Hermits of Bethlehem

HERMITS OF BETHLEHEM

Chester, New Jersey

Beyond the threshold is silence.

Stillness suffuses like light.

The world outside is spinning.

Summer flames at its height.

Solitude is a boon companion.

Self-knowledge climbs like a sloth.

The bed is spare, a thin beard.

The rocking chair is a moth.

Dig in a cave in darkness.

Toss out handfuls of soil.

Bake bread in your heart, an oven.

Bring steaming thirst to a boil.

Listen for the least word of power.

Pierce yourself with a sword.

Afternoon deepens day shadows.

The sun is a violent lord.

Dusk emanates blood-red rays.

All trials in an instant will pass.

Gaze upon woods colored jade.

Dream dreams of emerald grass.

Originally published in The Penmen Review (July 29, 2015)

Bethlehem Hermitage

Sweet fragrant coffee…

Sweet fragrant coffee…

Sweet fragrant coffee, you fill me with delight,

You sharpen my hearing, focus my sight,

Waken taste and smell with rich, deep notes…

You waft restful draughts, quell restive seas,

Water vineyards and groves, hoe fruit-bearing trees,

Build sturdy safe homes, tidy cities on the plain,

Turn denizens to work for prosperous gain,

Hoist snappy white sails, launch fresh-painted boats…

You uplift my heart, quicken my feeling!

Just do not invade my sleep and dreaming.

Originally published in Eastlit (August 1, 2015)

Sweet fragrant coffee...

2:00 AM

2:00 AM

No dogs bark at this hour,

Desolate, an abandoned field burnt by the sun,

Dry shaving curls on a workshop floor long unswept.

Harsher than sawing wood, a motorcycle

Rips along a distant road, popping

Explosions in small packets sputtering

Bits of shrapnel, broken teeth,

Busted rivets, chopped up brittle, pits, tracers, short-lived sparks.

Slowly silence thickens, concrete putty sealing joints and crevices

Of a room deafening to the slightest vibration,

Hardening gradually, spiral candy.

The world is asleep, I am awake.

Passing time heaves, a resting animal.

Dimly, a behemoth of swarming thoughts like fireflies drifts past.

I wait steadfastly, a metal tool seeking the warm grasp of a skillful hand.

Now is the moment to enter into stillness

Deep as cloisters enfolding underground rivers,

Delicate as a tissue by the slightest cough perforated.

Before the smallest particle of noise tears like flint into gossamer darkness,

I will take long draughts, cupping my hands descending as birds into the springs of tranquility.

Street lamp at night

Your love is a flowing river…

Your love is a flowing river…

Your love is a flowing river leading me toward isolated caverns of tranquility,

Restful as the liquid colloquy curling round and round reflective stones sitting in a

     mountain brook

Nestled high along the hem of a darkening leather tundra.

Fold me into your heart like linen

In cabinets freshly perfumed with cotton,

Bind me fast to yourself as a sash in celebration,

Cradle me in your hand where I will dwell in the cup,

Unwinding knots at the end of a day burnished by fire.

Originally published in The Effects of Grace, Kindle ed., edited by Alice Saunders (Tampa, Florida: TL Publishing Group LLC, December 9, 2015), Kindle eBook, page 22

Mountain river flowing through conifer forest

Atop a High Mountain

ATOP A HIGH MOUNTAIN

I have seen a mountain. It all happened very quickly. No body could bear it

were the soul there for an hour.—Mechthild of Magdeburg,

The Flowing Light of the Godhead

Atop a high mountain

I beheld a river

Not of this earth

But of the sky,

Pure, blue,

Cloudless.

Bending down

To fill a glass bottle,

I saw bubbles

Rising, escaping

The opening

At the bottle top.

I lifted the bottle

To the sun,

Empty.

I tried a second,

Third time,

No water entered.

Glancing at my hand,

Dripping,

Fresh, youthful,

Smooth,

I heard a voice say,

“This water is for healing.

All who drink it

Are refreshed.

All who bathe in it

Are made well.

No one can carry this water

Down the mountain.

All must climb the mountain

To receive this water.”

When the vision vanished,

I felt a delicate thirst,

Fine as dust

Yet all-consuming.

Originally published in The Effects of Grace, Kindle ed., edited by Alice Saunders (Tampa, Florida: TL Publishing Group LLC, December 9, 2015), Kindle eBook, page 23

View atop Mount Pulag, Northern Luzon, Philippines

Prologue

PROLOGUE

Gloaming is gradually pushing night away.

Casting a magician’s spell, day sweeps

His arm in a wide arc, left to right.

The sky submits to his behest.

Darkness retreats faster than low tide pulling back its forces,

Fading until morning is a garment washed many times.

Dawn is a gray wolf’s coat streaked with white clouds.

Blue and pink light diffuse, a river entering a delta.

Moon and stars now gleam faintly, soft as kindness.

Daylight is spilling, gentle waterfall, over the window sill.

The house begins to stir, a living animal.

I hear tinkling utensils, clattering plates, sloshing glasses.

Coffee is percolating, a gurgling snorkel.

Birds let loose warbles, sinuous wrist movements of a dancer.

Clearing throats repeatedly, roosters do not understand

Only once is necessary to remind everyone day is here.

Din rises, tittering audience before a performance.

Turning squeakily, a faucet drills water into a pail.

Commuters gun their engines. Motorcycles roar, punching holes in paper.

Chaos breaks out, a bull bounding free from a maze.

