Homage to Wendell and Others

vabutsy poems 
When despair for the future overwhelms me
And I stare into the present ugliness
In fear of what my grandchildren may never know
And may have to know
I close my eyes and remember 
Remember the prophets and heroes
The flawed women and men
Who rest now in beauty.

I go into the peace of wild people
Of Dolly, Tim, Wendell, and Gloria
Who did not tax their time with despair
Or grief. I remind myself
Of the good trouble they made
And I try to feel above the sordid present
I try to feel my grandchildren’s despair-less
Hope, waiting with their courage
And for a moment, I am content.

In Honor Of

vabutsy poems, prayers

“Your hope of Heaven, let it rest on the ground underfoot.”

Go outside
Stand on ground that is not human-made
Stand in your bare feet
Let his Hope rise though your soles into your soul.
Re-dedicate yourself to protecting earth’s future
Our only Hope
Our only necessary gift
To the future
For ourselves
For our children
For Wendell Berry

The Poet’s Task

vabutsy poems 
What did the poet ask of me?
To see the world in a grain of sand…
I have long lost that ability
But I can watch the toddler on the beach
Discover it for herself

To see heaven in a wildflower…
I don’t know if I ever had that ability
But I can watch Woody tend his garden
And pause to admire the volunteer plant

To hold infinity in the palm of your hand…
Once, in a Neonatal Intensive Care Unit
I gazed upon impossibly tiny babies
And thought of that line in Blake’s Augeries

To hold eternity in an hour…
Now, each hour, any hour
I ask no more of this life
Than this hour, this heartbeat

Celestial System

vabutsy poems

I will never know
Their religions
Their politics
Their faults
Their selfishness
Their failings
Their regrets
Their ugliness

I only know
Their competence
Their faithfulness
Their skill
Their compassion
Their close attention to my body
Their matter-of-fact wiping of my dirty bum
Their constancy

They needed no praise from me
They needed no words at all
Other than answers to necessary questions

In my exhausted silence
They formed a celestial system
Gently, faithfully orbiting around me.

Screenshot

Inspired by Salve Regina

vabutsy prayers

Hail, Holy Queen, Hope of Earth,
Virgin, Mother and Wise Woman.
To you do we cry,
Mud-made, Spirit-filled children of Gaia.
To you do we send up our sighs,
Fearful for this parched, abused world.
Extend, most fertile Womb,
Your hands of caring toward us.
Bless our stewardship
As you were blessed
That this your world may be
Renewed, protected, preserved
By the fruit of your womb, Jesus,
O clement, O loving, O sweet Mother Mary.

Screenshot

4 A.M. Thoughts

vabutsy ponderings

It is 4:00 a.m. I am 78 years old and have been ruminating on the mysteries of love and faith. I am remembering my Catholic childhood, dutifully learning the questions and answers of the Baltimore catechism, dutifully hiding the disorder in my parent’s marriage and my bruises from my dad’s strap, knowing there was something deeply wrong with my uncles having to pull my drunk seminarian cousin away from my 10 year old body, starting to question the unquestionable rightness of segregation to my deep South family. Hearing and over-hearing about my brilliance, my extraordinary IQ, my reading before 4 years old. And yet, and yet, never questioning the mysteries, the rightness, the beauty, the wonder, the love conquers all of my faith, of the Catholic Church. I remember when I could learn and experience all of the wrongness without it polluting the rightness for me. Those days are long gone. Those precious days of faith like a child because I was a child, although an intelligent, questioning child – a child who could retreat into an empty church, kneel in a pew on a red velvet kneeler, beneath a soaring ceiling, before a distant gilded altar, and feel comforted and quieted, like a weaned child on a mother’s breast, although I did not then know that psalm and had not yet read the Bible independently. Now I sit propped up in bed because my lungs fill with fluid because my heart is failing and I await the surgery that will repair my failing physical heart and wish for the spiritual surgery to repair my torn asunder soul.

Custody Battle

vabutsy poems, ponderings 
I read the headline: 
The Iran-USA agreement is being threatened 
by hostilities between Israel and Lebanon.

“How absurd,” I thought.
Then, quite suddenly,
It didn’t just make sense
But seemed inevitable.

Iran and America want a divorce.
	They have 3 children: IrAm1, IrAm2, IrAm3
Iran had been married to Lebanon.
	They have 3 children: IrLe1, IrLe2, IrLe3
America had been married to Israel.
	They have 3 children: AmIs1, AmIs2, AmIs3
Lebanon and Israel are married and want a divorce.
	They have 3 children: LeIs1, LeIs2,LeIs3

Now try to sort out custody and visitation arrangements, 
taking into account different vacation times and religious holidays, so that all half-siblings spend significant time together.