Let.


let me be an open ear,
slow to speak and quick to hear
each rustle, whisper, stifled cry,
joyous laugh or inward sigh

let me be an open hand,
a hand which in compassion touches,
a gentle hand to tenderly heal
time’s red welts and painful weals

and if this tongue must needs speak
let words truth and beauty seek,
such words as always combine
balm for soul and salve for mind.





How Long?


They said they spoke for you,
those men of old.
They claimed that you spoke through them.
“Thus says the Lord,” they say,
“the High and Holy One”.
They had great visions:
justice and equity for the poor, 
swords beaten into ploughshares,
spears into pruning hooks,
the horror and waste of war finished,
everyone having their own vine and fig tree,
the lame leaping like the deer,
the blind receiving sight,
the desert blooming,
tears wiped away
and best of all, the prisoners, 
those appointed to death,
unshackled and set free.

Trouble is, every day 
I hear screams of children,
see mothers cradling starving babies,
watch the thick smoke of war 
blanketing the near horizon,
read of detestable men in high office,
villages covered by sludge slides,
the sea rising, glaciers melting,
species disappearing,
cities running out of water,
a huge tide of refugees
adrift and homeless,
on and on that old repeated story
of corruption, inequality and blood.

Those promises were ancient long ago.
Millennia have passed since their 
“Thus says the Lord”.
And what I want to now ask
are questions also asked long ago
by prophets and psalmists.

They cried out in their anguish and confusion
and I cry out the same.
How long, O Lord, how long?
Will you keep your promises?
Will this earth be restored?
When will you fill it with your glory?
When will the knowledge of you
fill the earth as the waters cover the sea?





Thanks


for this blue-sky, cloud-scudded, leaf-swaying day,
this glistening, sparkling, sun-filled day,
this dappled, shade-strewn, patterned day,
this magnolia-blooming, freesia-littered, plum-blossoming day,
this bud-swelling, bird-singing, spring-cool fresh day,
this day that turns its back on winter’s cold,
this day of growth, color and warmth,
this day of birth and laughter and song,
this tender day, this day of beginnings,
this lung filling, mind uplifting, joyous day,
this day when the heart swells and hope, like sap, rises,
this day when the world seems bright and light-
yes, thanks for the glory of this day.




I Am.


I am the wind that ripples the water,
the sun rising from the sea,
the dark clouds scudding the sky,
the leaf that falls from the tree,
the womb in which I was woven,
ten million million words that whirl,
my love who shares my body and mind,
the little child's hand enclosed by mine.

I cannot lift my hand against you, my brother,
abuse or oppress you, my sister,
exploit you, my neighbor,
or burden you, my little ones.
We are all the wind that ripples the water,
the curling swell upon the sea,
the clouds that billow, wisp or scud,
the momentary glory in the west
the darkening mystery of the night.

-First Published at Praxismag online.