Red Bird at the Monastery

I laid me down and slept until
the monastery bell
summoned us to prayer.
I awoke
for the Lord sustained me.
A red bird tapping
tap tapped on the sunrise
matin psalm chapel window.

O Lord
how manifold are Thy works.
A red bird
followed me to Vespers.
In wisdom
hast Thou made them all.
Flap flap
colliding again
into darkening chapel window.

The abbot explained—
red birds
fight
their own reflection.
The sacrifices to God
are a contrite spirit…
I lit a candle—
A contrite and humble heart
The Lord will not despise.

Before sleep
I bowed before icons—
Christ,
Theotokos,
Saints.
I pressed my lips
to the windows of heaven—
fighting,
like a little red bird.

© 2005 David Samuel Thomas

"The Feet Man" by Philip Dacey

The Feet Man


The worst job I ever had was nailing
Jesus’ feet to the cross on the
assembly line at the crucifix factory.
Jesus! I’d never thought of myself
as religious before that, but when
I had to strike those nails—I figured
it up once—more than two thousand times
a day, my mind began seeing things:
little tremors along the skin, jerks of
those legs that were bonier than
models’ legs, his eyes imploring,
forgiving. I swear, if a tiny drop of blood
had oozed out of that wood at my pounding,
I wouldn’t have been surprised at all.
I was ripe for a miracle, or a vacation.
All I got was worse: with each blow
of the hammer, I flinched, as if I
were the onegetting pierced. Doing
that job day after day was bad enough,
but doing it to myself—my arms
spread out from one end of my paycheck
to the other—was crazy. I began
to sweat constantly, though the place
was air-conditioned. It wasn’t long before
the foreman took me aside and told me
I was taking my job too seriously, that
if I wanted to keep it I had better calm down.
He was right. I pulled myself together
like a man and put all pointless thoughts
out of my head. Or tried to. It wasn’t easy:
imagine Jesus after Jesus coming down
at you along that line, and you with
your hammer poised, you knowing
what you have to do to make a living.


~ Philip Dacey


From the collection "Nightshift at the Crucifix Factory"
More about Philip Dacey and his poetry can be found at
www.philipdacey.com

Sabbath at the Carpenter's House

It's Friday,
just before sundown.
Mother is lighting
the Sabbath candles.

After kindling the fire
she waives her hands
over the flames three times
then covers her eyes.

She chants:
"Blessed art Thou,
O Lord, King of the Universe,
who commands us to
observe the holy act of
lighting the Shabbat candles."

As a devout Jewish mother,
the Blessed Virgin Mary
performed this ritual each week.

I'm sure that to her
it wasn't just an empty custom.
She knew that she brought the
True light into the world,
the Lord of the Sabbath,
her little Yeshua.

Did the words of Holy Simeon
echo in her soul:
"A light for revelation
to the Gentiles, and for glory
to Your people Israel."

The Blind Fiddler

When I walk with the blind fiddler,
I sometimes close my eyes,
pretending to be without sight,
allowing him to lead me.

Mama told me not to go near the fiddler.
His breath reeks of whiskey,
he curses and wears rags,
sleeps God knows where.

Mama says the fiddler
plays the devil's music--
it sounds like a baby crying,
or two roosters fighting.

When the blind fiddler plays,
I hear honey-bees buzzing,
the neighbor cat singing,
or Mama and Papa in bed at night.

The fiddler needs me
to help him down the street.
I hold my hat out for coins,
dance barefoot with my eyes closed.

~David Samuel Thomas

I googled myself today and found that this poem I wrote back in 1996 is floating around cyberspace. Originally, I think it appeared in an online poetry journal. I have a recording of my son Andrew reading that showed up on some German guy's podcast.

Listen to the recording or download the MP3 HERE

Whole Burnt Offering

The real me is
confident
he's also fearful

A visionary that
often doubts

See my determination
Now I hide

Living with
integrity
and deceit

I look like I
have it
together
but I'm also
broken
The pieces seem
to contradict
but this is
the whole me

I bring it to You

Not dressed up in
Sunday best

Raw

Naked

I bring it to You

Triumph and failure

I place them on
a pile of stones

will You
send down fire
to consume them?

**Maronite Icon of St. Elias

Gadar Peretz

Repair broken walls
build foundations
for many generations
my children
renew ancient places
my light
shines in darkness
my darkness
shines like noonday
The LORD
guides continually
He satisfies
my thirsty soul
a watered garden
a spring that never fails
Bread from my soul
feeds the afflicted

Christmas Is Really For the Children

Christmas is really
for the children.
Especially for children
who like animals, stables,
stars and babies wrapped
in swaddling clothes.
Then there are wise men,
kings in fine robes,
humble shepherds and a
hint of rich perfume.

Easter is not really
for the children
unless accompanied by
a cream filled egg.
It has whips, blood, nails,
a spear and allegations
of body snatching.
It involves politics, God
and the sins of the world.
It is not good for people
of a nervous disposition.
They would do better to
think on rabbits, chickens
and the first snowdrop
of spring.

Or they'd do better to
wait for a re-run of
Christmas without asking
too many questions about
what Jesus did when he grew up
or whether there's any connection.

Steve Turner

Uproot Hidden Weeds

Last night I went to a Presanctified Divine Liturgy at Holy Protection Byzantine Catholic Church here in Denver. Fr. Michael gave a wonderful sermon about Noah's Ark not just being a nice kid's story. He reminded us that outside the boat there were storms, dead bodies, and animal carcasses floating in the water. Not only should we be thankful that we are safe in the boat with all the cute animals, but we should also reflect on the death that is around us as the result of sin.

