In the inland glen wakes the dawn-dove. We must try

I said to the almond tree, “Sister, speak to me of God.” And the almond tree blossomed. – Nikos Kazantzakis

Facing the cold, spitting a spume Of cold air from my chapped mouth, I am here, at the bottom Of this hill, watching the soul

Wrestle with the angle at nightfall. The sun had gone before on it’s Westerly route hidden on the other side, Beyond the spikes of ashen oaks

And last faint call of birds. Why are you so silent, O Supposedly Intimate, even in stray dreams? What is the price for entering grace?

The body, joyless unlike Sister Almond Tree, continues to chew On this dry bread of imaginings. I am shaking it, a rattle bag.

Listen to its wail, read these Dim jottings my soul – so little Light, so much smoke – leaves On these rotting leaves underfoot.

Teach me, now more stone Less man, your unheard song, So that I can again love so well, That I may believe, in the end, in You.

‘Pray unceasingly’ exhorts the Gospel of Matthew, Benedictine monks stop every hour, at the strike of the bells in a clock tower, to say the Prayer of Hours, and these are my prayers for today – plainspoken thoughts, perhaps not poems at all.

[1] Light on the breakfast table To be eaten with bread, milk And oranges. Thanks for coming Through the night with me, bringing Me into another winter day.

[2] Leaning on a broom, I sweep This room, dust that has settled In among piles of untouched books. Fashion some part of me into Something that does something Likewise on this ancient earth.

[3] Soup steams in a glass bowl, Soon enters my body. Charged dust, Meat and vegetables, nourish me well So that I can wheel through the hours Offering thanks to that which Entered you once, and that Through you, upholds mine today.

[4] When I walk into the winter cold, Wind from the southeast enters through The lapels of my coat. Body starts Tingling – let me feel your presence For a moment, down to my bare bones, In this hour, before night falls.

[5] Paper cup, coffee, talk of doomsday Scenarios with a woman, whose face Reminds me of a Raphael’s painting, His greatest, ‘La Fornarina’ (the Baker’s Daughter). Remembering her, The painting and the need to pray, I dig on for the buried Soul into this moonless night, Murmuring, “thank you, thank you”.

You, my friend, spend The hours clicking Beads of that word rosary Round and round Hoping for salvation.

Praise instead the Hand Which keeps this Universal Rosary in motion:

Blood streaming in and out of our poor hearts. Night and day. Seasons circling over and over This beautiful earth.

Yes! Taste the wine that drips from that hand, Yes! Step into the rain, and enter grace!