(I should stop looking through these old files. But this was from when I was a full time priest with an urban and diverse congregation. I remember how it felt to visit hospitals and nursing homes and homes with care givers as I drove home at the end of the day.)
I DRIVE HOME
I drive home through pain, through suffering,
through death itself.
I drive home through cat-scans and blood tests
and X-rays and Pet-scans (whatever they are)
and through consultations of surgeons and oncologists
and even more exotic flora with medical degrees.
I drive home through hospitals and houses
and the wondrous work of hospice nurses
and the confusion of dozens more educated than me.
Dressed in green scrubs and Transfiguration white coats,
they discuss the life or death of people I love.
And they hate, hate more than anything, to lose the hand
to the greatest Poker Player ever, the one with all the chips.
And here's the joke, they always lose in the end--
the River Card turns, it's all bad and Death wins.
So, while they consult and add artificial poison
to the Poison of Death--shots and pills and IV's
of poison--I drive home and stop in vacant rooms
and wondrous houses full of memories
and dispense my meager, medieval medicine
of bread and wine and oil.
Sometimes I think...sometimes I think...
I should not drive home at all
since I stop in hospitals and houses to bring my pitiful offering
to those one step, on banana peel beneath their foot,
from meeting the Lover of Souls.
I do not hate Death. I hate dying, but not Death.
But it is often too much for me, stopping on the way home
to press the wafer into their quaking hands,
to lift the tiny, pewter cup of bad port wine to their trembling lips,
and smear their foreheads with fragrant oil
while mumbling much rehearsed words and wishing
them whole and well and eternal.
I believe in God only around the edges.
But when I drive home, visiting the dying.
I'm the best they'll get of all that.
And when they hold my hand with tears in their eyes
and thank me so profoundly, so solemnly, with such sweet terror
in their voices, then I know.
Driving home and stopping there is what I'm meant to do.
A little bread, a little wine and some sweet smelling oil
may be--if not enough--just what was missing.
I'm driving home, driving home, stopping to touch the hand of Death.
Perhaps that is all I can do.
I tell myself that, driving home, blinded by pain and tears,
I have been with the Holy Ones.
2007/jgb
Tuesday, March 3, 2020
Sunday, March 1, 2020
from 2004
THE MOON
OK, so I'm out on the deck smoking a cigarette
and drinking red wine.
What I'm really doing is watching the moon
through the trees in this, my new favorite time
of the year...when all is bare, stark, dying and thin...
knowing what comes next is new life.
Most people I know would chide me for smoking
and more than a few would deride me for
the red wine--but I no longer care.
What I care about is the moon, the moon, the moon.
I know why countless ancient folks worshiped the moon.
Why wouldnt one worship what brings dim light
to the darkness and moves the seas?
Like the seas, the moon moves me.
Outward to the great chill of the ionosphere and beyond...
though I will never possess the moon, she draws me near.
Though I will never own her, I worship her.
Then the waxing ceases and the waining begins.
The moon pushes me back deep inside of me,
down among the dim passages I seldom walk,
to a door to a room I don't remember knowing,
and I open the door...and there I find--the moon.
So I stand and stare, wanting to know more,
longing to possess the wondrous brightness of it all.
Waiting on my deck, smoking and drinking, watching only this:
through the bare trees, the moon, the moon, the moon....
jgb--11/26/04
OK, so I'm out on the deck smoking a cigarette
and drinking red wine.
What I'm really doing is watching the moon
through the trees in this, my new favorite time
of the year...when all is bare, stark, dying and thin...
knowing what comes next is new life.
Most people I know would chide me for smoking
and more than a few would deride me for
the red wine--but I no longer care.
What I care about is the moon, the moon, the moon.
I know why countless ancient folks worshiped the moon.
Why wouldnt one worship what brings dim light
to the darkness and moves the seas?
Like the seas, the moon moves me.
Outward to the great chill of the ionosphere and beyond...
though I will never possess the moon, she draws me near.
Though I will never own her, I worship her.
Then the waxing ceases and the waining begins.
