A Second Childhood
When all my days are ending
And I have no song to sing,
I think I shall not be too old
To stare at everything;
As I stared once at a nursery door
Or a tall tree and a swing.
Wherein God's ponderous mercy hangs
On all my sins and me,
Because He does not take away
The terror from the tree
And stones still shine along the road
That are, and cannot be.
Men grow too old for love, my love,
Men grow too old for wine,
But I shall not grow too old to see
Unearthly daylight shine,
Changing my chamber's dust to snow
Till I doubt if it be mine.
Behold, the crowning mercies melt,
The first surprises stay;
And in my dross is dropped a gift
For which I dare not pray:
That a man grow used to grief and joy
But not to night and day.
Men grow too old for love, my love,
Men grow too old for lies;
But I shall not grow too old to see
Enormous night arise,
A cloud that is larger than the world
And a monster made of eyes.
Nor am I worthy to unloose
The latchet of my shoe;
Or shake the dust from off my feet
Or the staff that bears me through
On ground that is too good to last,
Too solid to be true.
Men grow too old to woo, my love,
Men grow too old to wed:
But I shall not grow too old to see
Hung crazily overhead
Incredible rafters when I wake
And find I am not dead.
A thrill of thunder in my hair:
Though blackening clouds be plain,
Still I am stung and startled
By the first drop of the rain:
Romance and pride and passion pass
And these are what remain.
Strange crawling carpets of the grass,
Wide windows of the sky:
So in this perilous grace of God
With all my sins go I:
And things grow new though I grow old,
Though I grow old and die.
--G.K. Chesterton
Monday, May 31, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
PJ Makes the Tackle
PJ Makes the Tackle
By Courtney Rupp (Grade 6)
Grudgingly, I slurped my dinner: canned soup left for me on the stove.
As usual, my mom and dad weren't home. They never were. They are always at work, putting out some chunky soup for my dinner and leaving me alone. See, the thing is that my parents really don't care about me, or about Titan, our dog. Their single concern is work.
I trudged up to my room, Titan following at my heels. Once in my room, I heard a faint scraping sound coming from downstairs. I peeked out my bedroom door, seeing nothing. Maybe we had mice! No, we couldn’t have mice or else Titan would be barking and whining instead of resting his head lazily on my lap. I decided to ignore the noise and listen to some music. I turned on my favorite band and tried to relax but, couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. I heard a crash downstairs and instinctively leaped to my feet. Titan started barking. What was happening? Nervous sweat was breaking out on my forehead.
I ran to my phone and frantically punched in my mom’s cell phone number. No answer! Next, I tried my dad’s. Nothing but a dead beep. Now Titan was pawing and growling at the locked bedroom door, trying desperately to get to whatever was crashing around downstairs. I patted Titan’s speckled head and tried to calm him down.
“Alright boy, on three I’ll open the door and I want you to distract whatever it is that’s down there while I run and call the police from the Craig’s house.” I felt a little guilty about leaving Titan here alone, but told myself if there was another choice, I’d take it. Titan looked at me sadly with his big brown eyes as if he’d understood what I’d said. A wave of guilt washed over me and I lost my guts. Okay, no problem. Think of a new plan. Maybe mom or dad will come home soon. I hopefully checked the clock then felt the hope drain out of me. No luck with that plan, it was only 3:00 p.m. Mom and dad came home around 10:00 and there was no way I was going to stay cooped up in my room for seven hours with a possible lunatic downstairs.
The crashing had gotten louder and louder as it came closer to my room. Suddenly, all went quiet. Titan uttered a low growl. I knew what was happening. The maniac had seen my bedroom light on, put two and two together, and realized they weren’t alone in the house. They were coming closer to my door. Closer, closer, closer until they would open the door to my room and then- GULP! I didn’t want to think about that. The only thing I could think about was how I didn’t have a window in my room so I wouldn’t be able to escape there.
As I was thinking the answer hit me like a slap in the face. HIDE! I grabbed Titan by the scruff of his neck and pulled him under the bed. I gave him the hand command for ‘stay’. Now, a spot into which I could vanish! I didn’t have time to think about that because outside my door, I heard footsteps slowing to a stop, right outside my door.
I watched in fear as the doorknob turned, ever so slowly. My frozen brain was able to process only a single thought. My last chance. My final stand, and that one thought, as crazy as it sounds, was ‘football!’
