POETRY - poems

National Catholic Reporter, March 5, 1999

Hospitality

   Oblivious to adult chatter over his head,
   ice cream halfway to his mouth, he hesitates
   in concern, his hand on mine
   Gumma, are you lonely when I'm not here?

   His innocent awakening remits
   me to another table, Gramma's old oak
   stained dark, cut flowers in the vermillion vase,
   blossom droplets flecking the yellowed lace doily
   haphazardly centered,
   an island of welcome, of age-spotted hands
   on my hair and blackberry cobbler on my spoon
   and the laughing grownups talking nonsense
   and my surge of pity
   What do they do when we're not here?

  So this is where it went, that circling love,
  not away with them, lost to their deep cave, but
  hibernating in the family heart awaiting his spring
  Oh yes, I miss you when you're gone.

--Antoinette Bolling Lutter Tucson, Ariz.

SYRO-PHOENICIAN WOMAN (Mark 7)

   It sounded like the end.
   Period.
   Next case.
   But the woman had his number.
   She caught his rebuff between her teeth,
   borrowed his metaphor, and sailed it back:
   "Even the dogs eat the crumbs."
   Jesus was impressed.
   Such wit deserved more than disappointment;
   such doggedness more than a denial.
   So he revised his answer,
   giving the anecdote a happy ending.
   Don't be so fainthearted, he'd later say.
   If you have serious faith, spar with me.
   You'll get more than crumbs.

--Sr. Pat Schnapp, RSM Adrian, Mich.

CHRISTMAS 1998

   He tells me about the death of his grandmother,
   And he weeps.
   Then he asked me about the death of my son,
   And how can I stand it?

   I tell him about how your love is still in our hearts,
   How your goodness unites your friends in a common love,
   How your research goes on,
   And how, because of you, the world is closer
   To understanding the mysteries of the mind.

   I tell him I know that God loves you,
   That he will never let harm come to you,
   That I know you're all right,
   And I'm okay.

   But then he asks me the wrong question.

   He asks me what I want for Christmas.

--Chris Bunsey Northfield, Ohio

QUIET PERSISTENCE

   Outside my room is a quiet bush
   That deals in absolutes.
   Each morn it opens up
   Startling blood-red blooms,
   Calling bees bumbling by
   And undulating hummingbirds,
   Each wearing colorful working suits,
   The bee is Swiss-Guard colors,
   The bird in iridescense.

   Exhausted, each eve it closes down,
   Folding up like a walking stick its blooms,
   Awaiting the morn to try again.
   How long will this go on, this stalking?
   Until the bees buzz by,
   The bobbing hummingbird sips with perky peak
   Into the nectar-bed, rubbing life-preserving
   Pollen off.

   I doff my hat to this silent scene,
   Morn and night, a delight.
   Persistence pays.
   The huge red flowers
   Are bowers for bird and bee
   But momentarily.
   Can the bush renew itself
   In such simple ways?
   The Lord said to Paul,
   "For in weakness
   Power reaches perfection."
   The burly bush
   Depends on such resurrection.

--Br. Remigius Bullinger Phoenix

GOD IS A STRING BEAN

   "Who is God?" his teacher asked.
   "God is a string bean,"
   the boy replied.

   Supreme Beings are hard
   to come by when you're seven.
   "That's fine," the teacher wisely
   said.

   No one laughed. Each one
   wished secretly he had
   a chance to say string bean.
   What a wonderful name for God!

--Fr. William T. Burke, S.J. Anchorage, Alaska

Memory

   Standing tall
   above the June bugs in the scattered gravel,
   you stoutly claimed your future.

   "I will be the first woman president
   in the year 2000."

   A feminist in second grade!
   A millennialist in 1930!

   I look back at you
   with wonder, almost veneration.
   You exceed my expectations.

   Have I failed yours? To you,
   am I a June bug rolled on its back,
   feet flying unprofitably on air?

--Margery Frisbie Arlington Heights, Ill.

The Beads

   Onyx, plastic, pearl and gold
   The Beadsman a Thousand Aves told.
   I tell mine when the world feels cold.
   Pay him a penny, pay him a groat
   The Beadsman's Thousand Aves: rote.
   I finger mine in the bottom of my coat.

   Plastic, pearl, gold and jade
   The Beadsman a Thousand Aves Prayed.
   I pray mine most when afraid.
   Pursed in leather, pocketed in cloth
   I clutch mine tightest
   when the plane takes off.

--Alfred Lewis Washington

A NEW IRISH BLESSING

   May there be springs enough in you life
   to outlast the winters
   May there be guitars (and drums) enough
   to lift your spirits whenever you need it
   May you be gentle enough
   to comfort those who are hurting
   But revolutionary enough
   to bring heaven to those who need it now
   May there always be a leprechaun near you
   to bring out laughter and dance
   and the child in you
   And may God always have room enough
   for you in the palm of her hand

--Thomas P. Gilsenan Minneapolis

NAMING THE LOGOS

   Though trees are ragged, every building's plumb.
   We see the world and wish it fit our mind
   The way a grapefruit's segments fit their rind,
   But quarks and toadstools only leave me dumb.
   The word I most desire will never come.

   Tell my why earth should intersect with hay.
   And what have oaks to do with apple trees,
   Or cactus blossoms with the needful bees?
   Does thinking know, or does it only play?
   The phrase I want to say I never say.

   The best the world contains is so remote,
   My hands fit nothing and my lips are dry.
   I take two breaths, then on the third I die.
   We're most precise at what our words connote.
   The only name I love eludes my throat.