The moon pushes me back deep inside of me,
down among the dim passages I seldom walk,
to a door to a room I don't remember knowing,
and I open the door...and there I find--the moon.
So I stand and stare, wanting to know more,
longing to possess the wondrous brightness of it all.
Waiting on my deck, smoking and drinking, watching only this:
through the bare trees, the moon, the moon, the moon....
jgb--11/26/04
Saturday, February 29, 2020
How much I love you
(From 16 years ago, for Bern, with a smile....)
HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU
I love eating breakfast
in local resturants
in small North Carolina towns
with odd names that have 'boro'
on their ends.
Because I know the sausage gravy
is real and the biscuits made from scratch
and the grits won't run
except with butter--real butter.
And I love you more than that.
I love reading three books at a time:
a mystery, a fantasy, a straight novel:
all on my bedside table,
sometimes in my book bag,
letting each capture me,
mixing up the characters and plots,
racing with each of them to the end.
And I love you more than that.
I love a beach and the stuff
washed up on it--odd and wierd--
and a dog--snuffling and running alone--
beside me, behind me, ahead of me,
and the smell of the ocean
and the heat of the sun,
burning my bare shoulders and face.
And I love you more than that.
I love the taste of Pino Noir--
the husks of nuts,
the almost too ripe grapes,
the way it slows me down
and slurs my speech
and opens my heart to truth.
And I love you more than that.
I love sleeping in hotels
that have too many pillows on the bed
and HBO on the TV,
so I can pile the pillows
from the other double bed
onto mine and snuggle down in the pillows
and go to sleep with the TV on
knowing I'll wake up in time
for the conference I'm attending.
And I love you more than that.
I love the smell of vanilla (love that a lot)
and the first taste of every mornings' coffee
and the feel of cashmere sweaters
(my own or some lovely woman's)
and the look of the sky in deep winter
and the first few notes of anything
Mozart wrote (Good bless him)...
I love my senses.
And I love you more than that.
And I love when the pitchers and catchers
arrive for Spring Training,
just imagining it--the leather of the gloves,
the shining white of the baseball,
the weight room designed to overcome
the indiscretions of the off-season,
the green of the grass,
blue of the sky,
warmth of the air,
the soothing symmetry of the game
and the promise of spring around the corner.
I love you profoundly, eternally, always and forever:
and I'm not sure I love you more than that.
jgb 2/11/06
HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU
I love eating breakfast
in local resturants
in small North Carolina towns
with odd names that have 'boro'
on their ends.
Because I know the sausage gravy
is real and the biscuits made from scratch
and the grits won't run
except with butter--real butter.
And I love you more than that.
I love reading three books at a time:
a mystery, a fantasy, a straight novel:
all on my bedside table,
sometimes in my book bag,
letting each capture me,
mixing up the characters and plots,
racing with each of them to the end.
And I love you more than that.
I love a beach and the stuff
washed up on it--odd and wierd--
and a dog--snuffling and running alone--
beside me, behind me, ahead of me,
and the smell of the ocean
and the heat of the sun,
burning my bare shoulders and face.
And I love you more than that.
I love the taste of Pino Noir--
the husks of nuts,
the almost too ripe grapes,
the way it slows me down
and slurs my speech
and opens my heart to truth.
And I love you more than that.
I love sleeping in hotels
that have too many pillows on the bed
and HBO on the TV,
so I can pile the pillows
from the other double bed
onto mine and snuggle down in the pillows
and go to sleep with the TV on
knowing I'll wake up in time
for the conference I'm attending.
And I love you more than that.
I love the smell of vanilla (love that a lot)
and the first taste of every mornings' coffee
and the feel of cashmere sweaters
(my own or some lovely woman's)
and the look of the sky in deep winter
and the first few notes of anything
Mozart wrote (Good bless him)...
I love my senses.
And I love you more than that.
And I love when the pitchers and catchers
arrive for Spring Training,
just imagining it--the leather of the gloves,
the shining white of the baseball,
the weight room designed to overcome
the indiscretions of the off-season,
the green of the grass,
blue of the sky,
warmth of the air,
the soothing symmetry of the game
and the promise of spring around the corner.
