Like a temple she has reached
the goal of stillness
graceful in her silence and remote
like the earth absorbing
like the moon reflecting
like the sun, light shining
open peaceful arches
welcome on the hill
thousands to the eternal fire
they come and go, but few
observe the worn white stone
the firm fine lines
and storied sculpturings
which make this rock itself
a place of pilgrimage
 
                                                            (for Maria W., 1960s)    
 

 
The girl with subtly purple hair
walks alone, and flips it in the air
down its waist-length flows a quiver
tail of fish in running river
 
She does not see a watcher there
but, if she did, another’s stare
would turn her blank, false-cheered, or sullen
outer shell uneasy, inner self a question
 
And she is trying out a string of parts
for slightly Purple Princess, with her arts,
the rest all simple, just that hair to hint
at her uniqueness, causing one to squint
 
Who goes here, and where goes she?
seeking to be called, to leave uncertainty
what awaits this temporarily purple person?
a hundred thousand days and wide horizon
 
She has one secret now, her own,
which told her choose her color of renown
 
                                                                                                (for L.P., 1990s) 

 
If I presume to think
one moment of despair
has helped to change this,
my blinded suffering
where no answer seemed,
then it was prayer.
The silent fight and bitter anger
against that cowardice,
all this was prayer
and for the one courageous gesture,
more joy than others’ ninety-nine.
The thanksgiving
because its strength
was partly earned with mine.
 
Surely, great God in whom we live,
through us a river flows
and all the struggling currents
work towards life
as one who loves you knows
 
                                                                                                (1970s ?)

 
The unseen moon
I assume
leaves this stain
of window pane
 
A reaching in
of has been
from Stonehenge
silent, strange
 
Our evolutionary ear
cannot hear
the moon’s rays
while TV plays
 

                                Parents’ Fiftieth Wedding
 
Part I
As a child I answered a doorbell ring,
Opening the formal Front Door
and found a small old lady,
truly someone’s grandmother
but not one that I knew.
She had a strange request –
she “only asked” that she could
come inside and see our house.
 
It seems she lived here many years ago.
This was her family’s home,
and she grew up here, not only years ago,
she told me –  generations
Then the lawn was wide and green,
there were no trees.
 
Later she came back alone,
when grown and married.
The house seemed changed,
for all around great trees were standing,
a grove of apples, pines, and pears.
She did not ask to come inside
but only stood, and looked,
and went away. 
 
But now, she said,
our house seemed like her memories –
The trees had mostly fallen,
the lawn was large.
It looked again like her house and,
“Could she please come in,
to see the rooms of childhood?”
 
That house was sold, and painted,
landscaped, with a new garage,
I myself have not been back to see.
But we lived there for thirty years –
and I often wonder:
will I, someday, stand at the Front Door
And ring the bell, and ask? 
 
                                Part II

Imagination finds a country Back Door –
where daylilies beyond lift golden throats
against far boughs of dark green pine,
green whorls of Turk’s Caps rise beside,
almost the height of a man,
whose buds promise gay orange turbans,.
where now small pink climbing roses bloom.
 
I walk a little further.
Brown-Eyed Susans watch me pass,
and yellow Coreopsis from the meadows
nod their petalled heads.
On a little further, to a juniper patch.
with a small blueberry bush,
some berries pink, some berries blue.
I lean over to pick and catch the scents
of juniper and pine, perfumed with sun ….
And where am I  –  perhaps New Hampshire,
where passed so many happy days and years ?
 
No, this is a vision of New Hampshire,
a quilt of memories patched up
an our city row-house yard.
Still, these images exist,
darkly stitched by brick buildings
and a wire fence.
However, on a sunny day,
I take this Doorway’s patchwork pieces
and travel to a quiet time,.
during these years when my own gardens
must grow in memory.      
 
                                Part IIl

Now at this dinner, in this room together
we are meeting in another Doorway,
because this inn named Wellesley’s Woods
stands where it all began.
Fifty years ago, and yet another five
on a summer’s night –
in these Woods, by this Lake
you might see two figures walk,
And stop, and kiss.
 
All gathered here know in our lives
behind this Anniversary Door –
many years shared together.
And we all know the crossway arch covers
a family group of ourselves,
whom we are happy to love so well.
 
The farther side of this Threshold
we do not know,
as we pick up our luggage of years:
90, 80, 50, 40 ,12, 10, or 6,
anniversary gifts unbundled
from one package.
We move onward
as this Doorway opens onto different paths.
We leave. We go forward –
remembering the first that opened all.  

