Next Morning

A contemplation on the possible indifference of the crowds in Bethlehem the night Jesus was born led to this invitation to imagine the scene.

The Next Morning 

Mild morning light

Sifts through the windows of the inn,

Where blear-eyed travelers

Shake out slept-in cloaks

And comment on the scarcity of

fodder, and of comfort, 

and of bread, in Bethlehem.

One yawns out "Did anyone else

Hear singing in the night?"

"Nah, I sleep anywhere, most

like a rock," one says.

"People coming, going, all night,"

groans another, "hardly slept a wink - and no denying there are fleas in here."

"These crowds," growls one whose gray-striped turban smells of fish - "I'm out

to get in line first thing at these *___* registration booths -

Old Caesar never had to make his living from the sea -

I hope that red-haired boy

gave water to my donkey - here you!

Where'd you put him?"

"In the stable," calls a red-fringed silhouette of head

thrust through the morning door,

one second's shadow on the dust-thick floor.

"Here, you!" - again the sea-stained gentleman - but no response.

"I'll have to fetch the beast myself."

Down two turns of the sun-streaked stairs,

The dark door of the stable

Rustles with the restlessness of rising animals.

Eyes new-adjusting to the dimness, 

Old Jonah sees a small white shape 

Amidst the remnants of the last night's hay.

"I'll be -" he mutters, noticing the woman, and the man, nearby, asleep.

He turns away, embarrassed,

Looking for his donkey,

"This government - 

Come on, you slow of bones" - 

this to the donkey, gazing back, ears pricking toward the manger, nostrils twitched -

"Time we're gone".

Their shadows fill the door

One second more.

Then Mary wakes

To see the square of sunlight on the hay-strewn floor,

And hears with sudden leap of weary heart,

The whimpering in the manger.

-AFB, 12-25-23

After Talking to Hispanic Workmen on a Rainy Day

The house is still and warm.

Front door bangs to on 

drizzle, cold, and foggy

conversation with the 

work men come to 

lay new cables with 

their new brown hands.

They stumble over

English words, their brown eyes

hiding from another 

round of "I don't understand".

Hunched against the dampness, 

they think Spanish thoughts 

inside.

 

The dryer tumbles to a stop

just as I step inside,

My cold hands dive

into a nest of toasted t-shirts,

basking in the light bulb's 

yellow glow.

Outside it's grey.

 

Some time today,

brown hands will

end their day in rain

and take off hats,

printed with English words.

The lights will glow on in their

Spanish eyes, and Spanish

thoughts come tumbling

out like warm towels

into homey, waiting hands.

When We Can Sing

A poem written after reading John Bunyan describing the throne of the Lamb in his book, Prayer.

I've heard a deaf man speak -

irregular, unsettling leaps

of vocal cords untied 

from careful reins that hearing

holds to modulate

our bursts of sound.

But soul must find expression.

Thus, first, when I imagine all

our resurrected eyes beholding 

on that highest throne, a Lamb

once slain of love for us, 

and now exalted 

as the center of all good,

our tongues must stumble 

like the deaf before his 

soul's great sound

and cry with mingled joy and grief,

a startling moan of realized love

to shock the universe.

Not so it says.

Somehow, it will be "Worthy!" -

yes, a song of measured words - 

"Worthy the Lamb once slain"

from every ransomed tongue,

each ear un-chaosed,

modulated to the music of the spheres.

We know not now the meaning

of restored, unbroken,

as we shall then,

when each ear hears 

before that healing throne

its song lined out 

upon a thousand, thousand

never-stumbling tongues.

- AFB, 4-26-23

A Prayer for Lent

 In 40 days,

    we'll stand beside the stone

    dropped in the dew-wet grass

    beside our dew-wet feet

    before our tear-wet eyes,

    while dawn and bird dawn-chorus

    echo back our joys.

 

Today, our eyes are dry

    and we forget, between

    the dishes and the wash machine

    majestic sweetness 

    in Your voice.

    We cannot see beyond the screen

    the darkness of Gethsemane,

    or feel beyond our creaking chair

    the heavy cross you had to bear.

Teach us again to taste and see,

    the goodness of Your body,

    drained of blood, but not of Love,

    which bids us follow

    till we reach again,

    the fallen stone,

    the folded linen clothes,

    the moment when

    we turn again,

    hearing Your voice.

Waiting for Redwings

Today I felt a stirring in the air outside, even from the house - a slight change in the bird songs, a bright haze in the air. Gazing out the window at the damp black tree branches and wisping clouds, I remembered the redwing blackbirds. They always came when you were sure it was a little too early to expect spring, sometimes descending flight-weary on the feeders to gobble seeds with snow-dusted wings. Then from the tree tops, would come that wild cheering call as they flared their red shoulders and laughed winter to scorn. 

I thought today I could cry for joy to hear one blackbird sing. Was it about now that they came? Then, I remembered the nature log on the hutch shelf - a notebook kept with sporadic devotion to a few details, mostly first sightings, new species. I went for it, and there, last year on February 6 was "First redwing blackbird call". Today is February 5. Another year noted the 9th. It might be soon now. 

What was the value of that dated scribble? A remembrance? A comparison? A reason to hope? Perhaps it was simply that the act of writing three words had so much potential return for the cost of effort. The returning seasons are one of God's guarantees. Noting them marks my place a little more firmly in that promised cycle. 



Will I cry for joy when the first redwing sings? I don't know. I might write a poem. But I'll probably write it in the notebook.