The tribullent fish

The tribullent fish

Rogacious fingers clatching the butt of his fly rod,
He swang its stendorous tip into the suppellment,
Setting the creffalated caddis gently onto the tordent waters.

He watched as the tribullent fish plutted back and forth,
Back and forth across the grobbled bed of the sliffent stream,
Slipping souciously from one bromulated eddy into the next.

He waited patiently as the inkled trout sluffed his lure,
One time, two times, and a third, wippily, purtuously,
Until, with a sudden flimp, the fish scrobbled the fly.

At once, he prammeled the rod tip and sevelled the hook,
Feeling the hoffal of the fringent fish on the end of his line,
As it swam sgentuously into the heart of the prunsic current.

Giving line, then lallently taking it back, torble by torble,
He coaxed the rediant trout toward his enturpated net,
At last, swarping it up with a cry of declant.

For a moment, he hoppled his grantilous quarry in the water,
Admiring its brantitude and its unmatched entillity,
Before letting it siffle from the net and swim quandrously away.

Love is not delicate

Love is not delicate

Love is not delicate but fierce,
No fair flower, fragile and fleeting,
Flourishing rapturously for a time
Before fading in the face of frigid fall winds.

Love is fierce and unflinching,
Unflagging patient, insistently persistent,
Bravely navigating the caprices of this life,
Fading and re-blooming, faltering and rising again.

Love is no rare treasure,
No prize of fickle fortune
Celebrated in song and fable
Sought by many, but found only by a fortunate few.

Love is as common as it dares to be,
Its path not hard to find, but daunting to undertake,
Long and sometimes laborious, uncertain but certainly formidable,
Reaping its rewards, both at its end and all along the way.

Goodbye, Stoney Bear

Goodbye, Stoney Bear

cruel indignity

        awakened some minutes before way too early
        muted moaning escalating to pitiful whining
        then a sudden yelp or insistent bark

        is it a cry of pain or frustration
        an urgent plea for help or an evocation of despair
        I don’t know and maybe he doesn’t either

        leveraging myself from the bed
        I leverage him, hoisting heavy and trembling body
        to stand over legs now all too unreliable

cruel indignity

        he staggers forward, stopping and starting
        sometimes just standing, as if lost
        not knowing or not caring what to do next

        trundling, stumbling, crumbling over the threshold
        he saunters round the corner of the porch to leave his refuse there
        unwilling and unable to descend the few steps into the snowy yard

        sometimes he doesn’t make it that far
        raising himself, somehow, in the night
        to urinate or defecate within the house that is called by his name

cruel indignity

        beautiful thick coat now bedraggled and smelly
        listless and laggard now at his brother’s invitations to play
        body collapsing, legs splaying, beside his supper bowl

        sleeping most of the night and the day, peacefully enough
        but restless and demanding when awake
        out and in, up and down, unable to be satisfied

        endearing, affectionate companion now provoking irritation
        his disrupted life disrupting mine
        our being together, once a consummate blessing, now an ordeal

cruel indignity … and heartbreaking ending

        just this morning, a sudden turn for the worse
        out once in early morning, but now struggling futilely to rise
        spirit willing but flesh weak and broken beyond repair

        I put my hands under his chest and lift, in vain
        body uncentered, wholly off balance, legs limp and useless
        I carry him outside and he poops as I hold him

        I lay him on his bed and stroke his muzzle
        and in the midst of the struggle and the sadness and the losing
        there is a moment of peace and of deep gratitude

goodbye, Stoney Bear

Home

Home

There is one thing in my life that, for better or for worse, I cannot change, one thing that has powerfully shaped my sense of identity, that I am rootless. Born in Pasadena, raised in Philadelphia, in town and in suburbs, then scattered across midwest and northeast in adolescence.

Grade four: Oakmont School, Havertown, Pennsylvania; best friend, Hunter Clouse; no girlfriend. Grades five and six: Red Cedar School, East Lansing, Michigan; best friend, Carlos Malferrari, girlfriend, Pam Nystrom. Grade seven: Huntingdon Junior High School, Elkins Park, Pennsylvania; best friend, Stephen Katz, girlfriend, Liz. Grade eight: East Lansing Junior High School, East Lansing, Michigan; best friend, David Backstrom, girlfriend, Kathy Lockwood. Grade nine: Hamilton-Wenham Regional High School, Hamilton, Massachusetts; best friend, Charlie Barker, girlfriend, Holly Cone.