                                                                                    (1980s)

 
O, Merlin dread, we place this stone
above your head
to safely bind your spells alone
and call your fancies dead
while we above, the farmers, tread
and build our homes and earn our bread
 
Yes, Merlin, I the village elf
I cannot lie
I lock you there as well myself
and mumble prayers as I pass by
against your magic, God knows why:
to save our health, let Merlin die
 
But words of prayer and words of spell
are of a pair
and every time I pass your cell
I feel a stirring in the air
perhaps your magic makes me dare
to bid you well in secret prayer
 
Sink as the tide sinks
fall as the waves fall
fade as the day fades
die as the seed dies
 
Wait as the minutes wait
see as the blind see
speak as the heart speaks
love as the Loved loves
 
Merlin suffering under stone
Merlin when my voice is gone
do not let your life go slack
or magic change – from white to black
 
Merlin childlike in your age
shield that child and teach that sage
so both released with magic may
enchant the sun some free-er day
 
                        (to a poet imprisoned for political reasons, 1960s)   

 
We plucked three hours from the tree
It was not forbidden,
but it seemed to be.
 
We walked with these three hours
to another place
and, hearing Nature’s silence,
set another pace.
 
We saw the dregs of human waste
but from another point of view.
Afloat on Nature’s lovely face
they cleansed our taste anew.
 
And now, homebound, to walls returned,
three fruitful hours gone,
their knowledge we have learned.

                                                                        (1980s)  

 
Children of blood, children of fire
the world turns, the world turns
Children of war, children of grief
Children of hunger, death and disease
what are they born to, what are they born for?
 
Torment and guilt
torture and harm
As the great spinning globe turns
from the sea of misery
to the pits of agony
innocent voices
questioning destiny
 
Children of love, children of peace
the world turns, the world turns
Children of fullness, children of light
children of joy, wisdom and might
What are they born to, what are they born for?

Advantage and favor
adventure, long life
As the great spinning globe turns
from the fields of enterprise
to the peak of ecstasy
innocent voices
blessing their destiny
 
Children of blood and children of peace
Children of love and children of fire
darkness and light, heaven and hell
the world turns, the world turns
some will do good,
others do harm
some will be cursed
and others be blessed
questioning voices, innocent destiny
Omnipotent God –  this is a mystery
 
                                                                        (1980s ?)    
 

 
Two can play the game, “If  Only”
If only You had answered
–  If only you had listened
If only it had not happened
–  If only you saw why
If only I could
–  If only you would
 
And two can claim the lesser plaint of “But”
But, I tried
–  But, I helped you
But, I couldn’t bear it
–  But, you didn’t ask me
But, it’s only a small thing
–  But, it’s all and everything
 
One alone can send the plea “Forgive”
or offer “Thanks”
between the Finite and the Absolute

• Forgive my ways
• And thank you,

thank you
for Your graces and my days
 
                                                                        (1990s) 
 

 
From green plant grove, a niche of leafy stalks,
the young man spoke, his yellow face, dark hair
and Asian eyes peering through tall shadows, squinting into light,
then dipping deep.
 
Each word came halt, his face half-twisted, wry,
with foreign tongue half-mastered and half clear.
 
Five hundred shifted, haunch to haunch, shuffled,
sighed a hovering, traveling cough, polite
and bored – a patient, inattentive class.
Soft-spoken, but fearless, simple, firm, sincere,
he gave directions “…through the jungle here.”
 
But the leafy stalks were lilies,
and the niche an altar piece,
from candle stands the shadows,
and the leader was a priest.
                         ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

An hour ago the red-faced captain spoke,
under his fringes reaching for a handkerchief,
mopping the sweat from glistening, nodding head,
 – sarcastic smiles, simpering sighs, and shouts …
like a music master, phrasing tones
 
in microphones (one hidden on his chest),
his veteran note: “The jungle’s always there.”
 
Five hundred shifted, shuffled, bored politely then,
bored but – with painful, dumb amusement,
like captive children at a faded show,
watched and thought, “He’s got a point, you know.”
 
They thought they heard the captain,
but he spoke to deafen prayer.
It was the slight guerilla fighter
who knew the real warfare.
                         ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
 
 (The Laotian priest came to America to study and lived as visiting priest in a parish, sharing the regular duties. The poem compares his sermon with the pastor’s, and the reactions of the congregations  –  1960s)