens:
bonds are forgot
ones held tightly to.

Habit demands its place:
ALL...
and nothing less will do.

All else become shadows
placed beyond the line
where friendships held sway
was gate and cottage
for gathering words and flesh.

But now it's a wisp of reflection
a momentary guilt
a questioned thought
an Oh or Damn
an expletive spake in secret
a promise that tomorrow
will not be yesterday.

For habit is lover
demanding god-like worship
ever pulling curiosity
to the cauldron of desire
lie a greedy, lustful rake
'cause it is precisely this
that holds one at the heart.

Oh, to blow it away till needed!

Yet the need is daily fair
till the house is dressed for living
and the table set for lore
for friends too long neglected
lifting one above the pull
the pull to taste again
the food that smells of hell.

in life, many tortures

many crucifixions

many massacres and death

defying imagination.

the human is boxed

frozen in ice

then buried in hell.

forgetting is freedom

the key to atrocities.

we open our mouths and scream

to break the grip of death

to wed a voice to pain

a face to humanity. 

* A BOY NAMED WEED

up

roots and all

he came

from the pull

of life

to long

beyond no

chosen, given

sent

to be

more

than

weed

to be

wonder

-Jerry Schroeder, Cap.

ME

me
without other people's thoughts
other people's feelings
other people's words
just me
before myself
before God
without fear
or expectations
or illusions
just grace
abandonment
assurance
of being from God
and being God's
and for  God
without mask
or false faces

 

Did Jesus weep?

John writes he wept at Lazarus' grave
but so will I when my friend will die.

But did he weep in Gethsemane
when blood seeped through his frightened pores?

And did he weep upon the wretched cross
begging forgiveness for all around?

Or how about those prodigal ones
or the hardened hearts of antagonists:
did he weep along with them
with tears for ev'ry wretched scum?
Were these fit to cause his tears to flow?

Yes, Jesus wept but does he still?
When my tears do quietly fall
does his fall 'longside of mine?



no one knows

no one knows who beat you
ripped your clothes and stripped you

no one heard you screaming
their laughter smothered their conscience

no one claimed the tree that held you
nor paid your people for showing you

no one knows who hung you
slit your guts and bled you

no one knows who fried you
cooked your flesh to mock you

no one saw the scandal
though children smiled for cam'ras

no one wants to remember
"those deeds need be forgotten"

but i know the tales of hist'ry
their ropes swing near my neck

There's always someone smarter than you in someway.

I may be ignorant but I am not stupid.

 

*...one must search for the humanity behind the inhuman.
-Ramin Jahanbegloo, Iranian scholar

bedraggled questors

we drag our rag-covered selves from one beggar to another

hoping to touch comfort

or

find an answer to our quest

we are bedraggled questors longing for satisfaction

struggling to live from this moment or the next

we're a parade of hobos decorating local streets

clothed in the vesture of ministers of shit

filthy, funky, faint

walking ahead

moving toward the Light 

looking back

looking back

looking back

looking back for the moment

the place  the pleasure

the peace

the experience of joy gone since the Then

when all of me was flying high

on a cloud of "always"

of "when-ever"

of "again and again"

but now

memory attempts a recall

of "when i was"

oh, how i sulk o'er the garbage of ev'ryday

o'er the thrust of "must and can't"

o'er "my-way and wants"

o'er the drudgery and dust

as i stare back to Then

"the moment"

the pace

the joy

the pleasure

the peace

that's gone

   stay in your heart

                                                                       still

                                                                       as Life's busybodies

                                                                       swirl

                                                                       and you upon her ventures

                                                                       dance

                                                                       a bell sings through the 

                                                                       night

                                                                       its Voice, luminously soft

                                                                       swings

   awakening you to

                                                                       trek

Gonna Be Famous* 

Yeah, gonna be famous to myself
when I'm no one else's famous.
Gonna shout it out all over the ball-court
above the gin-joint gathering of drunks
over ev'ry foot-falling spot of earth.

I'm gonna be famous to myself.
Been a-long time gettin' there
long as the moment I thought it would be good
good for me and good for you
even if you doubt.

