Portrait of Courage

(Mary and the Mother of Judas)

Beneath the fateful sycamore where still
A frayed rope hung, they sat in quietude
Of grief and saw: three crosses on a hill;
Repentant Judas ... Darkling death there nude.
Heads bowed, eyes tearless, bleak, both mothers knew
That winds through palms would sing triumphant, free,
The Song of Life, while whispers slithering through
The grass would hiss, "Betrayer!" endlessly.

"How kind and mother-wise to seek me here!
Forgive him, Mary."--Grief's taut floodgates broke--
"His hands were grasping but his heart held dear
Your Son, his Lord. Would I might ease your yoke!"
In syllables love-tender, Mary said,
"Yours is the greater burden. Lift your head ..."

That You May Find the King

These gifts I wish for you this Christmas day,
These simple gifts the heart may ever hold:
The faith to see the Holy Star's clear ray
Leading to Bethlehem; the treasured gold
Minted from friendship through the changing years;
The frankincense of hope to ease despair;
The myrrh of love that will illume your tears
Revealing Heaven through the gate of prayer.
From the garden of your heart may you give flowers
Petaled with all the beauty you have known
To burgeon for another's perilous hours--
Who walks with beauty never walks alone.
These gifts I wish for you and may they bring
The chrism of peace that you may find the King.

When Every Heart Accepts

The little donkey will be journeying
To Bethlehem again this Christmas Eve;
Still gently will he step, the unborn King
Upon his back. Will Mary have to leave
The blazing Inn to seek a stable bed?
Will shepherds listen to the angel song
With man-made spheres exploding overhead;
Jets cleaving spaceways through a starry throng?
The patient donkey's journey will be done
When every heart accepts the Holy One.

Mary's Lullaby

Not long the road to Bethlehem, not long:
The hours sped swiftly for I spun a song,
A lullaby that I would sing with joy
When I would hold Him close--God's little boy.
The notes I plucked from beauty on my way:
Lithe amber willows with their furry-gray:
(Would He love little kittens?) ancient palms,
An avenue of harps that strummed the psalms
Of David like a prayer; an olive tree
Wherein a dove was nesting; (He would be
The Prince of Peace.) a linnet fluting through
The quietude of skies of April-blue;
The lilies of the fields shy-whispering;
The grasses by the roadside new with spring.
From all of this I spun a song for Him.
(Would He love catkins on a willow limb?)

The donkey--Joseph leading--stepped so slow
And carefully, I wondered: did he know
He bore the unborn King? As dusk descended--
A few more notes and my song would be ended--
Came drowsy night-sounds ... Did a shadow flee?
One long discordant note wail Calvary?
No, not in my joy-lullaby! Instead,
A cradle moon low-hanging overhead
Recalled the waiting cradle Joseph made...
Travailing pain ... Yet I was unafraid
For high above there shone the Moving Star
And Joseph spoke, "Not far, my dear, not far!"

When I lay resting on the fragrant hay
I thought of all the beauty on my way
And sang the lullaby that I had spun
For I was holding close, God's little Son.

Madonna of the Woodland

The Wise-Men pines looked down upon her child
Cradled beside her in a snowy bed
Of curling bracken. Forest-dark was aisled
With moonlight. As the silver silence spread
On shepherd cedars kneeling in their awe,
The night wind's muted song a lullaby,
This gentle mother of the woodland saw
A strange new star that moved across the sky;
And shining down upon the bracken bed
It made a halo for her young fawn's head.

When Winter Sang

I heard the song, "Lift up, lift up
Your eyes! For beauty leaves the clod.
Oh, hush! Be still! A daffodil
Within its golden chalice-cup
Declares the artistry of God."

Within a clearing in a wood
I learned His ways beside a brook.
All summer long I heard the song
And, listening, I understood--
The thrush, the leaves, the wind, my book.

I heard the song when fruited lands
Bestowed fulfillment's accolade.
In autumn sun the willows spun
The gold of faith and I touched hands
With God ... and waited unafraid ...

Where Fear and Hunger Stalked

He searched in vain for beauty pure from dross,

The soul of beauty God had made when He

Had carved the mountains, boundaried the sea ...

But always in his search there fell across

His path the shadow of the albatross

Of selfishness whose discord drowned the free

Clear flutes of gentler birds; bade beauty flee

From terraced gardens ... Long he mourned his loss.

Then through the squalid streets of Greece he walked--

One drooping flower bloomed to lend its grace

Where bone-lean children carved their dreams in dust.

Startled, he saw--where fear and hunger stalked--

The soul of beauty in the withered face

Of one who gave away his last dry crust.

The Old Man Weeps

An old man, hatred glooms,

Weaves destiny--Dark is his face--

Upon the rim of chaos. Never mild,

His breath, now hot, now cold: a wind shrill-wild!

With somber threads he weaves--No trace

Of brightness from his looms.

Then love comes softly; love, a little child,

Brings skeins of sun with Royal grace.

No more the fear of doom's

Designing, for there blooms

The Rose of Peace ... Earth primrose-aisled!

The old man weeps ... yields love his sovereign place.

Speed Swiftly Time

Though time speeds swiftly on his vibrant way

I do not fear his silvering decay:

So lightly tethered to the earth am I

That traveling by my star, I reach the high,

White silences ... and view the Master's weaving,

Its flawless primrose strands, the gray relieving.