As the door opened I plowed over the maniac as Titan charged furiously after me.
“Ouch! What the…, PJ!” my prisoner gasped. I removed my foot from their chest and looked down into my mother’s familiar face.
“Mom? What are you doing here?” I asked in surprise.
“I-I I quit my job to have more time with you, I was trying to cook,” she stammered as I helped her up. I felt my cheeks redden. She explained that she had missed me and couldn’t stand her job anymore so she quit. I quietly forgave her for never being here.
I just sat there, stunned. I would have agreed to anything she was saying at that point. I smiled in spite of myself as she droned on about leaving her job and wanting to spend more time with me. I thought that everything was going to be alright.
Maybe.
By Courtney Rupp (Grade 6)
Grudgingly, I slurped my dinner: canned soup left for me on the stove.
As usual, my mom and dad weren't home. They never were. They are always at work, putting out some chunky soup for my dinner and leaving me alone. See, the thing is that my parents really don't care about me, or about Titan, our dog. Their single concern is work.
I trudged up to my room, Titan following at my heels. Once in my room, I heard a faint scraping sound coming from downstairs. I peeked out my bedroom door, seeing nothing. Maybe we had mice! No, we couldn’t have mice or else Titan would be barking and whining instead of resting his head lazily on my lap. I decided to ignore the noise and listen to some music. I turned on my favorite band and tried to relax but, couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. I heard a crash downstairs and instinctively leaped to my feet. Titan started barking. What was happening? Nervous sweat was breaking out on my forehead.
I ran to my phone and frantically punched in my mom’s cell phone number. No answer! Next, I tried my dad’s. Nothing but a dead beep. Now Titan was pawing and growling at the locked bedroom door, trying desperately to get to whatever was crashing around downstairs. I patted Titan’s speckled head and tried to calm him down.
“Alright boy, on three I’ll open the door and I want you to distract whatever it is that’s down there while I run and call the police from the Craig’s house.” I felt a little guilty about leaving Titan here alone, but told myself if there was another choice, I’d take it. Titan looked at me sadly with his big brown eyes as if he’d understood what I’d said. A wave of guilt washed over me and I lost my guts. Okay, no problem. Think of a new plan. Maybe mom or dad will come home soon. I hopefully checked the clock then felt the hope drain out of me. No luck with that plan, it was only 3:00 p.m. Mom and dad came home around 10:00 and there was no way I was going to stay cooped up in my room for seven hours with a possible lunatic downstairs.
The crashing had gotten louder and louder as it came closer to my room. Suddenly, all went quiet. Titan uttered a low growl. I knew what was happening. The maniac had seen my bedroom light on, put two and two together, and realized they weren’t alone in the house. They were coming closer to my door. Closer, closer, closer until they would open the door to my room and then- GULP! I didn’t want to think about that. The only thing I could think about was how I didn’t have a window in my room so I wouldn’t be able to escape there.
As I was thinking the answer hit me like a slap in the face. HIDE! I grabbed Titan by the scruff of his neck and pulled him under the bed. I gave him the hand command for ‘stay’. Now, a spot into which I could vanish! I didn’t have time to think about that because outside my door, I heard footsteps slowing to a stop, right outside my door.
I watched in fear as the doorknob turned, ever so slowly. My frozen brain was able to process only a single thought. My last chance. My final stand, and that one thought, as crazy as it sounds, was ‘football!’
As the door opened I plowed over the maniac as Titan charged furiously after me.
“Ouch! What the…, PJ!” my prisoner gasped. I removed my foot from their chest and looked down into my mother’s familiar face.
“Mom? What are you doing here?” I asked in surprise.
“I-I I quit my job to have more time with you, I was trying to cook,” she stammered as I helped her up. I felt my cheeks redden. She explained that she had missed me and couldn’t stand her job anymore so she quit. I quietly forgave her for never being here.
I just sat there, stunned. I would have agreed to anything she was saying at that point. I smiled in spite of myself as she droned on about leaving her job and wanting to spend more time with me. I thought that everything was going to be alright.
Maybe.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Transportation by Books: An Essay
Transportation by Books
Dior Hartje (Grade 8)
Have you ever opened a book and been transported so far away that when you close the book you’re surprised to find yourself sitting at home? In this essay I’ll explore that feeling of jumping through a bookish portal by means of the imagination.
