Simeon

He was born
into the great silence -
nearly five hundred
years without a prophet,
but Simeon heard

the old voices.
Go to the temple,
they told him,
and the people laughed.
All but Anna, who
clasped her bony hand
around his wrist
when he passed by:
Today, she whispered.

Surely not them.
The road-weary carpenter
and his girlish bride,
tattered bundle clutched

tight to her chest.
Yes.

His feet moved unbidden,
hands took the warm passel
of rags and flesh
from the unsuspecting mother.
Holding the Child,

he heard himself say
the words
to all the songs
the silence could hold no more.

listening on sunday

Sunday afternoon
two boys asleep
two eating cupcakes
in the sun while the dog
chases chocolate crumbs.
A morning full of words
still tumble,
echo through me,
and a passel of
feelings answer back.
Contradictions, or
maybe they'll be mysteries
if I am patient.
Cynics and prophets,
shepherds and sheep,
zealots and fools
all have my ear:
I listen,
but it's my voice I
hear on their tongues.
Can any of us
hear another way?
But now the little one
is awake, his cries
shake my thoughts
back to earth
where frosting cheeks
need wiping and
we are all learning to
hear together.

good friday

I woke up slowly to
sunbeams streaming,
sleepy-eyed sons
and a psalm of praise.

You never slept
body aching from a night
of tears and prayers,
a morning in court but
no justice.

At noon we played
with friends
under early spring sun
an easy laughter
in our lungs.

Your midday sky went dark
as the curtain tore,
a last breath shuddered
through sagging ribs
and a broken heart.

In the late afternoon
we climbed over driftwood
and squinted into the
sea breeze with
wind in our hair.

As evening approached
they pried your body
from the boards,
life-author limp and
bound in linen cloths.

Tonight I will sleep
in your hard-won peace:
freed through bondage,
washed in blood,
alive by death.

holy wednesday

It sounds like an oxymoron to me
Or maybe something you say after
A rough day midweek.
But the magnolias are hinting,
The rhodies are blushing,
and even though I am wrung like
Clean linen
I suppose it does feel like a
Holy Wednesday.

palm sunday

Some Sundays we act out the stories
with our mouths and bodies
because they are ours, but only
in the general sense.
Our acting is an act of faith,
a hopeful play.

Not today.

'Hosanna' rings out clearer,
truer from my mouth than
'Alleluia' ever has.
It feels right, authentic,
probably because the hypocrisy
is built right in.
It's my story:
I lead the crowd
with broken branches
shouting the shallow praise.
His sees me from his
colt-throne, makes my throat close,
but only until Friday.