Six years, five different homes, five different schools. Dear friends made and lost. Always letting go. Always starting over. Always the new kid. No place to be from. No companions to grow up with. No extended family because half of the extended family is half a country away and the other half is a whole country away and I know little, so little of their stories.

Who are you? Where are you from? Who are your people? Where is your home?

        “O Lord, you have always been our home.”

The Lord has been my home. From the age of four, I have known that before I was my mother’s son, before I was my father’s son, I am a child of God. That is where I live and breathe and have my being, in a space, spiritual and material, that is God’s own creation. Everything I see, I see through that lens. Everything I am or strive to be is measured against that sense of belonging.

For better or for worse. I am grateful, so grateful, for always being home, always being held in God’s embrace wherever I am, whatever may befall me. I am grateful, so grateful for a rich and varied life, for friends from Brazil and India and Argentina and Liberia, Jewish and Mormon and Hindi and Buddhist, musicians and athletes and scholars and thespians.

But I crave roots. I crave a human identity: ethnic or cultural, familial or regional. Which is why I was thrilled to discover, among my father’s papers, years after his death, a genealogy and family tree researched and published the year I was born by a cousin of my father’s mother, Jessie Laing Sibbet. Nearing the age of seventy, after retiring from my life’s work, after traveling three times to Scotland and falling in love with the land and its people, I have learned what I never knew, that I am one quarter Scottish, that my people come from Markinch in Kirkcaldy, that there is a place from which I come, at least from which a part of me comes.

I am hungry and thirsty to know more, to let this wanderer see where the journey began, to push down roots, to lay claim to a home, which though never was nor never will be where I live, is mine.

Free

Free

The latest from my Tuesday morning writers group. Our prompt this morning was: “Describe a time in your life you felt entirely free, truly yourself.”  This is what I wrote …

It was beautiful. The world was beautiful, the world that was my kayak, a paddle, the amniotic waters of Blue Hill Bay, and whatever happened to hold my gaze as I floated along the Brooklin shoreline.

I had launched that morning from Center Harbor, sliding my kayak into the water from the pebbly beach below the Brooklin Boat Yard, intending to paddle the fifteen or so miles to the South Blue Hill town wharf. I slipped past Chatto Island, paddling south and east down the Reach. My arms and torso settled into a steady rhythm, boat and body melded, a single machine, quiet and smooth and efficient.

I paddled past the Torreys, the Babsons, Hog and Harbor. It had been an hour or so, I suppose, but time and even distance mattered little. What mattered was simply being there, dipping my fingers into the cool waters, feeling the glide of the boat under my hips, delighting in the marine paradise that is Maine.

Turning north around Naskeag, making steady progress across the mouth of Herrick Bay towards Flye Point, the easy rhythm continued uninterrupted, and I marveled at how far I had come already, so quickly, so easily, and with such joy. Halfway already!

As I neared the base of Harriman Point, I celebrated the day, this wondrous and beautiful day that I had chosen for my expedition: light breeze, calm waters, smooth sailing. I had no more finished this thought, when I looked ahead to see a dark and angry and turbulent shadow rushing toward me down the bay from the north, a sailor’s cat’s paw multiplied a thousand times.

I beached on Harriman’s Point scouting the route that would take me across Blue Hill Bay to the wharf. What did I have left? Four miles, five miles? I waited for a lull, but no lull came, just more wind, relentless and furious. I thought of hiking overland, but I had no phone, no way of letting my wife know where I has landed, where to find me.

So I launched.

There was no smooth and easy rhythm now, but an all-consuming fight for survival, no steady progress, but a battle for each yard, each foot, each inch. Right blade, left blade, dig, dig, stroke, stroke, pull, pull. Soon, all too soon, arms and upper body and will were exhausted, but I dare not break this new and frenzied rhythm. If I stopped paddling even for a moment, I would lose all my precious gains or be swept back onto the point. So, dig, dig, stroke, stroke, pull, pull.

I still waited for a lull, but wind and surf only grew more intense, twenty-five knot winds and three foot waves. Right blade, left blade, dig, dig, pull, pull, never stopped, but at the same time I had to fight to remain upright, all the time imagining where and how I and my boat would be pushed by the storm if I were to capsize, and whether either of us would survive it.

