the longest night

and so the people come
every year
to light candles
to sing
to dance
to wait out the longest night
and bid adieu to the shortest day
already we are calling back the light...

happy solstice
happy yule
one and all.

jmg

an original poem for december 1

my house is still an autumn photograph
red, orange, yellow leaves dot the short green last cut grass
a wreath of grape vine and tiny gourds graces the front door

my neighbors have full on winter regalia
LED lights atop the roof line and gables
wreaths of evergreen and holly berry at their doors


a light in every window calling back the sun




jmg

lentils and rice and peppers and eggs

in the freezer
she made them
last time she could direct from her chair in the kitchen
frying pan
low heat
olive oil
onions
just until they are smooth
add the lentils
stir
add the rice
eccolo!

peppers and eggs
7 large green bell peppers
only if they are on sale
frying pan
low heat
olive oil
the peppers cut chunky
keep the lid on
they reduce

put them aside

crack the eggs into a bowl
5 eggs
"that's a lot!"
no, it's not
5 eggs
whisk
frying pan
olive oil
low heat
add the peppers
stir
tip the pan
so the edges take in more egg

get a plate

put the plate over the frying pan
flip the plate and pan in one swoop
catch the peppers and egg
now married
return them to the pan
for just a bit more time
until the edges are brown
the eggs firm
but not hard

get the plate again

put the plate over the frying pan
flip the plate and pan in one swoop
catch the peppers and egg
now married
forever

get a fork!

cut the dish in half
eat what you want now
put the rest in foil
bring to someone who needs
peppers and eggs

everyone needs
peppers and eggs

next time:
eggplant parmesan



11/19/12

like some message from beyond

two times,
once last week
and once today,
the television blinked on and
Let's Make a Deal appeared

the show lena and ginger watched everyday
and by extension me
for the last two months
and longer: in the den
she in her arm chair, gin on the couch, me in gene's old chair

what we shared together
we will never lose
what we have said goodbye to -
the rhythm of our days and nights
breakfast, meds, Let's make a deal, radio time, lunch,
Who wants to be a millionaire, supper,
The news, "nothing good" on tv, bed

And now, almost one week since the television was silenced
this 1960's game show, updated
is still keeping time
still filling an hour
of someone else's day
and seems to bless us with a smile, reminding...

what we shared
our relationships
daughter and mother
niece and aunt
we will never lose.


11/19/12

to the polls...with a little history:

from the writers' almanac....

Today is Election Day. Millions of people across the country will be going to the polls today to elect new legislators, judges, sheriffs, school board members, and of course, the president.The first federal election under the U.S. Constitution was held in 1788, and it had the lowest turnout in the history of American elections. Only 11 percent of eligible voters voted. To be eligible to vote at the time, you had to be a white male property owner. But different states had trouble defining what a property owner was.

In Pennsylvania, you just had to prove that you paid taxes. In New York, you had to prove that your estate was worth a certain amount of money. If your estate was greater than 20 pounds, you could vote for state assembly, but your estate had to be worth more than 100 pounds to vote for senator or governor. In Connecticut, you had to be a white male property owner "of a quiet and peaceable behavior and civil conversation."

In order to vote in that first election, voters had to travel many miles to the nearest polling place, which was often a tavern. There they met the candidates for their district's seat on the state assembly. In many precincts, there were no ballots. Voters announced their votes to the sheriff in loud, clear voices, and then stood by the candidate they had voted for, who usually offered them something to drink.

It wasn't until 1820 that American voters in every state were able to vote in the presidential election. Before that, many states simply let the state legislators choose presidential electors who cast votes for president. Even after voters began choosing presidential electors themselves, different states held Election Day on different dates. The first uniform Election Day took place on November 4, 1845.For the first 50 years of American elections, only 15 percent of the adult population was eligible to vote. Thomas Dorr was one of the first politicians to argue that poor people should be given voting rights. As a member of the Rhode Island legislature, Dorr argued that all white adult men should have the vote, regardless of their wealth. He incited a riot to protest the governor's election of 1842 and went to prison for treason, but most states began to let poor white men vote soon after. Women won the right to vote in 1920, and many African-Americans were prevented from voting throughout the South until the passage of the Voting Rights Act in 1965.

