Thanksgiving and Charlie Brown

11/2002

I smell the damp, dewy scent of fallen leaves,
As I watch them, red and yellow and orange,
Twirling in the sky,
I see the pregnant clouds,
Puffy, bloated, ready to unleash gentle flakes of newly fallen snow,
Dripping, cascading from the sky in near perfection.

I think of Charlie Brown,
And the T.V. special I watched when I was younger.
The many Thanksgivings that were only complete with his presence.
I think of all the past years,
The turkey, the long table, the friendly company.
I think of Snoopy
All alone (but with Woodstock, always with Woodstock)
Spending his Thanksgiving in a snow-covered dog-house
Left behind.

I return to the clouds, the snow,
Amazed at their torrent,
The way the snow blankets the ground, renewing it with whiteness.
I close my eyes and breathe the warmth of the holiday.
The good cheer, the toasts, the splendor, the thankfulness.

I open my eyes and sense the hungry in the streets, the poor in our alleyways.
A million Snoopys without a yellow companion
Spending their time in their own snow-covered dog-houses.
Can I ever know your sorrow, Snoopy?  Your joy?
Do you have anything this year to make you thankful?
I’ve never been alone or hungry or without a reason to give thanks.
I bow my head and pray for you, Snoopy, on this day of Thanksgiving,
I pray for an end to your hopelessness and your sorrow

And I also pray for myself.
And give thanks for all God’s blessings.

On this beautiful, sharp, snow-covered day I give thanks
And remember.

Wave at Those Who Cry

4/1984

While resting on a shadowed street,
I wave and smile at those who cry,
But they don’t see me, and their feet
Continue marching slowly by.

And then I see a man in black
Waving a jug of water over me.
I cannot think to answer back
Since chained to the ground are my head and feet.

And then I hear a muffled cry.
And then a sense of falling flows,
And gingerly I think “Goodbye”
And then I know…

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One of the pieces inspired by my father’s death, and also intentionally written to be reminiscent of Emily Dickinson’s “Because I could not stop for death”.

Dirty Pipes or The First Plague

12/22/04

I turn the tap on my faucet and the
Water runs russet,
I wonder what particles turn the water red?
What sediment of ages past flows in my pipes (even when they are clean) and into my body
Turning what was a fountain of life into a repository of death?

Was this what the Egyptians saw with the coming of the first plague?
Life-giving water turning to blood?
Mother of rivers brought to her knees,
Raw, bitter, bringer of death
To her children?

What did the Egyptians do for water during those terrible days?
Did they consume the red liquid
Taking into their own bodies the pestilence and disease?
Or did they run parched and dirty
Through the streets of the great city?

Did they marvel at the Awesome Power that brought the first
Menstruation of their Mother?
And what of the Jews?
Beneficiaries of this first great tragedy,
How did they satisfy their thirst?

But back in my kitchen I look to much more mundane realities.
I call the plumber and make an appointment.
Ensuring that he Roto-Rooters my drains,
Snaking through my pipes
Removing any doubt about their cleanliness.

And I am free to wash away the blood that runs through my reality.
Chalk it up to past experience,
Forget about the lesson I unwittingly learned
That behind every bringer of life
Lies the potential for death.

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I am beginning work on a series of poems relating to the Ten Plagues of the Exodus story.  Some serious, some humorous, some in free verse, some with rhyming structures, I want to take the stories of the plagues and relate each in some way to modern times.  This is the first plague (the plague of Blood) where the Nile River turned to blood.

More will be posted but I would invite your feedback on this first one.

I Lived my Life a Thousand Times

I lived my Life a thousand times
Before You passed my Door,
The Certainties I took for mine,
Were really only Yours.

You touched my soul, awakened me,
And now I cannot rest.
The stirring You’ve inspired in me
Has put me to the test.

And so I search and look for You,
With all my heart and mind
You’ve given me the answers, it’s the
Questions I must find…

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The Prayer Poem has a long history, going back in the written record as far as the Biblical Psalms. This piece was my attempt to write a prayer poem, but one that spoke to religious reawakening without specifying a particular polemic. Many people use the power of religious thought to divide, I am inspired by those who view religious expression as the great unifier, allowing that we all see some true piece of Divinity.