Wind blew into my face and waves crashed over the bow and gunwales of my boat, drenching me in cold and salty ocean. I screamed at them. I screamed aloud into the wind and waves shouting at them to leave me alone, to let me go. Every moment, all my moments, were now the same, the ocean, my boat and me locked in eternal struggle, the sea forcing its will on me and me refusing to relent. This was my life, this is my life. I had never been so trapped, so held against my will, so threatened by irresistible powers so far far beyond my own. And I had never felt so free, so much myself …

Eggemoggin Reach Review book cover

 

Also, we have just published Eggemoggin Reach Review Volume III, an anthology of poetry and prose from members of the Deer Isle Writers’ Group. I have five poems and two essays in the anthology. The book is available through Blue Hill Books.

Memory speaks

Memory speaks

sometimes memory speaks unbidden
        unwelcome intruder
        harping haranguing harassing
        suffering no rebuttal
        to its damning accusations

sometimes memory speaks summoned
        happy companion
        buoying brightening blessing
        empowering the miracle
        of tasting the same joy twice

sometimes memory speaks uncertain
        unreliable witness
        hedging hemming hawing
        groping for shadowy apparitions
        that elude discovery

sometimes memory speaks in conversation
        incomparable interlocutor
        delineating defining delighting
        weaving disparate moments
        into a seamless story

and sometimes memory speaks simply
        simply speaks
        enfolding encouraging enthralling
        transfiguring a life mundane
        into something ineffable

Fresh as the morning, as sure as the sunrise

Fresh as the morning, as sure as the sunrise

“Make America Great Again.”

Are you familiar with the phrase? Not “Make America Great,” but “Make America Great Again.” The campaign slogan taps into feelings of loss, feelings of grief for a past glory that is gone. It taps into a longing to go back, to recapture the former days that were better than today.

Is that what you believe? Regardless of the politics that accompany the slogan, is that how you feel? That your best days are behind you? That our best days are behind us? Are you confused, distressed, frightened by what this nation, this world, your life are becoming? Do you worry about the world your children and your grandchildren will inherit?

I do. I understand the distress, the confusion, the fear, the melancholy, the wistfulness for days that were less troubled, for a nation that was less divided, for a morality that was clear and universally acknowledged. I understand that sense of loss and longing that makes us want to go back.

But we can’t. We can’t go back. But even if we could, I don’t believe the premise. I don’t believe that the past was better.

Yes, our planet is certainly in worse shape and more threatened than at any time before, but for much of humanity life is better than it has ever been. We live longer and healthier and wealthier and freer. Long entrenched inequalities and injustices are being challenged and, in some cases, even overturned. We have access to a richness and diversity of culture as never before.

Now I know that this is true only for some and not for all, and I know that our globe is still racked by hunger and disease and poverty, by hatred and discrimination and war, but no more and no less than it has ever been. We face the same challenges, the same temptations, the same threats that our ancestors have always faced.

Were days past really less troubled? With world wars, the Great Depression, public lynchings, riots in our cities’ streets?

Was our nation less divided? With hundreds of thousands of Americans killed by fellow Americans in a civil war, with the Ku Klux Klan and the John Birch Society, the ACLU and the Communist Party USA, with rampant anti-semitism and anti-Catholicism?

Was there before a more faithful adherence to a widely accepted moral code? Do you think so? Or is it merely that in our day immorality is on public display instead of hidden?

Regardless, God does not call us to rue the present and pine for the past. God does not call us to long for what was, but in the midst of trouble and confusion and distress to hold fast to hope, to live fully today and to wait eagerly for tomorrow with hope.

The splendor of Jerusalem is a thing of the past.

The author of the collection of poems that make up the book of Lamentations knows about distress. He knows about trouble: empty houses and empty streets and an empty Temple. He knows about the loss of family and community and culture and national pride. He knows about the loss of a way of life that once was and is now gone.

The Lamentations poet writes in the aftermath of the invasion of Jerusalem by the armies of Babylon. Their holy Temple was ransacked and their city walls razed and much of the city’s population forcibly relocated to Babylon to live for three generations far from home, exiles in a foreign land. It was like Russia invading Ukraine, only Jerusalem lost. The people of Jerusalem lost everything, everything that was dear to them. They were left homeless, powerless, destitute, depressed.

The poet is depressed, too. He says so, but he does not succumb to despair. He does not shout “Make Jerusalem Great Again!” He does not dwell on the past, but points to the future, a future that is not tenuous and uncertain, but a future that is sure, because the Lord is here, because the Lord’s love and mercy continue.

The Lord’s unfailing love and mercy still continue. Not resuming after a pause, but continuing. Not again, but still. Because God has never left us. God’s love has never faltered. God has not been absent in the midst of our distress, but God has been present, always and ever present.

