A God Desperate To Be Loved Read online

and motionless shadows,

  emptied

  into the damp presence

  of swept corners

  and muddy forest roads?

  Be still, little one!

  Sip the still waters,

  you fearless wanderer!

  Look! There in the creek

  under the bridge:

  a worn, forgotten reed

  sailing alone

  on a never-ending stream

  under a timeless vault of

  cheering pines

  and moss-laden oaks--

  marked, forgotten, tired,

  ready to die!

  “I will raise the cup of salvation[...]”

  Psalm 116:13

  PRIEST

  Sun daily comes to light

  the silent woodland paths

  with gleams that stir

  their placid cover;

  then, sounding slopes

  descends in sparkling flares

  that send

  mystic dreams on river.

  Stars each evening wake

  to shine with magic gleams

  to rustle restless hearts of lovers,

  as houses come alight

  and dogs bark at their quiet

  revery from leafy covers.

  The timeworn map that plots

  these well-trod paths,

  now daily charts my steps for me,

  and inside I feel the touch

  of a fairer sun of such

  luster, I reel deliriously.

  Then as deeper night descends

  where stars like children sing,

  “We crown you high priest

  of heaven’s charms,”

  I walk the breathless night,

  lifting high their light,

  transformed to source from

  musty effigy.

  “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son[...]”

  John 3:16

  THE HEART OF A GOD-GILDED UNIVERSE

  Outside, children gaily play and shake

  coffee-craving sleepers from their stupor,

  as awestruck angels in my chapel gaze

  with me as, at the altar of your mercy,

  I raise and reveal to another waking day

  the heart of a God-gilded universe.

  Everything today may see--

  every act and plan and happening--

  shall receive from here its meaning,

  to become, to you, my Risen Lord,

  an endless psalm of love.

  But I, I who denied you,

  who wandered about oblivious,

  now gaze into your rapacious blood

  and see your face!

  So many times you have shown me

  your crimson, passionate gaze!

  And--you choose me?

  To raise your risen flesh,

  to feed your flock

  your precious blood

  to make them clean?

  O Shepherd, really?

  Me?

  “Yes--oh, surely yes,”

  you seem to say. “For

  only the hands of one

  who knows his nothingness

  can bring me to my people

  as befits my Majesty.

  For, in you now, my son,

  heaven’s minions see

  a masterpiece of my mercy

  painted clearly.”

  Cities shall grow as I stand amazed,

  streets and coffee shops will bustle

  as crowds hasten to work or play,

  to continue their regular oiling

  of their city’s restless machine,

  and--all for a vapid purpose.

  If only they would stop to see:

  their frantic furies cannot seize

  the prize their hearts desperately need

  shining crimson at the table

  of their neglected God.

  “I am just a thought away.”

  you, my captive Majesty, say.

  “One thought can return me to my world,

  one silent pause prepare it for my goal,

  (How many know where they are going?)

  to live and find in Me

  alone what gives life meaning.”

  “Open to me, my sister, my beloved, my dove, my perfect one.”

  Song of Songs 5: 2b

  “I was steeping but my heart kept vigil; I heard my lover knocking.”

  Song of Songs 5: 2b.

  THE CALL

  As I sort the disheveled pages

  of my years, a certainty

  as clear as waking love appears

  that you have ever been leading me,

  Mystic Lover, into

  the desert of gaunt prophets

  where human voices dimly echo

  the thunder of your silence,

  where bodily clay grows taut,

  and spirit whistles, amaze,

  above its unreality.

  Timeless Suitor!

  So often have you ravaged me

  in your bodiless presence,

  whispered your purposes

  into my flailing thoughts,

  that I sit back, breathless

  at the wonder gleaming

  on these rustling pages--

  dazzling as noon

  on Tampa Bay--

  that tell me that you, my maker,

  have ever led me here

  where I wildly, blithely sing,

  seized by the fury

  of your emblazoned wing.

  “[...] for love all love of other sights controls and makes one little room an everywhere

  John Donne, “The Good Morrow”

  CRY OF THE GENTLE PROPHET

  Shall I again know

  the bare, still room,

  wake

  to an _ infinite vault

  of bright morning,

  a silent sea

  of wonder transfixing

  bed, book, and bare wood floor

  and white encrusted window

  into a psalm

  quiet

  yet tenebrous as sea?

  Is the gentle prophet

  still alive--

  hum?--

  under all

  the wrinkled years

  distracted

  by distant thunder

  that makes sunbright

  slip, a faithless nymph,

  from consciousness?

  Is he,

  the boy I was

  and must be, still here

  with all the surging

  insistence of dream,

  the ever-louder

  echo

  of call

  ever present,

  beating,

  blaze-brazen,

  at my lifegate?

  “On my bed and night I sought whom my heart loves.”

  Song of Songs 3: 1

  EARTH SLEEPS

  Earth sleeps in the silence

  of the solar system,

  silence that enlightens

  hearts of solitary wood-

  walkers, the ancient,

  imperishable silence

  that speaks destinies

  to saints, sages, poets,

  that weds (O bright siren!)

  solitary souls to virgin springs,

  to quiet starlit groves,
r />   to soft temples of fauns and

  forgotten beasts of innocence.

  Ah, the sleep of care

  that feeds peace profound

  where mind reclines

  as in a cave at sunset,

  unclouded starry skies

  unveiling the nature of things--

  of faith, of hope, and of love--

  watching motionless,

  as breathless heavens revolve

  cooled by the ocean breeze

  of a new dawn

  whispering

  frail eternity.

  “All your works give you thanks, O Lord, and your faithful ones bless you!”