A good piece of literature produces images of the author’s experiences in real life or in the mind. Reading good literature is a way to be transported elsewhere through a magical door, or being sucked into a bookish vortex. When you read a wonderful book it becomes like a colorful blossom in your mind, bringing joy, broader experience and sometimes, clarity.
It is possible for a book to take you to the Middle East or to an underwater city. Is it foolish to conceive of a book as your passport to another planet, dimension, or time? Do you think of a book as a loyal friend?
Once you’ve accepted the passport and traveled by the imagination you may find a friend for life, or you may become hooked on an image so pleasing that you will want to gather more, like a child frolicking in a field newly bloomed.
Even a closed book can haunt you. Often one image or a single thought in a book captivates the mind forever. A lie can stay with you forever. A mystery can take hold of your mind and become an obsession. You may ponder things that don’t seem to have a resolution; mysteries that your mind struggles to grasp.
Loneliness can be helped by reading a book. Characters can become intimate acquaintances. The characters of Scripture can become real to us. They can become our friends, our companions on the road to the great golden City.
So when you are sad, alone or need a break from the daily grind, pick up a good book! Visit a new place. Befriend a loyal companion. Come home with a drastically different mood, with a changed outlook, because a book can change you as only a good book can.
Dior Hartje (Grade 8)
Have you ever opened a book and been transported so far away that when you close the book you’re surprised to find yourself sitting at home? In this essay I’ll explore that feeling of jumping through a bookish portal by means of the imagination.
A good piece of literature produces images of the author’s experiences in real life or in the mind. Reading good literature is a way to be transported elsewhere through a magical door, or being sucked into a bookish vortex. When you read a wonderful book it becomes like a colorful blossom in your mind, bringing joy, broader experience and sometimes, clarity.
It is possible for a book to take you to the Middle East or to an underwater city. Is it foolish to conceive of a book as your passport to another planet, dimension, or time? Do you think of a book as a loyal friend?
Once you’ve accepted the passport and traveled by the imagination you may find a friend for life, or you may become hooked on an image so pleasing that you will want to gather more, like a child frolicking in a field newly bloomed.
Even a closed book can haunt you. Often one image or a single thought in a book captivates the mind forever. A lie can stay with you forever. A mystery can take hold of your mind and become an obsession. You may ponder things that don’t seem to have a resolution; mysteries that your mind struggles to grasp.
Loneliness can be helped by reading a book. Characters can become intimate acquaintances. The characters of Scripture can become real to us. They can become our friends, our companions on the road to the great golden City.
So when you are sad, alone or need a break from the daily grind, pick up a good book! Visit a new place. Befriend a loyal companion. Come home with a drastically different mood, with a changed outlook, because a book can change you as only a good book can.
Friday, May 21, 2010
The American Flag: An Essay
The American Flag: A Thing of Beauty
Jordan Romain (Grade 8)
Have you walked down the streets while the stores and businesses were closing and turned to see something majestic? This something can be seen in any town on almost every street: the American flag.
In this essay I will explore the beauty and wonder of our flag. The things it has seen! The stories it could tell!
Have you noticed how the flag flaps aimlessly in the wind and then suddenly snaps in place like a soldier? It is able to command our attention.
Have you noticed how the colors never bleed together? The white, the red, the blue? Red symbolizes the wonderful soldier’s courage and their shed blood. White represents the selflessness of our soldiers, and blue stands for the vigilance of those who guard and defend our country.
Have you noticed how people salute the flag or tip their hats to show respect? They understand.
Maybe you’ve noticed that a few spit on the ground and wish to burn the flag. They don’t know what this flag symbolizes. It tells of our big country, of those who died for us, of how we became free and how we must stay free.
George Washington loved the Lord. He read Scripture every morning and night. He was such a devout Christian he would not let his army curse or take the Lord's name in vain. In 1776, Washington wrote this communiqué to his officers at Valley Forge:
The General is sorry to be informed that the foolish and wicked practice of profane cursing and swearing, a vice here to fore little known in the American Colonies, is growing into fashion. He hopes the officers will by example as well as influence endeavor to stop it, and that they and the men will reflect that we can have little hope of blessing from heaven upon our arms if we continue insult it by our impiety and folly.
The soldiers who fought for independence sacrificed so much to gain freedom from England. When we finally gained our freedom we wanted a high-flying symbol to show what we are as a people, and that symbol is the American flag.