So the poet urges the people of Jerusalem to wait. Not despair, but wait. Not long to go back, but wait. Not denigrate this present day, but wait. Wait patiently. Wait patiently for the sunrise. Wait patiently for the Lord who will surely save.

Wait.

Will you wait? It takes courage to wait. It takes strength to wait. It takes faith to wait. But this is our calling as people of God. This is our calling as Christians. To wait.

Waiting does not mean giving up or giving in. Waiting does not mean ceasing to care. Waiting is not merely passive.

We lament our distress, but we wait.

We lament the divisiveness, the envy and greed, the selfishness and licentiousness, yes, the sins of this generation and our own sins, that keep our world from being what God wills it to be, but we wait.
We pray “Thy will be done” and we do all we can to do God’s will. We do justice, we make peace, we love our neighbors and our enemies, but we do not put our hope in what we can do. We put our hope in the Lord and we wait.

As much as anything, I am distressed in these days about that state of the Christian church in America, about the failure of our Christian witness, about Christians who seem bent on seizing power for themselves and bending the world to their own will, instead of humbly seeking God’s will and putting hope and trust where it belongs, in the Lord. Every day I read stories in the national media that make me cringe, supposed Christians saying and doing horrible things in the name of Christ.

A Facebook group calls itself “Christians against the Little Mermaid.” Against the Little Mermaid! Against the actress portraying her, because she is black and certainly Christians cannot tolerate a black mermaid!

A former Senate candidate, also a self-professed Christian, praises Vladimir Putin, saying she “support[s] Putin’s right to protect his people and always put his people first, but also protect their Christian values.” Putin’s war in Ukraine is Christian? Can any war be Christian?

A Christian Senate candidate in Georgia isn’t sure that Jesus will recognize transgender children.

And any number of serving legislators openly espouse Christian nationalism: Christian nationalism, which is, in fact, an oxymoron, and more than that, is blasphemy and idolatry because it puts loyalty to nation on a par with loyalty to God. Shame!

Christians, especially Evangelicals, (which in the public mind are usually one and the same) have earned a bad name in our day, sadly all too often well-deserved. We have lost our way. I say we because Evangelicals are our Christian brothers and sisters, too. I was raised an Evangelical. I am still an Evangelical. Evangelical comes from the word evangel, which means good news, and being evangelical means being marked by “ardent or zealous enthusiasm.” Or would we rather be lukewarm and “meh” about our faith?

We have been seduced by power, thinking we can establish God’s kingdom by imposing our values on others, instead of doing what Jesus told us to do — bring God’s kingdom by serving others. We have become preoccupied with defending our own supposed religious freedoms (which no human being can take from us anyway!) instead of defending the freedom of those who are denied it.

As Evangelicals and progressives alike, we trumpet our Christian faith as a pretext for pursuing our own political agendas. We have looked into the darkness and decided morning will never come unless we bring it. We act as if we do not really believe God that will act … and maybe we don’t. And that’s the problem: not too much faith, but too little.

That’s what our critics get wrong about us. They think that faith itself is the problem, that devotion to God puts us out of touch with the real world and blinds us to the needs of our neighbors. We just need to back off, tone it down, not fill our minds with too much God stuff.

But the truth is just the opposite. It is too little faith, too little filling our minds and hearts with God stuff, that leads to a religiosity that is self-serving and judgmental, unsympathetic and bigoted. Real faith, real Christianity, faithfully following Jesus, shows itself in humility, in kindness, in empathy, in compassion, in love … in love of our neighbors, all our neighbors, and in love of God, with all our heart and all our mind and all our strength! It is a passionate love for God, above all else, that empowers our love for each other, and frees us to live, not to protect ourselves, but to live for the sake of the future God has promised. Real faith trusts God … and waits.

Wait.

Waiting makes room. Room for God and room for each other. Room enough to pay attention to the wonders, as well as the distresses, of this one day. Room enough to remember …

the Lord’s unfailing love and mercy still continue,
fresh as the morning, as sure as the sunrise.

Dawn is surely coming! Morning is breaking! The Lord will bring it.

Will you wait?

More than a dream

More than a dream

Victory disguises itself over time
Toil and trouble tarnish the sublime
Duty and drudgery dominate the mind
While once-firm beliefs inexorably unwind
And hopes and dreams are left behind
But what will be is no less certain
We only wait to raise the curtain