Fossilized
All day in amber,
I promise the aster
some air
for prayer.
Poems on the topic: prayer
Poems on the topic “prayer” on Poets.by.
* * *
corn is ripe somewhere.
a warehouse of scarecrows?
soup after prayers.
Rose Pogonias
A saturated meadow,
Sun-shaped and jewel-small,
A circle scarcely wider
Than the trees around were tall;
Where winds were quite excluded,
And the air was stifling sweet
With the breath of many flowers,--
A temple of the heat.
There we bowed us in the burning,
As the sun’s right worship is,
To pick where none could miss them
A thousand orchises;
For though the grass was scattered,
Yet every second spear
Seemed tipped with wings of color,
That tinged the atmosphere.
Rhythm
The rhythm of the work is to set down
Her padded bench, a flat, and trowel at the
End of a bed and drop as if in prayer,
Reach for the trowel (bent for her old
Hand at right angles), dig, then grope for a pot.
You may see each hole is deep and wide enough
To exactly take the root ball. She carefully
Holds this in her shade, tips the damp
Mass in, packs with trowel, repeats all -- three
Or four times -- then stands. Behind her, some
Four plants glow green in any six feet of bed.
The rhythm of this work, when best, resembles
How monks or nuns in supplication glide
Easily to the floor, centered, unconcerned
With body or mind, then rise, then glide again,
Outcomes not sought, nor merit earned.
Making the Soul's Re-acquaintance
It seems you must give up your long-term lease
On being right and wronged, righteous and hurt.
No doubt there's someone else who would be pleased
To lord over that haughty piece of Earth.
Move to a cottage of humility,
Cross-breezes, and a pantry full of jars
That hold your faults, preserved for scrutiny.
Live with the wretchedness of who you are.
Chop kindling from the stump of your assumptions,
And ask forgiveness from each simple wall.
It won't be long before you sense resumption
Of basic gratitude for life, for all.
Of course you'll want to pray again, poor sod.
But keep it basic: pray there is a God.
Sweet Request
She asked me
to play something
sweet and holy.
I took the
quivering reed
between my lips
and pressed greensleeves
against her dress,
the gold saxophone,
mother of pearl keys,
her breasts rising
falling in prayer.
September 1, 1980
You whistle a basic six note phrase. It
becomes your anthem. Is this what
prayer looks like. Whistle a basic six note phrase—
your anthem—suddenly, a decent moon appears
and there's a film of light over everything.
Each hour, afraid of the previous one, moves
on only to find it again. You whistle a little phrase.
It becomes your anthem. This is what a prayer looks like.
The Death Bed
All the time they were praying
He watched the shadow of a tree
Flicker on the wall.
There is no need of prayer,
He said,
No need at all.
The kin-folk thought it strange
That he should ask them from a dying bed.
But they left all in a row
And it seemed to ease him
To see them go.
There were some who kept on praying
In a room across the hall
And some who listened to the breeze
That made the shadows waver
On the wall.
The Change
Once I forgot all, everything,
In any day of fall or spring;
And even when I went to bed.
The little prayer I should have said.
I cannot now forget at all
Anything of spring or fall; —
The splutter of wind within a hedge;
Or smell of hyssop from the edge
Of a hot field; the field itself
Dry as a bone upon a shelf;
Or deer that fleet across a wood;
Or an old woman in a hood.
My prayers rise up, each like a spear,
So sharp that God cannot but hear.
Song for a Dark Girl
Way down South in Dixie
(Break the heart of me)
They hung my black young lover
To a cross roads tree.
Way down South in Dixie
(Bruised body high in air)
I asked the white Lord Jesus
What was the use of prayer.
Way down South in Dixie
(Break the heart of me)
Love is a naked shadow
On a gnarled and naked tree.
Spanish Pilots
These were the ragged peon crews,
Half-bloods of Aztec women,
Of Spaniards and adventurers
Who were not seeking heaven!
But out on the broad seas driven,
And from the Horn to Sitka,
They searched for deep-sea findings
The whole unknown way,
With "small ringing of bells
And no trumpet blare,
Empty stomachs, and empty guns,
But plenty of prayer."
And if they failed of the findings,
Nothing behind but the branding irons,
Or slavery in the mines.
Yet they sang
Puzzled Stitches
Needle, running in and out,
In and out, in and out.
Do you know what you're about,
In and out, in and out?
Fingers, going to and fro,
To and fro, to and fro.
Do you know the path you go.
To and fro, to and fro?
I might tell you why you're taking
Such good stitches: You are making
Out of linen, fine as breaking
Ocean-spray upon a bluff,
Pleating for a Bishop's cuff!
I might make you understand
That a Bishop's white, white hand,
Because of you, will be more fair,
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
Or try: