A short explanation of the following poems:

These are all syllabic forms, either Haiku, Tanka or Cinquain. The use of the word “Tones” refers to the various settings for doing Gregorian Chant. Chanting has been a part of Christian worship since the second or third century. In the seventh century, Pope Gregory the Great, perhaps in order to unify worship throughout the Church, made an official version of chant, using many of the very old forms. He named them by Roman numerals, limiting their numbers to less than ten, perhaps as few as six. The numbers tell the singers which notes will be used. Chanting is used for many parts of the Liturgy, but mainly for the singing of the psalms. It is still used, especially in monastic communities.

My use of the term “Psalm Tones” and the numbering, is my way of designating which Psalm is the source of my “mini-meditation.”

#1

I’ve reserved a place

in the seats of the scornful.

Dear Lord, forgive me.

# 5

Lead me in your way,

for all those who lie in wait

are right here inside.

#7

O Lord,

I take refuge

from any wickedness

or coldness of heart. Judge as I

deserve.

#13

Give light

to my eyes, Lord,

lest I sleep while living

and do not see the daylight in

your face.

#14

St. Paul would, in life’s

parade, put us in the rear -

self-appointed clowns;

the kind of fools whose Psalter

reads, instead, “There is a God.”

#15

Lord, who can abide

on your holy hill? Not I

who am not blameless;

no right-doer, truth-speaker!

Yet you invite me to climb.

#18

Lord, you are my lamp;

you follow, keeping me safe

when I choose dark paths.

Even on my stumbling way

you make my darkness bright.

#19

Heav’n, earth, day and night

have no voice nor language, but

they’re never silent.

They glimmer, whisper, shine, shout-

and always to God’s glory.

#22

My God,

where have you gone?

Why don’t you answer me?

Yet in absence and silence there

is love.

#23

I follow the rest,

out to the field and back home,

wondering daily

if the fold will be safe and

if the lord is my shepherd.

#24

Fight them

who attack me!

Kill those who seek my life!

They are not distant, lord, but here

inside.

#51

Each morning I pray,

“Lord, open my lips.” Perhaps

I should better say,

“Lord, shut my mouth,” that I may

in silence proclaim your praise.

#62

Soul-silence is time

unpassed, no minutes or hours,

limits or measure.

A time to wait for all things.

A time to wait for no thing.

#63

Eagerly I seek

thirsting and fainting for you.

In remembering

there is sweetness mixed with fear,

but your right hand holds me fast.

#84

Sparrows find a nest

as you planned for them. Could I

not ask for refuge,

a safe place where I can live

with this desire and longing?

#108

O God, my heart is fixed;

I sing and make melody.

And though my singing

is imperfect, it is still

what carries me straight to you.

#131

It’s all

too hard, I shout!

Great matters or small ones!

Help me, Lord, to be quieted

and wait.

#134

Let this servant stay

in the brightness of your light

where hands are lifted.

#136

Repeat the words, “Whose

mercy endures forever,”

until they echo

loud and louder still to be

the only Word I need hear.

#150

Even the stones might

have a breath to praise the lord,

as I too must do

’til I close my Psalter on

the final Alleluia.

INCARNATION

Each December’s gift:
a celebration of life
come down from heaven.

PASTEL ANGELS

Hallmark’s colorful
sentimentality hides
the true Holyday.

No “happy hunting grounds”
for my dog!
All the dogs of my life
are part of me,
as I am part of God.
Someday we will understand
each other exquisitely!

Candle, candle;
quiet light
welcomes evening
without sound.

So do we
in stockinged feet
enter twilight
year around.

Candle, candle;
gentle light,
flickering
but never drowned;

as the flame of
Jesus Christ
chases darkness
where it’s found.

Candle, candle;
help us see
every day’s
epiphany.

How can John Donne, long dead, give me today
the words I need to pray? And can’t I see
with my own eyes the “great unnumbered three?”
Surely my love must tell me what to say,
though “my devout fits come and go” the way
his did. And can I not aspire to be,
though earthbound, by my eloquence set free
to “see more in the clouds” by what I pray?

So in those moments when I feel Christ’s hand
and am left breathless by his touch, I start
to look for words of thanks – pious, but grand
and “seeking secrets” to set me apart.
Then would I soar !  But I can only stand
and pray, “Oh, be thou nailed unto my heart.”

On Tuesday I put on my sackcloth robe,
reminder of my true unworthiness,
and sit down in the ashes, where I probe
my inmost self with ruthless thoroughness.
Before I throw the ashes on my head
I carefully arrange my sleeves and skirt
to best display my penitence and dread
of judgment, which I know is my desert.

On Wednesday my Lord smiles at all my woe.
“Do you not know,” says he, “what I have done
to save you all this pain? You worry so!
Stand up! I’ll brush you off. Your sins are gone.”
And so his loving touch clears all away
except this ashen cross to mark the day.

I like to think the Babe
was born at midnight;
the stroke of time that
opens each new day.
“How silently,” the poet said,
“the wondrous gift was given.”

So in the darkest time of
any day of any life,
the hope breaks through
with dazzling light,
“and Christmas comes once more.”

Lord, tell me that winter’s short and that I need
not stay beneath this crust of frozen stuff,
held fast by sin. The unrelenting cold
keeps me imprisoned. Is it not enough

to say, “I’m sorry”? Oh! There’s something else
that will let the sunshine touch my face?
Not by my effort, so you tell me now,
but by the simple Springtime of your grace.

I remember saying to my brother, Don,
“You be the Dad and I will be the Mom”
when we “played house” so many years ago.
Oh, what a perfect family we were,
with no discord, and kids who found that they,
in make-believe, know only what was good.

So when I found these words, I felt again
the rooms of that small house beneath a tree
where we had hung a sheet to make the wall.
Your voice says clearly I need have no fear;
your promise is my talisman of hope:
“You will be my people, I your God.”

Oh, Abel, my field was marked by your blood,
now my forehead is marked to save mine.
I sent you away for ever in death;
God keeps me in life by this sign.

But if only I had withheld my hand,
we’d both now be rising from sleeping,
and you’d be off to tend your flocks,
and I to my sowing and reaping.

Another day of yearning for home,
and a night in the land of Nod.
How can this be protection
at the hand of a loving God?

Rather I’d die in this foreign place
or suffer any pain,
than never to touch my brother’s hand
or see my field again.