Originally published in Pine+Basil, Volume 1, Issue 1, page 20

Morning Light by Pam Holnback

Epilogue

EPILOGUE

Night begins in disquiet, pacing back and forth,

Disturbed by spoons crossing swords with forks

Banging on plates as against shields,

Clinking glasses like missiles pinging helmets.

Rumbling low, a water stream is drumming

An aluminum sink, bottom of a boat.

Beyond the wall, cars whoosh by like subway trains.

Passersby in threes or fours are chortling birds.

Two houses down, a woman hollers faintly at a bawling child.

Cats scrambling after prey kick boxes bumping together as they fall.

A small animal is making tiny scraping noises inside the ceiling.

The wind rises, shakes leaves, dislodging one fruit,

Thudding on the roof, bouncing twice,

Rolling audibly…one, two more follow.

The house folds his hands, sitting silently for a while.

Everything is slowing down, floating brushwood.

The clock is ticking but not on the wall. Time machine

Oscillating to a gradually disappearing frequency,

I listen for the pop of ratchet and spring pulling the hammer backward

To strike the bell once, twice, then push off, sleep pulling at the oars.

Originally published in aaduna, Volume V, Issue 1 (Spring 2015)

La Nuit (1902) by Aristide Maillol

Sparkling river of silence…

Sparkling river of silence…

Sparkling river of silence,

Traveler along a shadowy forest floor—

I drink deep draughts, lasting,

Of your overflowing stillness!

Tipping your goblet,

I taste your brightness

As floral wine

Swirling inside a crystal

And breathe in perfume.

Fingers of a spellbound existence

Stop my ears.

Awe, a thief, steals my voice.

Bereft of noise, I am

Transfixed as the moon

Hovering, windless night,

Balanced on the sword tip of time.

The world is motionless

As my spirit moves

And my stumbling heart is filled

By a presence…and quiet…

A quiet presence.

Sparkling river of silence...

The Color of Death

THE COLOR OF DEATH

What is the color of death?

In the West many say black,

Some in the East say white.

Devout Muslims enshroud the dead

In white cotton or linen,

Depositing bodies in graves,

Heads pointed toward Mecca.

Protective white paper encloses

Household shrines in Japan,

Sealing against malignant spirits.

Blue is the sadness of death,

Color of mourning in Korea.

Thai widows mourn in purple,

Same color chosen by Roman Catholics

During Lent to drape in reverence the cross,

Instrument and symbol of the universal death

Of the Son of God.

Those whose livelihood is the dead—

Morticians, coroners, embalmers—might say

Death is gray, cadaver pallor.

Hacking, slicing, packing

Dead animals,

Slaughterhouse workers might say

Death is red, fresh meat.

Buddhists who cremate the dead might say

Death is yellow and orange, purifying flames.

Distant heirs of the ancient Egyptians, or of

South Americans of old—Mayans, Aztecs, Incans—might say

Death is gold, everlasting raiment of the sun.

I say death is multicolored—

Sundry motley opening leaves of a fan,

Forward tumbling acrobats in rainbow costumes,

Multihued children’s picture books,

Mobile animal figure whirligigs,

Variegated wallpaper prints,

Van Gogh sunflowers,

Brazilian toucans,

Australian parakeets,

Octopuses, neon-like, bursting with emotion,

Pendant festival lanterns,

Brass bands marching holiday parades,

Fighting kites flashing ribbon tails,

Tibetan prayer flags streaming.

Originally published in Progenitor Art and Literary Journal (2015), pages 13-14

Tibetan prayer flags

All Souls’

ALL SOULS’

The day of the dead is short respite for the living.

The tumult of life is stilled by the remembrance of the dead.

The living remembers the dead as the silence of the grass.

The grass is the dead ever present among the living.

The dead have not forgotten that life is breath and water.

They hover in the air, waiting for rain.

Water is the prayers of the living for the thirsty.

The living sometimes forgets, the dead ever remember.

Originally published in Anak Sastra (October 26, 2014), page 83

Mexican Day of the Dead skulls

You Are My Brother

YOU ARE MY BROTHER

I saw you dirty, sleeping in the street,

Your dry hide, carbon smudged ancient pottery,

Your fingernails, black as oil pooling in the driveway,

Your hair spiked like hawk feathers clumped by doormat mud.

I mistook you for an asphalt ball

Tumbling out of a truck,

Raked then rolled into the road,

Or dung of vegetarian animals, dark green

Sea urchin exploding needles, grass.

What stroke of misfortune befell you?

Has some broken gene uncoupled your logic?

Why are your glassy eyes transfixed by chimeras?

Did some personal tragedy tear your psyche into two?

No bread for a father,

No home for a mother,

No education for currency, unemployed,

Misfit piece in a manufacturing assembly line,

You wander about, a gyrating flywheel unconnected to a machine.

If I filled your cup with coins, I myself would go begging

Because your needs are a bottomless horn of empty.

Am I, Cain, being called to account for your destitution?

Am I, Dives, caressed by fine silk, thickened by choice meats?

I tell myself I will live simply,

Giving to you beyond the needs of my family,

Working to create a better society in which the poor

Are less destitute and the destitute are less.

See, my heart is a pocket fraying holes.

Tracked by an accusatory finger,

I want to look away but I cannot—

You are my brother.

Originally published in New Asian Writing (May 7, 2015)

A homeless man

Tree Sparrow

TREE SPARROW

Chirps scatter…

You, slight, alight,

Switch your head,

Hop, swivel,

Tuck your arms tight,

Preen, puff, shiver…

Ready…

Burst in flight,

Bullet of feathers, wings, tail—

Prodigy of creation,

Breathless creature

So frail.

Originally published in Eastlit (August 1, 2015)

Eurasian Tree Sparrow