John Quincy Adams said: "Always vote for principle, though you may vote alone, and you may cherish the sweetest reflection that your vote is never lost."

Rosa Luxemburg said: "Without general elections, without unrestrained freedom of the press and assembly, without a free struggle of opinion, life dies out in every public institution."

Mark Twain said: "If there is any valuable difference between a monarchist and an American, it lies in the theory that the American can decide for himself what is patriotic and what isn't. I claim that difference. I am the only person in the 60 millions that is privileged to dictate my patriotism."

The day after yesterday

The day before yesterday, I asked her
if she would like a priest.
"What would he do? she asked.
Pray with you. "Oh."
And, I thought, well, he's not here, we are so,
I began to speak the words we both had spoken since childhood,
they tumbled out of our two mouths
as if we still spoke them every day:

"Hail Mary, full of grace,
Blessed art thou amongst women,
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us sinners,
now and at the hour of our death.
Amen."

The day before yesterday
she kept calling, "ma, ma."
and she asked, "where is my mother?"
I think she is waiting for you...

The day before that
she asked, "what shall I do?"
You don't have to do anything;
You have done so much
"I am so tired."
I know. You can rest now.
"But what can I do?"
You can tell people you love them and let them tell you they love you.
"Ok. I love you."
I love you too.

The day before yesterday she said:
"I see Joey, and Johnny, and ma and dad..."
"Where is Grace? Grace!"
She will be here soon.

She will be here soon.

Yesterday,
as soon as Grace appeared,
sat on the bed,
held her hand, and
whispered in her ear, "I am here,"
she was gone.

I love you.
I love you.
Always.

Joey, Lena, Grace, Sonny (about 1966)

4:30 a.m.

"Teacher,

are you there?"

Yes. Here I am.

"Teacher,

I am cold,

just my legs."

Here's a blanket.

Are you warm now?

"Yes.

Teacher? Am I ok?"

Yes. Yes, you are.

Shall we sleep?

"Yes. Yes."

Happy Samhain

On this day when the veil is thin between the worlds...light a candle...light a candle...

"I miss you"

Auntie is home tonight with her overnight health aide.
I called to check in.
Did she take her meds this afternoon?
Yes.
Does she have her sleeping pill for later?
Yes.

"Thank you for checking on me," she says.
"I miss you."

Oh, I miss you too.

I was there yesterday and the night before and the day before...

I miss her too.

I'll see you in the morning, I say.

Good night.

I love you.

We go out the way we come in

curled up like a kitten
(perhaps this is why kitten videos are so popular)
sleeping most of the day
burping without apology
when hungry
mouth open like a baby bird
when satiated
smiling broadly
when tickled in spirit
laughing

purring...

“ah,” we say,
standing in the doorway,
gazing into the room,
smiling broadly with our own eyes,
“isn't she beautiful when she sleeps?”



10.17.12

My mother’s body

                  with thanks to Marge Percy

                  circa 1994

Accessible

Hugging

in which I grew

from which I came

Mine

year to year

an earthly incarnation

of my future

the initial shame

discomfort

with being female

the eventual acceptance

joy

of

milk nourishing breasts

life giving vagina

words that encourage

hands that soothe

hands that scold

raging lungs

the voice I use

to scold my own children

a listening ear

pillowed chest

sorrowful eyes

strong hands.

            Use lotion, she

            says, noxema,

            not soap

            and don't shave

            too early

            exercise

            and

            don't just give

            your body away

            don't just give

            your self away.