How beautiful the pattern He has woven

For me to follow! Never shall the cloven-

Hoof and lion-roar leave tragic scars

On its ultimate perfection. Even war's

Harsh and discordant notes of death will blend

Into His symphony where kingdoms have no end.

Speed swiftly time. As you pass, clear and free,

I hear the steps of immortality.

Love the Alchemist

Doleful is the world and dark;

On its rim an ancient one

Weeps to hear the wind blow wild.

Love, a laughing little child,

Carries sheaves of golden sun

To the hoary patriarch,

Takes his hand ... a dream is spun.

Shadowed ways are sunlight aisled,

Earth is singing! Hark! On, hark!

A Sixth Door Opens

Sometimes after a day

of hearing the dissonant voice of the world,

beneath the stars I watch the moon

silver the ebon shade till all is silence;

then I step lightly into my many chambered mind

and close its five doors.

Noiseless, a sixth door opens--

a door forgotten when the five are wide.

To the patterned rhythm of the spheres

I drift back aeons to a time-forgotten kingdom

and enter, not as a stranger:

Old friends embrace me and I speak with the Gods I knew

before I breathed the Lethean vapors of birth.

Again I see the PLAN:

the beginning ... the now ... the ending.

(I sang for joy in the beginning.)

Tuned to the mysteries I hear strange music:

the strains in thunder chords and lightning flares;

in winds and quakings of the earth;

in the steel-winged sky ... in death ... and know

that the dissonance of war and tears

will blend into eternal melody.

Slowly I return.

The five doors open ...

Rock of Silence

The rock of silence

Shatters the gruesome structure

Built by calumny.

Walls of Her Own Griefs

She builded walls

to keep out the neighbors' children

lest footprints mar the proper decorum

of her lily beds,

and a childish shrill

disturb the singing of her caged canary;

and she must keep free of slang

the language of her parrot--

High walls hold the secret to coerce time

to creep by at a snail's pace

while loneliness hears

the high heels of indifference clicking on the streets.

Even compassion fails to notice

when the pattern is broken and the gate left ajar--

She waited--taut was the thread of hope--

only to hear a perfect diction,

"Closed in by the walls of her own griefs."

"Hush!" she said to her parrot and wept.

I Shall Walk

Father, when Thou callest me,

Let it be in some still dawn,

Pearls of dew upon the lawn,

Love, my staff to lean upon.

Let the breath of dawning be

Fragrance from a wild rose lane--

Memories will ease my pain,

Love, remembered, heals again.

Death is kind and leads to Thee--

I shall walk, not bowed, but straight,

To the tasks that, for me, wait--

Not a harp--beyond Thy Gate.

Anchor in the Wind

Forked tongues of lightning lashed the sky

That split then closed in thunderous roar;

The boy clung to a swaying tree

Until he saw the open door

Of home outreach its arms to him--

Wise-guiding arms they were, love-strong.

He learned to face each hurricane:

Head high, he answered song for song,

Then when the wind brought sounds of war,

The cries of wounded, dying, slain,

His were the tender, healing arms

To hold ... and ease a comrade's pain.

For he had learned--time-disciplined--

Love is the anchor in the wind.

He Steps from His Worn Moccasins

The Red Man slowly, surely has been shoved

Until he stands in sorrow on the edge

Of vast primeval prairies he has loved ...

Must he relinquish all his heritage?

He stands uncertain, stoic, stubborn-proud--

Does this mean death? Then comes a burst of light:

New grasslands yet to roam! Gone is the shroud!

For reaching out, in love, are arms of white.

How haltingly he takes the outstretched hands

How slow he plods through unknown tracts of mind

And climbs the culture trails ... then understands

That he is part of one great humankind.

He steps from his worn moccasins and hears

The song of progress-music to his ears.

Seedtime and Harvest

A child knelt to pray

Beside his mother's knee--

Their cabin on prairie sod.

A man lights the way

Leading humanity

Through fruited valleys to God.

In a Hospital Waiting Room

Apologetically through open doors

She came, a few spring flowers in her hand--

Somebody's mother, sweet as mine or yours.

To see her was to feel and understand

The bond of sisterhood. How lovingly

The years had lined her face and bent her form!

A trim nurse entered: There began to be

A smile like April sunshine after storm,

"For you, Miss Nancy!"--Eyes like sun-up glow--

"You made no difference. Your touch was light

As winds in southern gardens breathe and blow.

You held these hands--your smooth ones pearly white."

Her voice held mellow flute-tones of the lark--

What matter that her chrysalis was dark!

Till All Doors Open Freely

As school doors in the South grudgingly open

Where eager ebon-faced youth enters,

In the faint echoes lingering on southern winds,

We hear the pistol-shot of a long curling whip;

The soft swish of the fan a black boy swings monotonously

Keeping the flies from the dinner table in the Big House--

He mutely sings, "I'll walk all over God's Heaven;"

The mumbling of the exhausted slave in his sleep--

"Swing low, sweet Chariot"--swing low in mercy.

We see the burden-bearers--meek--in the Sunday churches

Listening to the praises of a God of love and justice--

"All God's Children Got a Heaven."

School doors are opening grudgingly--

"Swing low, sweet Chariot" till all doors open freely.

Virtue

Her eyes are unsullied and virgin-sweet

As the lilies in fields the Master trod.

A star her light, she scatters the seed

Garnered from God's own beauty-grot.

As pure as the depths of a canyon pool

With crystal bars is her fount of life.

From the gyves of sin she remains aloof

Yet walks with the sinner the "second mile."