Copyright (c) 2013, Israel Galindo.
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Thursday, December 19, 2013
The Meeting
The Meeting
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
After so long an absence
At last we meet again:
Does the meeting give us pleasure,
Or does it give us pain?
The tree of life has been shaken,
And but few of us linger now,
Like the Prophet's two or three berries
In the top of the uttermost bough.
We cordially greet each other
In the old, familiar tone;
And we think, though we do not say it,
How old and gray he is grown!
We speak of a Merry Christmas
And many a Happy New Year
But each in his heart is thinking
Of those that are not here.
We speak of friends and their fortunes,
And of what they did and said,
Till the dead alone seem living,
And the living alone seem dead.
And at last we hardly distinguish
Between the ghosts and the guests;
And a mist and shadow of sadness
Steals over our merriest jests.
Copyright (c) 2013, Israel Galindo.
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Monday, December 16, 2013
Sunday, December 15, 2013
Friday, December 13, 2013
Saturday, November 30, 2013
The Strain of Mercy
The Strain of Mercy
Aunt Agnes takes it all in stride:
Uncle Einar's boorishness,
Cousin Lilia's need to hide,
Cousin Willoughby's sordid mess
He thinks is a "bohemian life,"
Aunt Alicia's wandering wits,
What Uncle Lewis did to his wife,
The way that Uncle Nahum sits
In his creepy corner and calculates,
Aunt Wilma's plans for sweet revenge,
Cousin Hubert in dire straits,
The inevitable and dreaded change
Coming to young Elizabeth,
Cousin Ellie's hordes of mates,
Uncle Ozzie's fear of death.
She recognizes what we are,
Yet holds us in affection
As steadfast as the morning star,
As if our faults had no connection
With the persons we are within.
She doesn't pretend an ignorance
Of our dark collective sin;
She only believes that circumstance
Has gone against us every one,
That by blind forces we were driven.
We make a painful silent moan
At being so horribly forgiven.
--Fred Chappel
Copyright (c) 2013, Israel Galindo
The Moon
The Moon
There is such loneliness in that gold.
The moon of the nights is not the moon
Whom the first Adam saw.
The long centuries
Of human vigil have filled her
With ancient lament. Look at her.
She is your mirror.
--Jorge Luis Borges
Copyright (c) 2013, Israel Galindo
Job
Job
(Job 28:28)
Yes: wisdom begins with fear of the Lord,
which comprehends the power that made the seas,
the earth, the shimmering dawn,
the unexplored unfathomed skies, the moon,
and the Pleiades.
Which also know Who comes to judge our
shoddy little failing lives, knowing full well,
we need not fear the one who kills the body,
but only He who condemns the soul to hell.
Which also knows it magnifies the Lord,
defying the demon, being the only releases,
oddly enough, from fear, being its own reward,
which is also wise, is faith, is hope, is peace,
is tender mercy, over and over again,
until, at last, is love, is love. Amen.
--William Baer
Copyright (c) 2013, Israel Galindo
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Nicholas of Myra
Nicholas of Myra
Nicholas of Myra Patron Saint of Pawnbrokers
In the company of "publicans and sinners,"
and the poor trading penknives for pocketfuls of bread,
the pawnbroker stands by his glass counter,
buys and sells portions of strangers' lives.
Some days he looks in the family heirloom mirror
he bought for a few bucks from a bankrupt butcher
and sees the gray hairs of Faustus.
Too many TVs line the inside of his eyes when
he tries to sleep; pocketwatches click his breathing.
He does not ask what is borrowed or stolen,
what is the last token of love off a widow's hand.
Hope is the act of returning,
the memorized object not gone.
Still, each day his cases are full; business goes on.
A tired ex-nun sells him her medallion of Nicholas.
He keeps it under his shirt, prays she will not return.
Marjorie Maddox
Copyright (c) 2013, Israel Galindo
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