Everyone has their own mindset on the flag and notion of freedom, but maybe not everyone takes into account all the sacrifices, all the soldiers lost, and the hope for a better future that freedom means for most Americans.
Jordan Romain (Grade 8)
Have you walked down the streets while the stores and businesses were closing and turned to see something majestic? This something can be seen in any town on almost every street: the American flag.
In this essay I will explore the beauty and wonder of our flag. The things it has seen! The stories it could tell!
Have you noticed how the flag flaps aimlessly in the wind and then suddenly snaps in place like a soldier? It is able to command our attention.
Have you noticed how the colors never bleed together? The white, the red, the blue? Red symbolizes the wonderful soldier’s courage and their shed blood. White represents the selflessness of our soldiers, and blue stands for the vigilance of those who guard and defend our country.
Have you noticed how people salute the flag or tip their hats to show respect? They understand.
Maybe you’ve noticed that a few spit on the ground and wish to burn the flag. They don’t know what this flag symbolizes. It tells of our big country, of those who died for us, of how we became free and how we must stay free.
George Washington loved the Lord. He read Scripture every morning and night. He was such a devout Christian he would not let his army curse or take the Lord's name in vain. In 1776, Washington wrote this communiqué to his officers at Valley Forge:
The General is sorry to be informed that the foolish and wicked practice of profane cursing and swearing, a vice here to fore little known in the American Colonies, is growing into fashion. He hopes the officers will by example as well as influence endeavor to stop it, and that they and the men will reflect that we can have little hope of blessing from heaven upon our arms if we continue insult it by our impiety and folly.
The soldiers who fought for independence sacrificed so much to gain freedom from England. When we finally gained our freedom we wanted a high-flying symbol to show what we are as a people, and that symbol is the American flag.
Everyone has their own mindset on the flag and notion of freedom, but maybe not everyone takes into account all the sacrifices, all the soldiers lost, and the hope for a better future that freedom means for most Americans.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Winched: A Short Short Story
Winched
By Savannah Baker (Grade 8)
Why was I was being escorted into the police interrogation room, again?
Sitting in this small windowless room again, I kept telling myself I didn’t do it! Not this time. I’m totally innocent.
I know this place well. I have made my way down these halls more than once for different reasons. But the difference between then and now is that I was guilty then, but I’m innocent now.
This time I was escorted by two officers who left me sitting me in a cold, metal chair on one side of a long, metal table. Paul - his name tag told me - left while the other one – Sam, I think - went to stand in the far corner of the room, where he watched me intently. I thought his stare would burn a hole straight through me.
I sat like this for a while. No one came or entered the room. The air was stuffy. And it annoyed me to be here for two reasons: I didn’t know why I was here and these people were wasting my time when I had things to do.
“Mr. Dylan Haves.”
I turned toward the familiar voice to see my “dear friend.” We’ve had many adventures together.
“Officer Swanski,” I said, acknowledging his presence.
“How come I’m never surprised to see you in here anymore?” He asked, taking a chair opposite me.
I grinned. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
Swanski and I became well acquainted at my previous visit. That time they tried to pin auto theft on me, but my friends got me out with a few big, well-placed lies. Before that visit, there were six other occasions to get to know Swanski.
“Okay, Dylan, enough chitchat. Let’s get down to business.”
He tossed some photos onto the table in front of me and my grin disappeared. There was a picture of a dead kid, the eight-year old boy from next door. His lifeless body sprawled on the carpet of his bedroom. There was a toy box next to his head and in his right hand he held a video game. Every photo was shot from a different angle. Every image pierced me. He was a good kid.
“You better start talking because you are about to be charged with murder.”
I jumped from the seat.
“What? Are you serious? I never touched the kid.”
“Take a seat, Mr. Haves. Just answer my questions. Where were you last night?”
“I was hanging out with friends.”
Swanski placed a gun in a plastic bag on the table in front of him. I could see the gun and I knew it was mine.
“Why did you kill him?”
“I didn’t! You have to believe me.”
“That’s funny, cause your prints are the only ones on the weapon.”
“You know it’s my gun. But I didn’t kill him. Honest, I didn’t.”
Just then the door opened and in walked the cell guard and Dylan’s state-appointed attorney, Ted Bennet.
“Mr. Haves, don’t say another word! I’ll take it from here.
Swanski turned to the guard and said, “Take him back to the cell.”