Yeah, I'm gonna be famous to myself
like all those other famous-made famous by some else.
I don't know nor can I care about.

Don't matter. No! Cause it's true as I'm me.
I take famous to myself cause it's true of me.
I'm gonna be famous to myself, you'll see.
I'm gonna be famous to me.

*inspired by words of MR as a child



*... to sentimentalize something is to look only at the emotion in it and at the emotion it stirs in us rather than at the reality of it, which we are always tempted not to look at because reality, truth, silence are all what we are not much good at and avoid when we can.  To sentimentalize something is to savor rather than to suffer the sadness of it, is to sigh over the prettiness of it rather than to tremble at the beauty of it, which may make fearsome demands of us or pose fearsome threats. ...as Christians in general we are particularly given to sentimentalizing our faith as much of Christian art and Christian preaching bear witness - the sermon as tearjerker, the Gospel as an urn of long-stemmed roses and baby's breath to brighten up the front of the church, Jesus as Gregory Peck.

-Frederick Buechner

*No matter what the immediate occasion is of either your laughter or your tears, the object of both ends up being yourself and your own life.
-Frederick Buechner

*Jesus shares with us the darkness of what it is to be without God as well as showing forth the glory of what it is to be with God.
-Frederick Buechner

An eerie eye

On A Raindrop

  Upon my window pane

a raindrop - splash - did fall

and with what speed it did run

through grassy-grime and scum.

  And lo!  At length its fast course slowed

as through the mire it ran

but not a rest-stop did it take

but slowly made advance.

 Slowly  flowing 'till at last

its destiny it did reach

rolling-motion, snail-pace coasting

it slid into the Abyss.

Michael/Me

Swimming in a sea of hist'ry quite eerie
the waves form. twinning, at the sound of thunder
fear shuddering the waters as the light'ning strikes.

The sea is mirror to egos split by years
reflections in youth of the older neptune god.
Amoebas are zeroes in the similarities
when he and I sieve the oceans of age.

A hermaphroditic union of the common kind
of mothers fathering brothers when dad's are dead at sea:
tis the nucleic band binding us in the egg.

Xerox was born in sands of the ocean floor
copying driftwood-pairings from some branching tree.
Life's a weird parent in the Land of God
producing identities that parents can't even dream.
Michael/Me seems such a creature from the sea
and I gasp for air drowning in our similarity.

Yet, separate souls are we
no cloned personalities.



*Silence is God's first language.
-John of the Cross

We played a game of untruth
with each other
pretending care was directing
the game and the rules.
Both lost-

Red Light

He sped to her room
whence eyed the slut
dressed for his joining;
but his passions
lusted for the rose
vased upon the mantelpiece-
thorns and all

existence and death

standing out
and against
instead of in
and with
where have we
Christians been?

death reigns
the passing kingdoms:
a-gods
Beauvoirs
Sarteans
and Camus worshippers;
black-light
a fallen Fall
angsting to nausea
our non-theotic palls.

antipodal acts
and acrimonious thoughts
pugiling within
the atropic self
wax for the Marcellian sign
warm to stamping
authentic lines
spoofing life
perjuring death.

chased and caught
wisp of word
breezed and predestined
for dying yet
meant for existence
in order to stand out

but who can Now
an appeal in this Already
except He
who is the WAY?

What shall I say?

The Journey

Take The Journey slowly
soul-wide
carrying you
a babe, abound her back.

Let each joy, each fear
each surprise be treasure;
each hurt, each pain
coat your heart with gold.

Embrace the cost as gift
the price paid for discov'ry
for you may arrive at home
to the You you're longing for.

Ask of her no questions.
Be wise, stand still in Yes.
Answers arise from solitude;
fruit grows in the dark.

Take The Journey slowly
snail your way to Home.



A Path Returned

I journey on a path once traveled
yet untouched
(or, was I touching but disclaimed
contact?).

I walked there but dare not own
presence
fearful that presence might condemn
to Hell.

At three-score years now the path lays
before me
and I walk, discovering a joy
once missed.

 

Hand of an aged woman

                                            Detail from a painting viewed in Detroit