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