The guard pulled me up by the arm and led me away.
The public defender was the first to speak.
“We’ve got him this time, Swanki. Did you see the fear in his face?”
“Scared enough to confess to a slew of lesser crimes and to name the real killer. I like it!”
“I’ll visit him tomorrow and crank up the fear. Tell him that this charge is likely to hold.”
The men shook hands.
“Nice doing business with you, Ted.
By Savannah Baker (Grade 8)
Why was I was being escorted into the police interrogation room, again?
Sitting in this small windowless room again, I kept telling myself I didn’t do it! Not this time. I’m totally innocent.
I know this place well. I have made my way down these halls more than once for different reasons. But the difference between then and now is that I was guilty then, but I’m innocent now.
This time I was escorted by two officers who left me sitting me in a cold, metal chair on one side of a long, metal table. Paul - his name tag told me - left while the other one – Sam, I think - went to stand in the far corner of the room, where he watched me intently. I thought his stare would burn a hole straight through me.
I sat like this for a while. No one came or entered the room. The air was stuffy. And it annoyed me to be here for two reasons: I didn’t know why I was here and these people were wasting my time when I had things to do.
“Mr. Dylan Haves.”
I turned toward the familiar voice to see my “dear friend.” We’ve had many adventures together.
“Officer Swanski,” I said, acknowledging his presence.
“How come I’m never surprised to see you in here anymore?” He asked, taking a chair opposite me.
I grinned. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
Swanski and I became well acquainted at my previous visit. That time they tried to pin auto theft on me, but my friends got me out with a few big, well-placed lies. Before that visit, there were six other occasions to get to know Swanski.
“Okay, Dylan, enough chitchat. Let’s get down to business.”
He tossed some photos onto the table in front of me and my grin disappeared. There was a picture of a dead kid, the eight-year old boy from next door. His lifeless body sprawled on the carpet of his bedroom. There was a toy box next to his head and in his right hand he held a video game. Every photo was shot from a different angle. Every image pierced me. He was a good kid.
“You better start talking because you are about to be charged with murder.”
I jumped from the seat.
“What? Are you serious? I never touched the kid.”
“Take a seat, Mr. Haves. Just answer my questions. Where were you last night?”
“I was hanging out with friends.”
Swanski placed a gun in a plastic bag on the table in front of him. I could see the gun and I knew it was mine.
“Why did you kill him?”
“I didn’t! You have to believe me.”
“That’s funny, cause your prints are the only ones on the weapon.”
“You know it’s my gun. But I didn’t kill him. Honest, I didn’t.”
Just then the door opened and in walked the cell guard and Dylan’s state-appointed attorney, Ted Bennet.
“Mr. Haves, don’t say another word! I’ll take it from here.
Swanski turned to the guard and said, “Take him back to the cell.”
The guard pulled me up by the arm and led me away.
__________________________________
The public defender was the first to speak.
“We’ve got him this time, Swanki. Did you see the fear in his face?”
“Scared enough to confess to a slew of lesser crimes and to name the real killer. I like it!”
“I’ll visit him tomorrow and crank up the fear. Tell him that this charge is likely to hold.”
The men shook hands.
“Nice doing business with you, Ted.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Nieto: A Short Story in Spanish
By Ana Padgett (Grade 12)
Nieto suspiró. Estaba agitado mientras sus padres manejaron lejos de la granja de los abuelos.
“¡Nos gusta que estés aquí!” dijo Abuela.
“Sí. Estás aquí a tiempo para ayudarme,” añadió Abuelo.
Nieto no supo lo que Abuelo estaba pensando, pero no estaba emocionado de estar aqui con las ovejas durante diez días. Miró al camino sucio una vez mas. No pudo ver el coche de su familia.
Con desgana, él seguió sus abuelos y entró en la casa pequeña. En la distancia, el vio las ovejas blancas y lanudas.
Esa noche, Abuelo y Abuela iban a dormir temprano.
“Debes dormir también, Nieto,” Abuela aconejó.
“Trabajamos temprano en la mañana,” dijo Abuelo.
¿Trabajo temprano? Nieto quería dormir tarde, pero se acostó sin quejas. Unos minutes pasaron, y el oyó el gallo canta en voz alta. ¿Ya es la mañana? El vio el reloj y sólo era las 2:45 en la mañana. ¡Que gallo loco! Nieto cerró los ojos otra vez.
