A Third Time

Friday of the Seventh Week of Easter
Jn 21:17
Then he said to him a third time, “Simon son of John, do you love me?”
“Lord, you know everything; you know I love you.”

Apostle Peter, the first
to eat his own words
of all the apostles.
He was bold as brass, and trusting in himself;
later turned timid and cringing and denied the Lord.
He would die for the Lord, when the Lord was first going to die for him.
I will stay with you till death and I will lay down my life for you.
Lay down your life for me? I tell you most solemnly, before the crock crows you will have disowned me three times…

What now? The Lord questions him
and when Peter for the third time answered
he loved Christ, and the Lord for the third time entrusted his sheep
to Peter, He foretold how he would suffer

Where now is that old denier? Wasn’t he afraid of being killed
when he denied Christ?
Now he had no reason to be afraid. After all, he could see him alive
in the flesh, the one he had seen hanging on the cross.
Christ has done away with the fear of death
Three times fear denied, three times love confessed.

—After Saint Augustine

A Tomb No Longer

Thursday of the Seventh Week of Easter
Queen of heaven, rejoice, alleluia,
The Son whom you merited to bear, alleluia,
has risen, as he said, alleluia.

When I touched the pillars, marbled and cold
of that magnificent building, Castel Sant’ Angelo,
the fortress dome, a valour of mankind’s strength
tell of ancient days, Hadrian and death of saints,
I felt no life from those cold stones, far less
than the hallowed grovels of the catacombs.
So I learnt that the warmongering emperor erected
that great mausoleum for his death, a giant tombstone,
for all in his empire to see and remember his victories,
his great and magnificent glories. But it decayed,
of course, to the pickings of grave robbers and fell
into poor church hands, touching my own small ones.
And it welled within me the everlasting voice, to thank
and beg for help even after the Great Plague; the story
of these towering walls that confirmed centuries
of overuse and misuse that show that the tomb belongs
to man, its gold, its bones, but to God alone, the warrior
angel Michael shouts, a wreathed herald from the roof,
to God alone belongs life and life beyond these walls.

After the mountaintop comes the descent

Wednesday of the Seventh Week of Easter
Jn 17:22
That they may be one as we are one

When it’s far too late into the night
I keep myself thinking, “come away,
come away,” but it’s too far for me,
I keep thinking. It’s too late, the night
is far from rain, too dark to read—
even storm clouds so dangerous, I
fail to see. I can’t help it but think.
Why do we play with lives, pulling,
there, running. Stopping, chasing.
I think I cannot reach out, I think
far from the people, too small, stupid.
Games of buying and selling, myself
silly, just so the world can see wet cold
me. So silly, I think. The gutter grasps
Like fingers, “come play, come play”,
I think I cannot run, I’m not far away.

Today, for Tomorrow

Feast of Saint Matthias
Isaiah 6:8
I heard the voice of the Lord saying: “Whom shall I send?” Who will be our messenger?” I answered, “Here I am, send me”.

Finally,
you can sleep.
Nestle your head
on my word,
hold it in
your ear to listen.
Inside,
like the sunrise,
the best of dreams
even sweeter than wine
limbs regenerating, flesh
covering white bone.
Tongues speaking languages
their lips do not know.
Bread visiting the poor
widow. You’ll hear
the sick no longer cough
or want for a blanket
for heat or chill.
Even more,
and even more,
you will see
greater things. For your troubles,
you will bleed, and
you will die.
In that same day,
you will be with me in paradise.

Not the World

Seventh Sunday of Easter

The Lord has taken away my understanding. The light has gone from my eyes. I am left to rot with things of worm and toil.

The Lord has taken back what belongs to Him, blessed be God forever.

He has taken my seat and given it to another who is trustworthy. I have sold the kingdom for the world. I am drowning in silver coins.

The Lord has taken back what belongs to Him, blessed be God forever.

But He is faithful. His mercy endures, heaven and earth bend to His sway. He has struck me down but He Himself will save me.

