Untitled

Copyright (c) 2012, Israel Galindo

Hast thou no scars?

Copyright (c) 2012, Israel Galindo

Judas

Judas

Always I lay upon the brink of love,
Impotent, waiting till the waters stirred,
And no one healed my weakness with a word;
For no one healed me who lacked words to prove
My heart, which, when the kiss of Mary wove
His shroud, my tongueless anguish spurred
To cool dissent, and which, each time I heard
John whisper to Him, moaned, but could not move.

While Peter deeply drowsed within love’s deep
I cramped upon its margin, glad to share
The sop Christ gave me, yet its bitter bite
Dried up my ducts. Praise Peter, who could weep
His sin away, but never see me where
I hang, huge teardrop on the cheek of night.

Vassar Miller (1924- )




Copyright (c) 2012, Israel Galindo

Good Friday

Good Friday

Am I a stone and not a sheep
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath thy Cross,
To number drop by drop thy blood's slow loss,
And yet not weep?

Not so those women love
Who with exceeding grief lamented thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;

Not so the sun and moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon---
I, only I.

Yet give not o'er,
But seek thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.

---Christina Georgina Rossetti


Copyright (c) 2012, Israel Galindo

Adam

Adam (Genesis 4:8)

He'd seen this thing before, of course, but never like this.
After Eden, he'd found a swan lying motionless and silent,
forever rotting, irretrievable, and gone.
But now, it's his boy, the brother of Cain, the shepherd son,
the kind and faithful friend of He-Who-Is,
lying quiet and slain: finished, futureless, at the end of his end.
Once, Adam had named the names, and named his own two sons,
and named this curse, which mullifies and terminates, as: "death."
But he who'd known the awesome power of God looked to the skies,
knowing, without a doubt, through nothing was said,
his God both could and would undo the dead.


--William Baer


Copyright (c) 2012, Israel Galindo

The Monks of St. John's

The Monks of St. John's File in for Prayer

In we shuffle, hooded amplitudes, scapulared brooms,
a stray earring, skin-heads and flowing locks,
blind in one eye, hooked-nosed, handsome as a
prince (and knows it), a five-thumbed organist,
an acolyte who sings in quarter tones, one slightly
swollen keeper of the bees, the carpenter minus a
finger here and there, our pre-senile writing deathless
verse, a stranded sailor, a Cassian scholar,
the artist suffering the visually illiterate and indignities
unnamed, two determined liturgists.
In a word, eager purity and weary virtue.
Last of all, the Lord Abbot, early old (shepherding the saints is like herding cats).
These chariots and steeds of Israel make a
black progress into church.
A rumble of monks bows low and offers praise
to the High God of Gods who is faithful forever.

--Kilian McDonnell

Losses

Losses

The earth, an oblate sphere, slows down,
Second by second, in its erratic, elliptical orbit,
As molten, metallic seas slosh around its interior.
The moon slides in and hooks onto twigs,
The fingertips of the beech, which assess the dark air.
I live in an as-if, subjunctive mode
Since our lives dropped their indicative.
A fraction of wall still stands nearby,
A fraction of my crumbling will.
Rocking, I draw a pail of stars
From the East River, which turn to tears.
My friends have all died or moved away.
The sky is snowing ash.

--Stephen Stepanchev

Copyright (c) 2012, Israel Galindo

The Dead

The Dead

At night the dead come down to the river to drink.
They unburden themselves of their fears,
their worries for us. They take out the old photographs.
They pat the lines in our hands and tell our futures,
which are cracked and yellow.
Some dead find their way to our houses.
They go up to the attics.
They read the letters they sent us, insatiable
for signs of their love.
They tell each other stories.
They make so much noise
they wake us
as they did when we were Children and they stayed up
drinking all night in the kitchen.