A las cinco y media, él se despertó de nuevo.
“!Nieto, te despiertes!” llamó Abuela. “El desayuno está listo.”
Tropezando en las escaleras a causa de la falta de sueño, Nieto entró en la cocina y encontró un desayuno caliente en la mesa. Abuelo se sentaba en su silla. Después de comer, Nieto estuvo cansado, pero el seguió su Abuelo hasta el granero.
En el granero todo era peor. El gallo loco cantaba todavía. Cuando Nieto fue a dar el grano a las ovejas, ellas lo empujaron en el lodo. Se levantó y comenzó a arreglar su ropa.
Abuelo quería dar las vacunaciones a doce ovejas jovenes. Fue una tarea difícil porque Nieto no podia agarrarlas. Unas ovejas escaparon de él. Por eso Abuelo tenía que hacer la mayoría del trabajo.
Pero lo peor era que Nieto tenía que quitar la suciedad con una pala. ¡Que lio maloliente!
Cuando llega la hora del almuerzo, Nieto estaba muy cansado. Cuando salió del granero, una oveja puso la cabeza por la cerca. Indeciso, Nieto tocó la suave cabeza y la oveja cerró los ojos felizmente. Nieto rió. Ya tuvo un amigo.
Por primera vez desde habia llegado al campo, Nieto estaba contento pensando en las posibilidades. Ya hacía planes gloriosos. Al fin y al cabo, estos días en la granja no serían una tragedia.
English Translation
Grandson sighed. He was upset while his parents drove away from his grandparents’ farm.
“We are glad that you are here!” said Grandma.
“Yes. You're here in time to help me," Grandpa added..
Nieto did not know what Grandpa had in mind, but knew that he was not excited to be on the sheep farm for ten days. With one last glance down the dirt drive way, he followed his grandparents into their small cottage. In the distance he could see wooly white sheep.
That night, Grandfather and Grandmother went to bed early.
“You’d better turn in too, Nieto.” Abuela warned.
“Work starts early in the morning.”
Work…early! Nieto had been planning on sleeping in and relaxing during his visit! Being an obedient grandson, he went to bed quickly. After a few minutes, he heard the rooster singing loudly. Was it morning? Looking sleepily at his alarm clock, Nieto saw that it was only 2:45 a.m.! Crazy rooster! He closed his eyes.
At 5:30 he woke up again.
“Rise and shine sweety!” Grandma sang.
“Breakfast is ready!”
Stumbling out of bed, Nieto made it to the kitchen where a hot breakfast was already on the table. Grandpa was sitting in his chair. After eating, Nieto was tired, but followed Grandpa to the barn.
In the barn, things started to get worse. The crazy rooster was still crowing. Grandpa wanted to give twelve lambs their vaccinations, but it ws difficult for Nieto to grab them. Some sheep got away from. Because of this Grandfather had to do most of the work.
But the worst was that Nieto had to shovel the manure. What a greasy, smelly mess!
By lunchtime, Nieto was very tired. Just as he was leaving the barn, one of the sheep put his head through the fence. Hesitantly, Nieto reached touched his soft head. The sheep closed his eyes happily. Nieto smiled. He already had a freind.
For the first time since he had arrived in the country, Nieto felt happy thinking about the possibilities. He was already making great plans. After all was said and done, these ten days on the farm might not be so bad after all.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Poem: Tewa Snowfall Prayer
Tewa Feast Day
Ezekiel 34:11-16
Windless dawn settles white smoke
Over hillsides, spread smooth, untracked
New woven coverings, a Tewa snowfall prayer.
The People stand, wrapped in warm striped Pueblo blankets,
Quiet as wool breath, as sheep which steam
Cloud the waiting chill daybreak sky.
Row of drummers remain silent;
Line of chanters stand still, face East
Until morning light speaks color, until sun comes
As signal fire & only then begins the drum beat, begins
Sacred chant, begins an invocation welcoming
This Feast.
Grey break, sun hovers,
Anticipates some hush-found answer,
Bright response to persistent prayer beat,
Expectant bird song summons morning rhythms,
Calls all to join the People, celebrating this
Day which honors home.
One by one, crested antlers come,
Curve over twin adobe hilltops, mighty elk,
Playful antelope, valiant deer, big horned sheep, shaggy buffalo
All come to feast, dance slowly, sing down
Snowy hillsides, all come to bless
& be blessed.