The Lord has taken back what belongs to Him, blessed be God forever.

He has watched over them and not one is lost except the one who chose to be lost. Lord, have mercy on a sinner like me, your mercy that endures forever.

The Lord has taken back what belongs to Him, blessed be God forever.

I am left with nothing. I am no king with an army, I have no beast to defend me. I have no lyre or harp but I sing a new song. The Lord is my one saving help.

The Lord has taken back what belongs to Him, blessed be God forever.

Grave After

Wednesday of the Second Week of Easter

When white the morning rises,
Stars collapse the prison door,
Will I find myself entombed or
Chains dust the weeping floor?

Bleeding mystics’ ancient joy,
Pure ascent, lack of selfish ego,
Will my mirror reflect your gaze?
Will the garden bid me go?

Forever spring, life blooms at once
Weak tenderness and keeping,
Will I accept your crown of thorns,
Speak my joy in newness reaping?

Wandering

Tuesday of the Second Week of Easter
John 3:8
The wind blows wherever it pleases; you hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. That is how it is with all who are born of the Spirit.

Wandering was, to us, more than after-dinner exercise.
The truth is that we were carried between discoveries
Even if all we saw were granite quarries,
Moss-ridden and overhanging a still lake
In this part of the deep wood
As far as this urbanised garden would allow.
But there are days too when the dark
Veins of the leaf of a simple common tree
Stuns me that I misremember
Where I walked from and how I’m leaving
As if the shadows of this late night never truly mattered.

Poem: No Matter How Old

To the grandmas from Bury who spoke to me on Zoom during the lonely pandemic

My heart sang its last slow
hallelujah
in tongues but
comprehension slips
memories ebb
with time like waves
despite my best
cold sleep’s caress was all I had
and the four lonely walls
of a present without hope
disaster and disaster again
eating away at future life

But a gentle truth
“we can fix
everything
and we can always mend
what is broken”
though you said it entirely offhand
I listened to the closing tide
and the cold water drew away
from body and shipwreck
I finally breathed
as we wrote poems together
about the beach and things we loved
even though they were in history
and a million miles away

And the dove in my chest
awoke
to church bells ringing
with repose of a simple painting
a chorus drawing
workshopped
pencil strokes holding hands
since the old are neat guides
and motherly sounds
unaware of their affection
and protection
unabashed to build with soil
and tired hands
my imagined cathedral

I quietly began to believe since then
since my heart gave up
and tongues descend
a hallelujah once again
I still think of them some years now
and how it’s okay, it’s really okay
to find yourself in pain
yet accept those same words again
“to mend”
to be comforted
and none of those words or wants
of trying or falsely accused unjustified living
of remembering what was lost
and writing it down with love
will ever be in vain

First written in 2021, edited and published in 2024

Poem: Money

Money, that weightless thing. So invisible,

So undiscernible in value except maybe for the size

Of its note or the braille printed just before the edge

Meets invisible space. Money is so heavy, that fleeting thing

Constantly oppressive. More than its entire weight in gold.

Gold shines so that you can feel, taste, smell and pretend

It’s worth more than the collective weight of things

You have since let go to hold more money.

Poem: It’s not me it’s you

I’m always heartbroken

In memory of you and me. All

The time, happy. Sad.

They are the same.

To me, all tears flow downwards

Like rivulets to the ocean.

Happy crying becomes sad. So too

Heartbreak slips into

Times we had each other.

Someone else in this big blue world,

At least one.

Like my heartbeat, the water cycle

Passes along,

The rain seeps into the soil

It kills, it kisses. All

Blended as if it is one thing.

Poem: Abot-kamay

Translation.

Abot means reach. Kamay means hand.

Abot-kamay means within reach, something you’re aiming to have, or something you worked hard for is almost at your fingertips.