I love you profoundly, eternally, always and forever:
and I'm not sure I love you more than that.
jgb 2/11/06
Welcome to New England
I went out this afternoon to get gas and wine.
When I got in my car, the sun was shining though it was about 26 degrees.
By the time I got to the gas station (less than 2 miles away) it was snowing.
By the time I filled up, it was snowing harder and before I got to the package store (3 miles from the gas station) it was snowing even harder.
On the way home, it was like a blizzard, my windshield wipers on all the way.
When I pulled into our driveway, the sun was shining.
Welcome to New England in February!
When I got in my car, the sun was shining though it was about 26 degrees.
By the time I got to the gas station (less than 2 miles away) it was snowing.
By the time I filled up, it was snowing harder and before I got to the package store (3 miles from the gas station) it was snowing even harder.
On the way home, it was like a blizzard, my windshield wipers on all the way.
When I pulled into our driveway, the sun was shining.
Welcome to New England in February!
Friday, February 28, 2020
From 12 years ago
RAINY DAY
It rained all day in Connecticut
and New York City too, my daughter told me
on the phone tonight.
What else she told me was that
on her way from the subway to her office,
on, of all streets, 17th Street,
she saw a blur of yellow on a windowsill
at sidewalk level.
She turned back and found a parakeet
with her head under her wing,
more yellow than green,
and found a box in the trash of 17th Street
and took the bird--after a struggle--
to work with her, stopping on the way,
somewhere I can't imagine where,
to buy a cage and some food and,
though she didn't mention it,
a water bottle, I'm sure.
She spent lots of the day on the internet--
and found out Rainy was a girl,
because of the color above her beak,
and put a message on Craig's list (whatever that is)
that brought her a dozen calls about missing
parakeets.
None of them, after descriptions were given,
turned out to be Rainy.
So, my daughter, most likely, now has a parakeet.
I'm left wondering how a dozen people in a piece of
Manhattan, could allow
their parakeets to escape on a rainy day
in April.
And even more, I'm left wondering,
if a dozen people who lost birds
were looking on Craig's List to find th em,
how may birds were truly lost
this rainy day?
I think of them--wet feathered, frightened,
shivering on windowsills, trashcans
and the just budding trees of the East Side,
heads under their wings,
longing for home.
(Who doesn't know the feeling of 'being lost',
damp wing across our face,
longing for home?)
And I'm left wondering,
most of all,
if I did something right in my life
to have a daughter who'd
spend her day trying to find 'home'
and t hen providing one
for a wet bird she named Rainy
in honor of
this wet April Monday?
jgb--4/28/09
It rained all day in Connecticut
and New York City too, my daughter told me
on the phone tonight.
What else she told me was that
on her way from the subway to her office,
on, of all streets, 17th Street,
she saw a blur of yellow on a windowsill
at sidewalk level.
She turned back and found a parakeet
with her head under her wing,
more yellow than green,
and found a box in the trash of 17th Street
and took the bird--after a struggle--
to work with her, stopping on the way,
somewhere I can't imagine where,
to buy a cage and some food and,
though she didn't mention it,
a water bottle, I'm sure.
She spent lots of the day on the internet--
and found out Rainy was a girl,
because of the color above her beak,
and put a message on Craig's list (whatever that is)
that brought her a dozen calls about missing
parakeets.
None of them, after descriptions were given,
turned out to be Rainy.
So, my daughter, most likely, now has a parakeet.
I'm left wondering how a dozen people in a piece of
Manhattan, could allow
their parakeets to escape on a rainy day
in April.
And even more, I'm left wondering,
if a dozen people who lost birds
were looking on Craig's List to find th em,
how may birds were truly lost
this rainy day?
I think of them--wet feathered, frightened,
shivering on windowsills, trashcans
and the just budding trees of the East Side,
heads under their wings,
longing for home.
(Who doesn't know the feeling of 'being lost',
damp wing across our face,
longing for home?)