Matushka Elizabeth Perdomo
23 January 2001 ~ 7 AM
Pueblo de San Ildefonso, New Mexico
Feast day of Patron San Ildefonso
Bishop & Confessor who lived in Spain from 600 – 667 AD
Thursday, May 6, 2010
A Lament
The lament developed along with heroic poetry and is found in every culture. Examples include Deor's Lament, an early Anglo-Saxon poem in which a minstrel regrets his change of status in relation to his patron, and the ancient Sumerian Lament for the Destruction of Ur, which complains of the abandonment of the Sumerian cities and temples by the deities.
A lament is a poetic expression of sorrow, discouragement or anger after experiencing a loss. The next poem is a lament in the tradition of the Psalms, that is, it is addressed to God from a heart of faith.
Lament
I walk in the valley overshadowed
By death
And I am scared.
I call out to you
But I don’t feel your Presence.
I need a hug, God.
Where are you?
I ask for forgiveness
But it seems distant,
Like you, Lord.
Grant a sign to show you love me!
After 1000 falls
Lift me up!
Why do you not hear me, Lord?
--Jordan Romain (Grade 8)
A lament is a poetic expression of sorrow, discouragement or anger after experiencing a loss. The next poem is a lament in the tradition of the Psalms, that is, it is addressed to God from a heart of faith.
Lament
I walk in the valley overshadowed
By death
And I am scared.
I call out to you
But I don’t feel your Presence.
I need a hug, God.
Where are you?
I ask for forgiveness
But it seems distant,
Like you, Lord.
Grant a sign to show you love me!
After 1000 falls
Lift me up!
Why do you not hear me, Lord?
--Jordan Romain (Grade 8)
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Poem: Texas Hill Country
Hill Country Highway
Recorded time:
set in stark sediment; framed
in limestone ribbons; bold colored layers
which track highway carved asphalt
of I-10 Hill Country interstate.
Primal questions sit
silent, lost
in harsh Texas sun
seen day by day eroding
in cedar topped & fragile soil lines
crumbling into our own
hot dust; rain bursts;
sun burnt minds
giving us
even fewer answers;
all reasonable speculations long licked
salt dry. Ocean beds, ancient shell
curves spiral into gold & ochre
stripes which wax & wane
over now silent
shorelines,
rough cliffs & cañon sides
stare where dark turkey vultures
glide, prowl for hopeful outcomes.
Still, we drive on. Not overawed nor perturbed
by this audacious witness, our faces now
gaze homeward towards some
south border destiny.
June 19, 2009 ~ Friday Early Afternoon
I 10 East, between Kerrville and San Antonio
This poem was written on the last day of a summer road trip and pilgrimage taken by my three daughters and I. Six weeks and 6,500 miles together in a small car, we were definitely headed home.
Recorded time:
set in stark sediment; framed
in limestone ribbons; bold colored layers
which track highway carved asphalt
of I-10 Hill Country interstate.
Primal questions sit
silent, lost
in harsh Texas sun
seen day by day eroding
in cedar topped & fragile soil lines
crumbling into our own
hot dust; rain bursts;
sun burnt minds
giving us
even fewer answers;
all reasonable speculations long licked
salt dry. Ocean beds, ancient shell
curves spiral into gold & ochre
stripes which wax & wane
over now silent
shorelines,
rough cliffs & cañon sides
stare where dark turkey vultures
glide, prowl for hopeful outcomes.
Still, we drive on. Not overawed nor perturbed
by this audacious witness, our faces now
gaze homeward towards some
south border destiny.
June 19, 2009 ~ Friday Early Afternoon
I 10 East, between Kerrville and San Antonio
This poem was written on the last day of a summer road trip and pilgrimage taken by my three daughters and I. Six weeks and 6,500 miles together in a small car, we were definitely headed home.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
A Spring "Haikuplex"
A conversation about haiku and writers block under a roof resounding with hard rain led to this set of four interconnected haiku, thus titled as a haikuplex.
Spring Haikuplex
The rain coming down,
pounding on the roof above:
the poet’s pen runs dry.
The poet’s pen runs dry;
always in his heart are dreams:
words refuse to flow.
Words refuse to flow,
pictures still buried so deep:
buried and yet unsaid.
Buried and yet unsaid
are the pictures never drawn:
of rain coming down.
ed pacht
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