when a virgin gave birth,
when dumb creatures knew awe,
when angels had pure soprano voices and really flew,

and God tossed down a star to illuminate it all.

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.

I must have been no more than five
the day we traveled there. “Oh, see!”
said mom, “Look up! See the old man?”
I saw some piled-up rocks on top.
“Oh, yes,” I said, “I see him very well.”

And it was years before
a postcard pictured what I’d missed.
But then, I’ve often looked and seen
things strangely; a slightly different angle
than’s intended. Still, I’ve been content.

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

PASTEL ANGELS

Hallmark’s colorful
sentimentality hides
the true Holyday.

II.
Airplanes
amazingly
imitating a bird
translate the form and beauty to
metal.

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.

I have to remember now, at sixty-seven
that I really may fall, and often have.
But even then, as I start to slide,
there’s that scintilla of joy.

Then summer’s full field’s
a welcome, joyful answer
to farmer’s questions.

Field empty and cold;
a blanket of colored leaves
makes a patchwork quilt.

Winter’s long, long sleep;
and at all the field’s bedposts,
fluffy white pillows.

A basket of dried flowers on the tank
gave off the fragrance of a summer’s day.
She held them to her face, breathed in, and saw
a childhood’s field, a carefree girl at play.

Taking no time for conscience to intrude,
she scooped the petals in worn hands closed tight
and stuffed them in the pocket of her coat,
then left the room with glances left and right.

That night her park bench had a special pillow
made of her coat rolled up beneath her head.
The fragrance circled round about her dreams;
she slept upon a perfumed, silky bed.