My mother's body

mine for years

more of her

part of me

than I ever knew

beyond resemblance

so very basic

of her ovum did I come

of her rhythms I sing

of her dance I walk

and talk and think

and today more

joyously

I exclaim

now

in my thirty-first year

I am of my mother's body.

Peeling back the hairshirt of religion

        circa 1994, just before I met Unitarian Universalism…

At 4 o'clock on the verandah

while a gentle wind lifted her hair

and tickled her fantasies,

she imagined that she did not

wear her religion like a hairshirt

Adam and Eve were not ashamed

of their nakedness

and Aunt Charlotte did not send her

at 11, mortified,

down the stairs with a brassiere

in hand for all to see

announcing that the girl was getting too fat

to go without one

and that if she held her stomach in

her abdomen would learn

to hold in itself.

She imagined her ancestors

were not immigrants from

Papal ruled Italy

and religion-at-gun-point Ireland

instead they were Dionysian dancers

from Greek immersed Sicily

meeting nightly in the temples of life

filling their thirst with the wine

of their bodies

They were ancient Celts who made love

en masse in the oak groves

at Beltane each spring

suckling at the wells of

their own desire

consummating their marriages

of soul and body like no others

since!

Without her religion as a hairshirt

she would not have had to starve herself

near death to get attention in a house

wracked with generations of separation

without the influence of Beezelbub's angels

Parting from marriage would have been respected

honored and claimed not hidden and ignored

weighing down on all of them

with deceit and blame, she its contraband.

Without the hairshirt of religion

wonders would never cease

daylight and evening stars would hear

sonnets and love songs

and she would profess praises

to life: a gift of living

She would not cower in the darkness

fearing the flashback of torture and rapes

in Herzegovina and Jerusalem

holy wars all!

And yet the hair sticks to her skin

scratches and pricks

as she labors in the fields of God

tailor-made not by His sweat

but by some mortal who feared

life would become

too comfortable, enraptured, blissful, light

and the godless one

who never understood what life was anyway

laid down his hand

like a holy one -

and we listened

fearing his wrath

was true.

And so

the dance was lost

the wine spilled

mating games in the grass made sin

and the little girl

with the budding breasts

forced to be thin

dieting her flesh, her skin

her mortal frame

hiding her pleasure crevices

in fleece

denouncing love -

Still, she thought she had rebelled

grown her leggy hair

discarded the deodorant

and makeup of modern man's medieval skin

abandoned leather shoes

pushed aside the red meats

and the white grains

birthed out of wedlock

lived in sin

refused the corporate treads

She had rebelled, refused, broken through

ripped off that bag of quills

yet she still wore that hairshirt

trading old “shoulds” for others

new demands yet old.

Though on the verandah

on the verandah

in a blissful history turning

time traveling pre-Eden moment,

she threw off that hairshirt

and was

no more caught up

no more invested

no more proving and fighting

no more trading this demon for that

In that moment,

she surpassed her ancestral purgatories

and imagined that she

would no more

wear her religion

like a hairshirt!

My father's body

for Joe
circa 1994


I am his seed
his flesh
in this hammock
meant for him

I am he
his smile
his thoughts
his dreams

I am his immortality
his laissez-faire
his critique

I am he
hands
strong long
feet
flat wide
just an inch under
in height

I am his build
save the breasts
vagina ovaries
what if I had
been a boy?
I'd really be he.

I am still he
no matter gender
I take his form
I take his place

This is his ma jong chair
his hammock
still on its frame
enjoying the first
air of spring's summer

I take his place
I breathe for him
give weight to this
earth for him

I am him
his immortality
as I breathe
as I speak
as I dream
as I write

I smile
it is his grin
for this short while
for all of my days

I am my father's body, too.