Abot-kamay

When you will be born on that fateful day,

Wrapped in sterile white blankets

And the heavy caress of a tired body,

I will remember dreaming of you today,

As I gaze into those brown eyes that awoke

Drowned wet with tears this morning for the dream

Of having you far off in the grey future and not being

Able to hold you, all bloodied and crying, in the small

Of my hands now, so wrinkled and far from worthy,

Smelling of oranges and lemons, feeling softness.

Poem: Babel

I was always fascinated by the story of Babel

Which could be said to be the story of mankind:

“To become Gods” or “To find God” or “To kill God”.

It is the story of ascent like that of mystics

But with the spirituality of warriors, kings, and conquerors.

I am a man, just a man, so I too think I know how men

Think. We want to climb the tower, holy or not

To achieve. Maybe we were uncomfortable in our baggy skins,

Disgusted by our flesh that is so easily bruised… and our egos.

As if in our old souls, we knew. That earth

And our allotted lotteries were not enough—

That there was something in us unfinished. Well, ironically,

It took someone stepping down, somewhat from that

Broken tower of ambition, to show us in all humility,

Clothed in our skin but not in our ancient weakness,

Not like Superman from the comic books but instead a poor criminal

Broken to show us that to be truly human is to truly be like God.

Haiku: December

December again

My blanket smells of rainfall

My pillow is cold

Poem: Moving On

When I tried to walk,

Softness and the smell of apples

Tug at my feet like small hands.

They pull me into the concrete. So cold,

Like the other side of a pillow.

I hoped I’d recover

At least the motion of walking

From whichever drawer I kept

Your “I wish you were happy”s

Before I forget.

Poem: A Warm Heart

For Jonathan

Men are weak to tears because they remind
them that life is not a competition,
that hardness of heart is not normal
nor is it virtuous. Tears remind men of pride
which is folly; for in all their
strength, it takes a soft and tender heart to sit
with the wounded. It takes vulnerability
and what is that in the eyes of cold, domineering strength?
It is a power that they cannot comprehend
tears melt a man’s cold heart,
tears trickle through the ice
as they pass through rivers, seas and moats
and in time, hard men shall embrace
the tragic and beautiful reality
of a warm heart’s giant roar.

Poem: Cosmopolitan

It haunts

            The glint between my spectacle lenses

                                    I am far away

                                                            No more plastic smiles

                                                            No more concrete

                        Stony faces

                                                                        Crack in the ground, the road

                                                hidden differently

            Hearing

                                    Knowing

                                                                        Not understanding

Forever given to the future             

Poem: Lamentations

I only know
you breathe my breath
that to be
I am not worthy
despite my unloveliness
torn shawl and drawers
the spite and adultery
the cheating and scandals
you have kept me with you

As written in the book
I do not know
why for
how far I have turned away from you
but admonishing
with all
I am
and where I want to be

Poem: Images of the Contemplative Inner Life

A rocky cliffside
jagged and beaten
hides a reservoir
as water drips
through moonbeams
the cracks of clenched fists
a candle wanes with dignity
wax melting
stronger than electricity
listen explorer
the cavern speaks
tremors
fear its rumbling
swaying everything
hold still
the ripple
from a drop
as mountains melt
submit
rocks fall into water

Poem: John 13:14

Quiet room
Deathly
Cold
Silent steps
Starless night
Still air
The night before
Bathed
In water
Wine
Before blood
A wedding eve
Hard
On dust and sand
Sobriety
Uninvited
Simple
Not just my feet
Stops
Time
Kingship
Everything
Unprotected

If heaven is as good as it sounds

If heaven is as good as it sounds

then take me there

to a place that is forever

white and green with eternal springtime

like in stories where bread fall from the sky

like ash flakes after a campfire in the morning

like hope descending and unbecoming

where there is only love

where we are going

and more than I love

as good as it sounds

than impermanence

our life here below

our sadness

beyond present dissatisfaction

raised up to heaven

won’t I gawk

on the table unspent

forever mirthy

a joy that lasts

for nothing dies

like flowers

alive and held

so unweary

undemandingly