Old White Church

We were told it was
Greek Revival
these simple
four white walls,
where--
baptized,
confirmed,
married,
eulogized,
we came to be.
When stripped
of the Victorian apron
the corners
stood naked where
the sea of alabaster
frescoes joined.
At the tall
paned windows
color flooded
in from every side,
and ritual met life
in these
four white walls
where--
baptized,
confirmed,
married,
eulogized,
we came to be.
Over fifty years
the corners of her life
stood out in
the jasmine sun
of jubilation,
cobalt of sorrows held,
on old white walls
lives bled through,
where names were
written on
the wavy dust
as the sun
streamed through,
in these
four white walls
where--
baptized,
confirmed,
married,
eulogized,
we came to be
called, created
we were revived
in this simple
house
that is not
our own,
in this simple
house that is
our home.

Choir Bells

These bells
are the long vowels of music,
saying,
doing,
being.
From the little "A"
that climbs up the back
of your neck
looking skyward
through the forest
of your parted hair
on a cloudless
blue washed day,
clear as a bell
some say;
to the largest "E"
that fills out the lower ribs
as a lover's heart
swollen with the pages
of her symphony--
it aches the sweet
sweet pain,
tears of joy
some say.
With pauses, breathe,
soft, two, three,
consonants join,
ring, two, three
three bells strike the chord,
the syllables,
the names,
once upon a
once,
once upon a
time.

The bells ring
beginnings
ends
again,
the seven
for creation,
birth.
the thirty three
reconciliation,
wedding.
seventy two
awakening,
death.
again, again
the bells ring.
In the morning
the tower bell
called one
called two
called all
from far
and near,
to hear.
These bells are
the long vowels
that sway from arms
and wrists
they lift and rise
lift and rise
and fly untied
in windful sighs
of wheat in a summer breeze
from running
spring waters
to rising fall incense
these bells are
the long vowels
some say
some say
a steeple,
in our midst.

Ground

I sometimes
wonder if
the ancient
view of the
world
as a deck
of three
--a slice of
yeasty white
heaven
above,
a slice of
toasted
hell below,
and the
bologna
in between--
had it
upside down,
so that the
heights we
strive to
reach and
grab ahold
are really
hell,
and heaven
has us by
the ankle
as we
twist
crusty heels
upon the
ground
of all
that is.

Field of Dreams

She said it
was a field of dreams
a house amid the corn
if we would build
on faith and hope
the faithful would be borne
on wings of love
and tender toil
the walls would rise
and call
to build a people
in a town whose
roots were often torn.
The nomads of the
urban outland
gathered at the feast,
St. Francis heard
the voice call
and built the palace
of wanderer's feet.


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