Christmas 1964

The power of story

From Walking on Water: reflections on faith and art by Madeleine L'Engle

"I was still at the age of unselfconscious spontaneity when I started to write. At the age of five I wrote a story, which my mother saved for a long time, about a little "grul," my five year old spelling for girl.
   "I wrote stories because I was a solitary, only child in New York City, with no easily available library where I could get books. So when I had read all the stories in my book case, he only way for me to get more stories to read was to write them.
   "And I knew, as a child, that it was through story that I was able to make some small sense of the confusions and complications of life. The sound of coughing from my father's gas-burned lungs was a constant reminder of war and its terror. At school I read a book about the Belgian babies impaled on bayonets like small, slaughtered animals. I saw pictures of villages ravaged by the Boches. The thought that there could ever be another war was a source of deep fear. I would implore my parents, "There won't be another war, will there?" My parents never lied to me. They tried to prepare me for this century of war, not to frighten me.
   "But I was frightened, and I tried to heal my fear with stories, stories which gave me courage, stores which affirmed that ultimately love is stronger than hate. If love is stronger than hate, then war is not all there is. I wrote, and I illustrated my stories. At bedtime, my mother told me more stories. And so story helped me to learn to live. Story was in no way an evasion of life, but a way of living life creatively instead of fearfully.
   "It was a schock when one day in school of the teachers accused me of "telling a story." She was not complimenting me on my fertile imagination. She was making the deadly accusation that I was telling a lie.
   "If I learned anything from that teacher, it was that lie and story are incompatible. If it holds no truth, then it cannot truly be a story. And so I knew that it was in story that I found flashes of that truth which makes us free."

Amen!

a prayer for a writing day

Today is a writing day...sermon preparation...finding prayers and readings and opening words and a blessing for the congregation on Sunday.

It's not a straight shot, writing. There is a lot of poking around in files, assembling pages of ideas - words scribbled on note pads while at the grocery store, words from a post it note in the car driving to the office, and more words from an email I wrote to myself last week when something important emerged - there is visiting old books where I know there is a good story...there is a lot of musing...a lot of wondering and wandering around until eventually, by deadline, it all comes together as it is, this time.

Today is a writing day...and while looking for a prayer I wrote years ago that will be perfect for this Sunday, I found this one that I shared in 2006 when I was ministerial intern at the First Universalist Society in Franklin. The beginning words are mine. The prayer itself is the creation of Andrea Ayvavian.

May it be so.

Prayer for May 14, 2006

Let us now take some of our time together to find that place within or around us

Where in silence Deep calls to Deep

Where Imagination speaks her wishes

Where we say our most precious prayers

Where we are one with all of existence

Where we come, at last, to be still, while Creation takes care of the rest.

When you hear my voice again, the words you will hear are those of Andrea Ayvavian:

if we dug a huge grave miles wide, miles deep

and buried every rifle, pistol, knife, bullet, bomb, bayonet

if we jumped upon fleets of tanks and fighter jets

with tool boxes, torches

unwelded them dismantled them turned them into scrap metal

if every light-skinned man in a silk tie said

to every dark-skinned man in a turban

I vow not to kill your children

and heard the same vow in return

if every elected leader agreed to stop lying

if every child was fed as well as racehorses bred to win derbies

if very person with a second home gave it to a person with no home

if every mother buried her parents not her sons and daughters

if every person who has enough said out loud I have enough

if every person violent in the name of God were to find God

we would grow silent, still for a moment, a lifetime

we would hear infants nursing at the breast

hummingbirds hovering in flight

we would touch a canyon wall and feel the earth vibrate

we would hear two lovers sigh across the ocean

we would watch old wounds grow new flesh and jagged scars disappear

as time was layered upon time we would slowly be ready to begin.

Amen. So may it be. Namaste.

Do you know where you need to go?

I read recently that sometimes you go down a path toward a goal that turns out to not be the goal at all; that the reason you thought you had to do something or wanted to do something is not, in the end, the real reason...it is just a mechanism to get you to an end that you really do need to get to...the real purpose of your journey.

Today this poem showed up in my inbox from The Writer's Almanac:

Wrong Turn  by Luci Shaw

I took a wrong turn the other day.
A mistake, but it led me to the shop where I found
the very thing I'd been searching for.