---Susan Mitchell


Copyright (c) 2012, Israel Galindo

Abu

Copyright (c) 2012, Israel Galindo

Moon

Copyright (c) 2012, Israel Galindo

If Desires Fly by Like Shadows

If desires fly by like shadows,
If vows are empty words,
Is it worth it to live in this fog of delusion,
Is it worth it to live if the truth is dead?

Does one need eternity for useless striving,
Does one need eternity for deceptive words?
What is worthy of life lives without doubts,
A higher power knows no bonds.

Knowing one's own higher power,
Why wail on about childish dreams?
Life is just an exploit, and the living truth
Shines like immortality in moldering graves.

---Vladimir Solovyov



Copyright (c) 2012, Israel Galindo

Slabs

Copyright (c) 2012, Israel Galindo

March 8

March 8

Every so often my father comes over for a visit
he hangs his overcoat and hat on my hat rack
I brief him on recent developments
and serve us coffee
he is surprised that I like to cook
once when he made an omelette
he flipped it in the air much to my delight
and it landed on the floor
yes that was the summer of 1952,
he remembered the high breakers
and how fearless I was running into the ocean
anyway the important thing is to see you
doing so well he said
and took his coat and hat and left
before I remembered he was dead.

--David Lehman

Copyright (c) 2012, Israel Galindo

The Love of Morning

The Love of Morning

It is hard sometimes to drag ourselves
back to the love of morning
after we've lain in the dark crying out
O God, save us from the horror . . . .

God has saved the world one more day
even with its leaden burden of human evil;
we wake to birdsong.
And if sunlight's gossamer lifts in its net
the weight of all that is solid,
our hearts, too, are lifted,
swung like laughing infants;

but on gray mornings,
all incident - our own hunger,
the dear tasks of continuance,
the footsteps before us in the earth's
beloved dust, leading the way - all,
is hard to love again
for we resent a summons
that disregards our sloth, and this
calls us, calls us.

--Denise Levertov



Copyright (c) 2012, Israel Galindo

In the wilderness

In the Wilderness

I sit alone on the rocks trying to prepare
a man to teach what the laws of life are.
Sunlight and silence, nurses against disease,
are busy fighting my infirmities.
The life is simple, you could not say rough,
a stream, some cans and firewood are enough
to live on; but a hostile shift of weather
would bring me sharply up on the short tether
of endurance. We haven't survived by strength alone.
We have neither fur nor fangs. I will go home,
just as I rise from sleep, eat and get dressed.
This is one more resort, not last or best.

A teacher in the wilderness alone
learns to make bread and sermons out of stone.

--James Simmons



Copyright (c) 2012, Israel Galindo

Paul Lake

Paul Lake Talking to Lord Newborough

(Lt. William Charles Wynn, 1873-1916,
4th Baron Newborough, whose grave overlooks
the Vale of Ffestiniog in North Wales)

I'd perch beside your gravestone years ago,
a boy who thought you old at forty-three.
I knew you loved this quiet place, like me.
We'd gaze towards Maentwrog far below,
kindred spirits, and I'd talk to you.

Sometimes I asked what it was like to die--
were you afraid? You never did reply,
and silence rested lightly on us two.

These days the past is nearer,
so I came to our remembered refuge on the hill,
expecting change yet finding little there:
my village and the Moelwyns look the same,
Saint Michael's Church commands the valley still--
but you, old friend, are younger than you were.

David Anthony

Lent 2012

Copyright (c) 2012, Israel Galindo

Temptation

Temptation

Under a starry sky I was taking a walk,
On a ridge overlooking neon cities,
With my companion, the spirit of desolation,
Who was running around and sermonizing,
Saying that I was not necessary, for if not I, then someone else
Would be walking here, trying to understand his age.
Had I died long ago nothing would have changed.
The same stars, cities, and countries
Would have been seen with other eyes.
The world and its labors would go on as they do.

For Christ's sake, get away from me.
You've tormented me enough, I said.
It's not up to me to judge the calling of men.
And my merits, if any, I won't know anyway.

--Czeslaw Milosz



Copyright (c) 2012, Israel Galindo