An Advent Toast

An Advent Toast


There is a certain time of year
When children lean in close to hear
The gentle ebb and flow of life
(And we disdain the hectic strife
Of jobs, and money's cloying pull)
—To hear the swelling anthem, full
Of whispers of the Coming One.

Have you not heard? We're due a Son.
Of God and human flesh combined—
Not demigod, but Man, divine.
He came to answer Satan's cry:
“If there be God, why must you die?
And why, if he be ‘good’ and who
He says he is—'not old, not new',
But everlasting Holiness—
Then why allow this human mess?”

So Satan says, and Pavlov's son,
(The middle one) agrees: "He's done
A poor job in creating us,
And yet he still demands we trust—
This 'god' who hears the baby scream
In agony, when who would dream
Of letting one poor baby shed
One tear, and not give up his head
To save that child from pain?”

How now to give this God acclaim?
(Thus Dostoevsky poses it.)
“Perhaps eternal bliss might get
For us our long-sought recompence
From Life. Perhaps. But then from whence
Will we seek justice when our hope
That 'God is good' has interloped
With all our need that God be God?”

And thus it is that Christ has come
As as God enfleshed (and yet His Son)
To be Eternity concealed
In Mary’s womb: to be revealed
As Man of Man, and God of God.
And so His ancient feet have trod
The paths worn deep by weary men
Who trudge through misery and sin
And lift their heavy gaze to ask:
“Why then does God give me this task?
Who can endure this darkened world...”

— He answers, like a rose unfurled:
“I have not come to give you pat
And easy answers. More than that,
I’ve come to answer with my Blood
The chaos like a rushing flood:
I AM your God! And on the tree
I proved you have more worth to Me
Than pearls or coins—what metaphor
Will show you that I love you more
Than Life itself?”

A gentle pause.

And then He stoops from holding stars
To put his nail-rent hand in ours.
“It was not just the veil He tore
When on that rough-hewn tree I bore
Your wickedness. My heart was killed.
And though, in hopeful faith, I thrilled
That now at last the human race
Would have its only chance at grace,
Do not for any moment think
That I was not upon the brink.
Yes, I am God. But I am Man.
Indeed, no theologian can
Imagine what it is I did;
Some things from human eyes are hid.

“And no, I did not deign to give
To Dostoevsky, while he lived,
An answer to his deepest plight.
And even now, in heaven’s Light
He will not eagerly disclose
The simple answer that he knows.
‘Far better does it seem to me
To walk and talk with him and see
It written on his Face,’ he says,
'I could say more, but I'll say less.'"

And so, my friends, the time has come
To lift our Nog glass filled with rum;
To sing our merry songs and smile
(Perhaps He joins us for a while).
But let us with our Yule-tide mirth
Recall that God has walked the earth.
And while he walked he bore our pain;
He suffered, died and rose again,
That we might also die to sin,
To live eternally with Him.

Christmas, Anno Domini 2008.
 

A sunny Friday bonus post.

There's a Beauty in Suburbia

There's a beauty in suburbia
Encapsulated in
The concrete dappled symmetry
Of rain-wet streets.

March is optimistic, raining
Clean, wet truths.
Glistening on buckled driveways:
Hope, faith, love.

(It was 1955, and they
And their dreams were young.)

Untitled

This untitled poem was the first poem of my adult life. I had written a few previously, but they represent an earlier ethos. This poem is dense; the references and images move quickly from young adulthood through middle age and to death.

I wrote this while on a business trip to Roseburg for a grinding door to door sales job.

Untitled

"I'm looking for a Taco Bell."

"Yeah, I'm hungry-- looking into real estate."

Young Sampson sees and she

Looks good to me. Visions of
Sweet nectar gluttony--
and kings.

"I think I shall invest in land
And work the soil with my hand."

(Delilah is the magazine that
Keeps him from his grand designs,
From all that visionaries dream,
From all that he would wish to build.)
His oxen glutes just turn the wheel
His frozen heart forgets to feel.
Kansas and a tractor lease
Reflect in cyan irises.
A suit, a card, but not a sword;
A plastic plaque is his reward.

The news will tell with humid buzz
The measure of the man he was:
"He killed Hugh Hefner's son today.
In other news, the mayor's gay."

Genesseret

Writhing fish of speckled face talked excitedly:
“The one of whom our fathers spoke has come
again to visit us—he who hovered on the Surface
and we jumped for joy.” Forgotten memories of a
blind happiness, when our cold blood was warmed
and we felt our scales tingle.

“Come now, brothers! Come; let us fly to his net!
Ecstatically let us jump above the waterless plane, always
Careful to stay within the rope-chains!”

On the dappling surface shines a face, a face
Brown as trout, furiously bright as the swordfish,
Fiercer than the shark, and older and kinder than
The grandfather blue whale.

And the turbid waters calm
And the silent silver arrows
Forget that they are more than fish.

The Precursor

"εγω ειμι ο αρτος ο ζων ο εκ του ουρανου καταβας ..."
The Gospel of St. John, vi. 51


Dusty bearded bodies: a million
Lied down hot and are waking cold.

It is still. Further east, enthroned
On the horizon waits the god.

Black tents like barnacles

Hold huddled sleeping patriarchies.
And the mothers crawl out
Quietly with skins to fetch the water.

High above the warming sand, arcing westward with the dawn,
Stately, yet he hurries: god descending to the dust.
He passes over waking hills that glow in recognition.

The adolescent Dawn takes notice, chasing with her playful gait.
Molten rays of golden fury: Light itself bends nearer
Lending contours to his back as it ripples with exertion.

Holy sweat, over broad scapulae running rivulets down his spine,
Glances off square gluteals, convex hamstrings, 
Freezes in the spheric sky.

Dawn catches him. He shouts
Joy and Triumph! He dissolves.
Diffused upon the desert floor
He feeds a million dusty throats.