Another highlight for me was the Prayer of St. Ephraim. This prayer is recited during Lent by Eastern Catholics and Orthodox Christians. The translation I learned was different from how we recited it last night, but the difference made quite an impact: "Spare me from the spirit of indifference... bestow on me integrity".

Here are both versions:

Byzantine Catholic
Lord and Master of my life, spare me from the spirit of indifference, despair, lust for power, and idle chatter. (Prostration)
Instead, bestow on me, your servant, the spirit of integrity, humility, patience, and love. (Prostration)
Yes, O Lord and King, let me see my own sins and not judge my brothers and sisters; for you are blessed forever and ever. Amen. (Prostration)

Eastern Orthodox
O Lord and Master of my life, take from me the spirit of sloth, despondency, lust for power and idle talk.(Prostration)
But grant unto me, Thy servant, a spirit of chastity, humility, patience and love.(Prostration)
Yea, O Lord and King, grant me to see mine own faults and not to judge my brothers and sisters. For blessed art Thou unto ages of ages. Amen.(Prostration)

Hymn on Fasting 1.9
The Troubler mixes filth with our Clarity,
So as to make the first-fruits of our prayer and fasting hateful.
It is possible by his jealousy, that our gift be rebuked.
Take away your deceits from your fasts,
remove mockery from your praise.
May your voices wash your mouths from lies.
Allow us, O First Born in your mercy
To uproot hidden weeds from our thoughts.

~St. Ephraim the Syrian

St. Ephraim's Psalm 120

Grant forgiveness, O Lord, send also strength. Convert me, that I might live in sanctity, according to Thy holy will. Sanctify my heart that has become a den and dwelling-place of demons.

I am unworthy to ask forgiveness for myself, O Lord, for many times have I promised to repent and proved myself a liar by not fulfilling my promise. Thou hast picked me up many times already, but every time I freely chose to fall again.

Therefore I condemn myself and admit that I deserve all manner of punishment and torture. How many times hast Thou enlightened my darkened mind; yet every time I return again to base thoughts! My whole body trembles when I contemplate this; yet every time sinful sensuality reconquers me.

How shall I recount all the gifts of Thy grace, O Lord, that I the pitiful one have received? Yet I have reduced them all to nothing by my apathy -- and I continue on in this manner. Thou has bestowed upon me thousands of gifts, yet miserable me, I offer in return things repulsive to Thee.

Yet Thou, O Lord, inasmuch as Thou containest a sea of longsuffering and an abyss of kindness, do not allow me to be felled as a fruitless fig tree; and do not let me be burned without having ripened on the field of life. Snatch me not away unprepared; seize not me who have not yet lit my lamp; take not away me who have no wedding garment; but, because Thou art good and the lover of mankind, have mercy on me. Give me time to repent, and place not my soul stripped naked before Thy terrible and unwavering throne as a pitiful spectacle of infamy.

If a righteous man can barely be saved, then where will I end up, I who am lawless and sinful? If the path that leads to life is strait and narrow, then how can I be vouchsafed such good things, I who live a life of luxury, indulging in my own pleasures and dissipation? But Thou, O Lord, my Saviour, Son of the true God, as Thou knowest and desirest it, by Thy grace alone, freely turn me away from the sin that abides in me and save me from ruin.

**From A Spiritual Psalter by our Holy Father St Ephraim of Edessa, the Syrian; excerpted and arranged by Bishop Theophan the Recluse according to the manner of the Psalter of the Old Testament.

Ritualism

A door is open'd in Heaven to-day, and I get me a vision all fair,
A throne with the Lamb in the midst is seen, in His beauty beyond compare,
And a sea of glass, and a rainbow arch, and a throng in vestments of white,
Who prostrate fall and their Sanctus lift where the seven lamps of Fire shed their light.

"What!" cries the World, "Do you really think that the glory of Heaven is like this?
O fools, to believe that worship and song will fill up your measure of bliss:
Better gifts I bestow, the love of the world, ambition's reward and renown."
O World, thy rewards will be wanting there, thy pomp, and thy perishing crown.

See! Angel-borne censers are flinging the smoke of incense up to the Throne,
Powers, Principalities veiling their face from glories to mortals unknown;
And the City four-square, rings forth with the shout, "Worthy the Lamb that was slain."
The City of peace, where, tears wip'd away, there is no more sorrow or pain.

"What!" rails the Flesh, "Do you really think that the joy of your Heaven will be found
In vestments and lights, prostrations and forms, and prayers in a wearisome round?
I have better delights than these for mine, pride of life, and lust of the eyes."
O Flesh, pride and lust will have no place there, nor the serpent in angel's guise.

Her gates are of pearl, and her city gold, her foundations of precious stone,
Nor ray of the sun, nor of silver moon for light in her borders is shown;
And the cry goes up like the thunder's peal, or the sound of the waters' force,
As the nine-fold ranks of the Angel-choir, sweetest antiphons sing in course.

"What!" sneers the Fiend, "Do you really think that your Heaven is a temple of praise,
Where Intellect falls at visions of God, through ages of infinite days?
Man worship thyself, thou, greater than He, be throned in a temple as well."
O Fiend, thy dark form is never seen there, nor one of thy legions of hell.

Ah ! the World, I suppose, is worldly wise, and the Flesh to the flesh is true,
And the Devil stands well to the gates of Hell, lest his victims grow too few;
Foolish and weak, superstitious, misled; thus these three in their pride condemn,
But I turn me once more to the open door of the New Jerusalem.


~ William Chatterton Dix
"A Vision of All Saints & Other Poems", 1871