With my brother I opened a packet
of old letters from my mother and saw a side of her
that sweetened what had been deeply sour.

Later that day the radio sang a song from
a time when I was discovering love,
and folded me into itself again.


"Wrong Turn" by Luci Shaw, from What the Light Was Like.

Reminds me of something I read in the book Blink too. We don't often know consciously what we need/want. But somewhere inside there is a knowing. Or is there?

there is a change in the air

Russ has covered the pool
I am wearing a sweater and making hot tea with milk
This morning I grabbed the robe with the fury collar instead of the cotton wrap
There is a change in the air.

First, a poet

When I was in fifth grade I wrote a poem called Fog. This poem by Thom Gunn reminds me of it. Mine is the first I remember writing though I imagine there were more. It was just the first that I showed to someone else. It got the attention of my teacher. It was put in a little book. I first began to identify as writer...a poet. Thanks Thom Gunn for the reminder. Thanks to my teachers.

The Night Piece

The fog drifts slowly down the hill
And as I mount gets thicker still,
Closes me in, makes me its own
Like bedclothes on the paving stone.

Here are the last few streets to climb,
Galleries, run through veins of time,
Almost familiar, where I creep
Toward sleep like fog, through fog like sleep.

"The Night Piece" by Thom Gunn, from Collected Poems.

"Stirring the oatmeal" love

For Valentine's Day I preached about small acts of love, what one author called, "stirring the oatmeal" love, ordinary, undramatic, daily acts of love: picking up the dry cleaning for a husband, baking cream cheese twists for a family that needs something sweet, feeding the baby in the middle of the night...

Here's a poem that would have fit well into that theme.

Ordinary Life by Barbara Crooker

This was a day when nothing happened,
the children went off to school
without a murmur, remembering
their books, lunches, gloves.
All morning, the baby and I built block stacks
in the squares of light on the floor.
And lunch blended into naptime,
I cleaned out kitchen cupboards,
one of those jobs that never gets done,
then sat in a circle of sunlight
and drank ginger tea,
watched the birds at the feeder
jostle over lunch's little scraps.
A pheasant strutted from the hedgerow,
preened and flashed his jeweled head.
Now a chicken roasts in the pan,
and the children return,
the murmur of their stories dappling the air.
I peel carrots and potatoes without paring my thumb.
We listen together for your wheels on the drive.
Grace before bread.
And at the table, actual conversation,
no bickering or pokes.
And then, the drift into homework.
The baby goes to his cars, drives them
along the sofa's ridges and hills.
Leaning by the counter, we steal a long slow kiss,
tasting of coffee and cream.
The chicken's diminished to skin & skeleton,
the moon to a comma, a sliver of white,
but this has been a day of grace
in the dead of winter,
the hard cold knuckle of the year,
a day that unwrapped itself
like an unexpected gift,
and the stars turn on,
order themselves
into the winter night.


Enjoy this day,
Joanne

I'm reading poetry again

And today I found this one, in Garrison Keillor's Good Poems.

The Cure
by Ginger Andrews


Lying around all day
with some strange new deep blue
weekend funk. I'm not really asleep
when my sister calls
to say she's just hung up
from talking with Aunt Bertha
who is 89 and ill but managing
to take care of Uncle Frank
who is completely bedridden.
Aunt Bert says
it's snowing there in Arkansas,
on Catfish Lane, and she hasn't been
able to walk out to their mailbox.
She's been suffering
from a bad case of the mulleygrubs.
The cure for the mulleygrubs,
she tells my sister,
is to get up and bake a cake.
If that doesn't work, put on a red dress.




For me, baking has been a small act of love given by a friend who shares her love with sour cream twists.

It's been a long winter already, even without snow, mulleygrubs alive and well.

Russ says winter is nearly over. The sun is shining at 5 p.m.

Get up, bake a cake, put on a red dress, dance in the light!

Joanne