  Psalm 145: 1

  MORNING PRAISE

  Every morning as I rise

  to sunlight bright

  or dim,

  I cast the covers

  from my bed and eyes

  and stand, heart and hands

  outstretched at the open

  window of your radiance--

  a fleeting flame

  in a timeless presence--

  and exclaim,

  “Good morning, Father.”

  “So familiar with divinity,”

  a sun-struck sparrow chides,

  “That sighs

  from the spectral heart of air,

  from whose presence

  spirals

  the searing power

  giving sun and spirit flair!”

  Oh, yes!

  I tremble at your coming,

  at the soft, breathless silence

  streaming over me--

  from which you formed me;

  yes, formed me as I am,

  so cunningly!

  And though I quiver,

  wondering,

  I am sure you understand;

  how often have you assured me,

  “I am your closest Friend.”

  ‘And you,” a sparrow quickly adds,

  as if ablaze with prophecy,

  “are the dim yet pure effigy

  of his veiled beauty,

  a child of God, fathered

  from the pliant, pulsing embrace

  of silent shapelessness

  by his insatiable passion to conceive,

  by him whose nature

  is creative giving,

  to whom you daily wake

  and, trusting, take

  light to live

  and power to be

  a prophet of his mystery.

  O Father! My Father!

  I shall not brush my hair

  nor descend the stair

  nor move to greet a friend

  unless you shall intend

  and guide with your strong

  yet tender presence.

  Make of me today

  all that you wish--

  a trinket for your mantle,

  or, better,

  a passionate lick

  of your own livid flame.

  And, as I pass my way,

  may your love light the day

  ‘till evening again comes

  with caressing shades

  soft and long

  to enfold me

  in starlit wonderment.

  “I will lead her into the desert, and there will I speak to her heart.”

  Hosea 2: 16

  OBSCURE PLACES

  I have lived in obscure places,

  for God has led me there--

  and this defines my life:

  for God alone.

  My whole nature feels

  noble vocation, great deeds--

  great artist, poet, musician--

  yet, in silence far too frail

  to sense even my own presence,

  a love so fierce seized me

  took me far

  from created things.

  You came to me, Lord,

  gave my life it’s definition

  and it’s scope

  when you made all but you

  mere dust,

  my greatest goals

  a pregnant nothing that

  you only ignore.

  (Oh, when you turn to leave,

  be sure to shut the door!)

  You kept me in silent rooms

  and adorned my heart

  with your cross, taught me

  that you alone are good,

  all else

  your smoky reflection.

  And yet...

  how I’ve struggled to seek you.

  I wanted to be great

  so you took everything from me;

  but, doing so, I now see clearly:

  I want what you want,

  for I reflect you

  and you are my center.

  “ My God,my God, why have you abandoned me?”

  Psalm 22: 2; Matthew 27: 46

  OUT OF THE DEPTHS

  I

  An uncommitted, dry October

  whispers from the green

  window of the old monastic chapel,

  barely noticing the one

  wheat crumb, overlooked,

  on the worn wood altar.

  Serene chants and holiness

  once filled this room.

  They linger now,

  a slight, nostalgic vapor.

  Only the morning sun,

  (Thanks, old friend.)

  ever blessing, extends the kiss of peace.

  Thanks for that, at least.

  All monks and mice have

  scurried off

  into a fading haze

  of swishes. A steady

  ticking measures my

  moments ‘till dissolution.

  Outside the quiet chapel,

  new wheat rustles,

  waving gaily in the field.

  (There is always a new breeze.)

  Deep in his private

  cave of cowl and concern,

  the last sacristan did not see

  the crumb on the altar,

  the hermit of a twilight world

  no sun can touch, the

  body of a deathless God

  greedy to be consumed,

  to be

  fashioned into a fire

  of extravagant temper.

  Only these walls preach now,

  these bare wood walls,

  of acts devoid of

  noise,

  of utter

  simplicity.

  Oh,

  may my presence preach

  so--

  eloquent

  beyond words,

  words

  beyond speech,

  word

  that enters,

  becomes

  silence,

  a teeming

  time-fled

  presence.

  II

  Is this the final shadow

  flowing over my gloom

  or is it you, True Noon,

  searching the dirty sunlight

  for a little opening?

  How easily I mistake you.

  Yes, yes, I do.

  Oh, I am all aflutter,

  as if waiting for a suitor.

  And, is it really you

  or just another

  flashy impostor?

  O Father!

  It gets so bleak here in Missouri

/>   on a morning bleak as death,

  the heartbeat of October.

  III

  “I want to say that there

  is no sin as heinous as apathy!”

  the old gray scholar

  boomed flamboyantly,

  waving to an upturned sea

  of-wondering eyes.

  “Boredom is the

  rape of spirit.

  By the inexcusable

  temerity of neglect!”

  And, from the silence cried

  a lady,

  “Oh, what the heck?

  Apathy or deceit--

  it’s all a waste of time!

  Let’s move on.”

  This lady

  much too used

  to apprehend

  as sacrament

  was once the Garden of God,

  Eternal Bride of a

  romance unspeakable.

  How can I, so unworthy,

  grasp your hand,

  frolic

  in your onetime

  forest of dream?

  Wrinkled, squinting eye,

  your veined, spotted hand--

  knotty, outstretched, thigh

  once so limpid,

  pure replica of the sublime--

  now spurned by the sun.

  What nefarious bandit

  pillaged here-- so recklessly?

  IV

  Oh, let me join the spectral choir

  in the ultimate Magnificat.

  Let me be a lamp to lead

  others here, too,

  ‘though night be dark,

  as distant dogs bark

  and dancing dreams

  light the lawn,

  sirens

  of perfectyear.

  Mother of Jesus, draw me near!

  Press me to your soft,

  beating breast,

  so fair--