And I'm left wondering,
most of all,
if I did something right in my life
to have a daughter who'd
spend her day trying to find 'home'
and t hen providing one
for a wet bird she named Rainy
in honor of
this wet April Monday?
jgb--4/28/09
Thursday, February 27, 2020
Broken Things
(I've been looking through a file folder called "Things I wrote". Here's one of the things I found.)
BROKEN THINGS
Things get broken along the way--
plates, window panes, sun glasses, bottles and bones.
It's just the way things 'happen',
as time passes and gravity works.
Promises and vows belong in there as well.
There is no limit to broken things--
life as we know it is that:
broken things. Move on. Move on.
The wing of a butterfly, or a bird....
And nothing much to do except mourn and move on.
Friendships and relationships are different--
they get broken too, but they consume our concentration,
and call us to a different level of concern,
since we long for everything to fly again....
The long treasured Christmas ornament
falls to the floor and shatters into sharp shards.
Gone forever--though deeply harbored in memory
and the heart.
Swept up and thrown away. Move on.
Move on....
A love--a connection--of over 40 years
could fill a room, a house, eternity
with broken things.
How intimate and clumsy we become
when decades measure commitment.
But no less committed, no less in love.
All I can give you this year
is my heart--it is all that is left of me
that is not broken yet.
It is fragile, tender, straining to be whole.
Hold it like a small, speckled egg,
if you will, of some
exotic, unknown fowl.
Treasure it, guard it.
It beats for you.
It is yours,
forever....
Move on.
12/20/07
BROKEN THINGS
Things get broken along the way--
plates, window panes, sun glasses, bottles and bones.
It's just the way things 'happen',
as time passes and gravity works.
Promises and vows belong in there as well.
There is no limit to broken things--
life as we know it is that:
broken things. Move on. Move on.
The wing of a butterfly, or a bird....
And nothing much to do except mourn and move on.
Friendships and relationships are different--
they get broken too, but they consume our concentration,
and call us to a different level of concern,
since we long for everything to fly again....
The long treasured Christmas ornament
falls to the floor and shatters into sharp shards.
Gone forever--though deeply harbored in memory
and the heart.
Swept up and thrown away. Move on.
Move on....
A love--a connection--of over 40 years
could fill a room, a house, eternity
with broken things.
How intimate and clumsy we become
when decades measure commitment.
But no less committed, no less in love.
All I can give you this year
is my heart--it is all that is left of me
that is not broken yet.
It is fragile, tender, straining to be whole.
Hold it like a small, speckled egg,
if you will, of some
exotic, unknown fowl.
Treasure it, guard it.
It beats for you.
It is yours,
forever....
Move on.
12/20/07
Tuesday, February 25, 2020
Rush is Rash
You might be surprised about what Rush Limbaugh said today (though why would you be?). He said the corona virus is 'nothing more than the common cold and people are using it to try to defeat Donald Trump'.
I have no idea where he got that from.
A potential pandemic is an excuse to defeat the sitting president!
Come on Rush!
You've already diminished the other recipients of the Medal of Freedom by getting it.
You are a racist, homophobic, right wing nut. Don't tell me a virus that is causing major cities to be on lock down is nothing more than the common cold.
No less a right winger than Sen. John Kennedy of Louisiana took on administration spokespersons to berate them for not being able to adequately respond to the possible pandemic.
"Common Cold" indeed.
I know you are terribly sick, Rush, and I'm sorry about that--but you are crazy too.
I have no idea where he got that from.
A potential pandemic is an excuse to defeat the sitting president!
Come on Rush!
You've already diminished the other recipients of the Medal of Freedom by getting it.
You are a racist, homophobic, right wing nut. Don't tell me a virus that is causing major cities to be on lock down is nothing more than the common cold.
No less a right winger than Sen. John Kennedy of Louisiana took on administration spokespersons to berate them for not being able to adequately respond to the possible pandemic.
"Common Cold" indeed.
I know you are terribly sick, Rush, and I'm sorry about that--but you are crazy too.
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