duncanmac.blog

I am grateful for a place out of the wind,
The sun coming through high windows,
The warmth from my coffee spreading down my chest,
For views across snowy mountains,
For the path I am led, for the love of my darlings,
For the faces of my friends, new and old,
Departed and yet to be. 

Joy, love, desire – are they the source of
Sorrow? The root, the branch?
Thirty robins returned to the ash tree
Surprised me with joy a couple days ago.
I may not see them again
I may pass on and up, out where the joy is, 
If it is to be found like that,
I have felt joy rising up inside me, impatient 
As the wind when I wake in the night, even through the
Dizzy nausea – why I can’t tell you, where
I don’t know – love is joy is a kind of pain, is it?
I forgot to talk about my son (though no possession)
Any more than music, springs of water, pine trees, mountains

I.

How can he be so Presbyterian 
As to hear that wind we talked about 
In the simulacrum of a suburban
Neighborhood here in Santa Fe
And feel a pang of guilt for his comfort?
Had the lung pumped again yesterday 
In a snowstorm – our two days of winter 
As he joked, thankful for a swivel chair 
In a warm room out of the wind, how mundane -
But that seems his world these lengthening days
As the cold grows greater. The grey-green cat by the simulated
Fire does not display any uneasy feeling unless 
Someone makes a move for the switch that will
Make the flame disappear.

II.

But now he's gone full Presbyterian 
And thoughts about predestination and 
Free will come rushing in a 
Conflicted calvinistic tide. 
Maybe he believes again, and so then this is 
The only thread of the plot of the story
That he could belong to, that makes sense -
If cancer makes any sense, or the rest of it.
All tangled up with the others, how could he
Think to change it
And besides the prophet tells us that it (whatever it is)
Was all decided a long time ago. 

Sleepless night that never ends
Borrowed house filled with debt
Slow drip of poison from the IV
And the kitchen faucet and the
Computer news. Meaningless
Work that will not cease
Or no work at all clinging
To the abyss
Tyranny of old photo albums
College yearbooks
Love’s sweet burden that will not
Let you leave
Soul pierced through by golden
Hair and baby’s kisses
Lost heirlooms that remain hidden
No matter how deeply you search
Empty garden demanding springtime
Hopes, dark clouds overspread 
Heaven’s dome.
Prostrate and pierced and to what end
This approaching golden dawn?

On the sheetrock banco my son 
Has arranged the characters of the story
Textually out of sequence
But traditional.

Tiny carpenter’s apprentice to be
Master of beasts, Lord of angels
Philosopher king, her baby boy,
Something different to each
Plaster representation.

Some new, some old as time,
Some older, flames of undying fire
Illumined by the switch on the wall
Their shadows cast long and flickering
Across the quiet room.

Reflect from the decorated tree
Lost in the high ceiling of time
Warms my newly shaven head. 

How can we know, across the gulf
Of time and myth, the wonder, 
Dreams, wild longing, hope,
Projections, unfounded suppositions,
Flickering in each plaster heart?

They are ours – the never ending 
Litany of human need, human desires,
Bread, love, fulfillment, healing, 
Lifting of the burden of oppression, 
A natural order, a just king, forgiveness,
The listening ear, green grass, clean water.

Holy incense of pines on the mountain,
Plenty, warmth, a right relation to creation,
So much weight, so much meaning centered
On these tiny plaster casts cradled in the 
Firelight, arms already spread in
Universal embrace. 

Crows call in the morning sun, an ancient harp
Heralds digital the longest night approaching
Conjunctions of planets, promise of days to come
World’s light born into darkest night, the holy
Time come ‘round again. 
Childish anticipation at the shortening paper
Chain leading to a quiet morning, but not
Neglectful of the growing pile of gifts beneath
The lighted tree.
We worship what we cannot see, things that
Cannot be shaken, things that will not pass away,
We reverence what we cannot know, mountains
Against the holy sky, junipers covered in snow
Already vanishing with the sun’s power even in
This darkest time, these days while the cold comes.
Longest night, inescapable darkness thirsty for
The light, blind and cold, disease and anger rage
Among us while we celebrate the coming of
Healing and peace. Holiest time of year
Sun returns, fires burn, banishing old fears
Gifts of light, once more, we come to winter’s
Door. May the snow be short-lived, but enough,
May the wind stop at our door, may we come through 
To spring all together and full of light. Grant us
Grace to endure a new year, new burdens, old cares.
King of the sun, Lord of light, in our plentitude
Let us hear the singing of the stars.

For the breaking of this dim day
For the brightness of the coming sun
For the blue sky, purity of snow,
Leaking life into the dry ground
For the warmth of this fire beside me
For the safety of my loved ones
Through the night, for blessings
Given and ungiven, for the 
Love that fills the earth
We give thanks, and ask for 
Grace to bear Your unbearable
Gifts.

You showed us the empty boats
Vacant gardens where sunflowers
Hang their heavy heads
Cypresses waiting for us all
Beyond the flowering springtime 
Orchard.

We prisoners pace the yard
Slow motion re-creation of
Forgotten harvest dancers
The sowers make their blind way
Across the empty wheat field
Crows gathering in the trees
Beyond our sight.

The guise of reality hides eternal
Questions, but gives no rest,
Hints at no peace of mind, demands
The price of passion be paid.
Wander hungry, sleep cold, preach that gospel
No one wants told, overwhelmed 
By the infinite sadness.

You could have given us disembodied
Heads, blood like dripping jewels, 
Salome’s dance, but none of those
Eyeball balloon cactus man dreamscapes
Penetrate the veil, reveal the hidden wound
More than that faceless gray family
And their vanished dinner of potatoes.

Essence of yew tree burning in the veins
Ancient harbinger now life bringer
At a price. Dark traceries up my arm
Like the poison in a sword fantasy.
Bone-break ache, muscle fever,
Sleepless nights, but these fade,
All fade but the grim tracery in my veins
My hair turns loose, covers my pillow 
In lost vanity and after a few days
I shave it all away; still, strength enough 
For a real hike among arroyo willows, 
Cottonwoods. I can get out of bed
Most easily, 
Now it’s time for round two.

Father of every good gift
My thanks for the bounty
You have brought to my life
For the obvious list ending
Family, son, wife.
For the skills I find within
Though the tools now lie 
Neglected – gardens, makings,
Marking down. I see all
Around people of worthy
Accomplishment, achievement
Making my half-conceived schemes
Appear childish and trite.
I thank You for the wasted time
With a golden boy, fishing (but
So little). Thank You for the
Sunflowers and the soil to plant them
Always digging, always digging, it seems.
I thank you for the cost of all these things
Giving them worth, lost mountains
Humanitarian trips, fretwork dollhouses. 
Forgive me if I have wandered too far from
Your task and Your assignment
I thank You for a free life (as much as lies
Within us) and pray to bring some good
Into the world for Your glory.