On the Outside Looking

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Chinatown 4963
On the outside looking
in, our stomachs
cavernous with greed,
we despair
of finding the feasting
others, all those others, seem
to have. We
live among the garbage
of our dark, corpulent night, missing
the music, and the laughter,
and the gladness,
not seeing, not hearing,
missing what we have,
ourselves.

 

Spring at Last

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Robert Parks Memorial Church 4245s

There was a man tonight
at Delaware and State,
setting up his camera
on a tripod.

Cars drove by, people many
arm in arm walked by,
some stopped to say,
“Nice evening, eh?”
“Yes,” the man would say,
stopping what he was doing,
“we’ve got spring at last,
don’t we?”

Someone stepped out of
the shadow, asked,
"Taking the picture just
for yourself?” His breath was
fruity with drink, his walk
unsteady, but he was nice.

“I was married in that church,”
the man replied, “thirty years ago 
today.” The younger man
stumbled, found his footing.
“I turned twenty-five today."
The man pushed the shutter
on his camera. “You’re
young enough to be
my son,” he said kindly,
and turned away.

							

Feeding the Thousands

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Holy Sepulcher Red 8560s

What is faith that it
feeds the thousands, with
strength infuses us
and solace in the dark
nights of the soul,
that rises
when we sink,
finds us when we lose
ourselves, lights
the way when the going
is roughest, and
in the core of
our hearts kindles
hope, sometimes, even
love and
joy?

The Gift

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Cactus Flower 3124s

Not often
but when it comes,
words are suddenly freighted
with omen and
forethought,
nature speaks, rocks
and valleys,
the very flowers
tender on the bough
are all agog with mystery,
with palpitating joy,
and this life-shorn heart
beats, beats again
with life’s parturient fire,
the gift of ancient gods,
our immortal
spirit.

A Man Is Dead

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Raindrops 1854frs

The wind has died
that stirred the
poplar in
my father’s
grave. The
moon still shines,
the stars still
keep their
silent vigil; some
souls lie
sleepless
while others
dream
and
senseless slaughter,
vanity, and
greed
still riot in the
hearts of men. What
matters that
the poplar now
is still?
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