God in Hand

Communion


Lying in my palm,
the coming of a holy Presence
to fill my life with love,
lying in my palm
to save me from myself,
the feeding of a hungry soul:
lying in my palm.


 By Ed Pacht

Receiving the consecration wafer in one's right hand is a very old custom. Ephrem the Syrian invites the Christian communicant to feel awe at what is received in his or her hand, since even the Seraph did not take the divine coal with his hand, nor did the prophet Isaiah eat it (Isa 6:6). The divine coal is a common image of the Eucharist in Syrian theology.

Life Beyond the Grave?

Is there life beyond the grave? Isn't this one of the most important questions a person can ask? Ed Pacht's poem explores this and asks another important question: "When I am beyond the grave, have I left the ongoing story of this life? Is there more to my story in the here and now?"

Ed writes, "I am in many ways an expression of the earthly lives of my Yankee Puritan and German Lutheran ancestors, and though they have presumably entered eternal life, their earthly story simply has not ended."

The End

The end:
“…lived happily ever after,”
but did they?
Was that the end?
Does ‘ever after’ ever end?
Ah, yes, perhaps it does.

The end:
obituary:
the final end,
or is it?
Does life cease?
Is the story then complete?
Or is there more to tell?
Do the living still go on?
Is there a tale beyond the grave?
Infinity never stops,
never stops,
never ends.

The end:
a name upon a stone,
and dates,
perhaps a line of text,
in a quiet place where others lie.
Is it the end?
Is this all there is to say?

Or does a tale begin,
a quest,
a search for what has gone before?
What brought this person to this place?
What joys and pains are in this tale?
What of this life still now goes on?
What of the works this one has done,
the progeny that have been left behind,
the thoughts that he or she then thought,
or the beauty of the place we see?

Ah, has this story now been ended,
or has it only just begun?
Beginning, middle, ending of a tale,
not so clearly separate as we thought,
but this brings this poem to completion,
and now this truly is the end,
or is it?

ed pacht
11 May 2016

Related reading: Stories Don't Hold Still

Stories Don't Hold Still

I found the following essay by Ed Pacht to be thought provoking. When it comes to story endings, some people prefer to be left hanging because this allows the mind to explore the possibilities. As Ed Pacht reminds us, "Stories don't hold still..."

Often the novel's ending disappoints because it seems disconnected from what came before, or what came before has not been sufficiently explored by the author.

The task of  Biblical Anthropology is to pull back the veil of time and track antecedents, like the ancestors of Abraham.  Who were they?  Where did they live, what did they believe? Such investigation usually reveals that there is a connection between what those people believed about the end and the New Testament writings about the end. The New Testament writers make it clear that even that story doesn't hold still.

There is His glorious appearing, the final judgment, a marriage feast, and an eternal kingdom of peace. Sorrow will be no more and every tear will be wiped away. And that is only the beginning.-- Alice C. Linsley

Ed explains that, "The essay came from having read a review of a story I haven’t read which begins with the words, “The End.” What is the end? What is the beginning? Just exactly what it the now? Yes, the Bible and Christian tradition take a linear view of time, but this has to be seen in the light of One who created time itself and stands entirely outside of it."

The End

The end. Is that any way to begin a story? Shouldn’t a story have a beginning and a middle before it gets to the end? That’s what you and I have always been taught. It’s what we’ve always believed. It’s the way life is, or is it?

Well, there is always a beginning, but we don’t always know how the story begins. In fact, when we think we know the beginning, there’s always another beginning further back, and another before that one, all the way back to the beginning of everything that is; and even that is not the real beginning, for the infinity from which everything came has no beginning at all. Furthermore, if we do think we know the beginning of something, that may be all that we will ever know, and, so far as we can see, this beginning is the end of the tale.

So, it seems as though, whatever story we are telling, we’re really jumping into the middle of it, no matter where we start; and, you know, trying too hard to start at the beginning can get us so bogged down that we never manage to tell our story at all. And when we have begun our tale in the middle of the action, well, this is like life, isn’t that the way it is? We seldom really know how things started, and can’t really know how they’ll turn out, but here we are, right in the middle, where the action is really happening. We are taught, probably rightly, that a good work of fiction ties up loose ends and comes to a conclusion, but that really isn’t how life works at all, and sometimes a tale just has to leave the reader hanging in the middle of events.

Which brings us back to where we started: the end. Well, yes, every story will have an end. The writer or teller will eventually stop. Will it be an obvious ending? Will the ends be tied up and the plot resolved? Perhaps so, but life is not like that. There’s always more, and rarely do we understand the implications of what has gone on, rarely do we know where it will lead; and often what we see as the end of the tale may be all that we will ever see, the whole story in itself, so far as we can know it, or it may indeed be the very beginning of the tale we hear, leading us to look back to the middle and even the beginning of it all.

Stories don’t hold still for the pattern we want to put on them. They develop a life of their own and our efforts to force them where they don’t want to go can make them wooden or confused.

ed pacht
11 May 2016

The Precious Wood

I found this poem by Ed Pacht very moving and beautiful. It is one of a number of poems he has written that were inspired by the Cocheco River and by Hanson Pines Pubic Park. Ed was walking in the Pines and came across a dead tree. It was hollow and riddled with holes. The shape and image intrigued him and he paused to contemplate it, when he saw motion. It was a grey squirrel poking its head out of various holes and suddenly appearing at the tip of a presumably hollow branch. The image came instantly.

Hiding Place

Ah, the precious wood
to which a sinner flees,
oh, the precious wood
on which the Savior hung,
ah the great salvation
wrought upon that tree,
O my Jesus, hide me,
set this sinner free.

--ed pacht

A Hard Lent

March 25 is the Feast of the Annunciation for Orthodox, Anglicans, and Roman Catholics. The story of the Feast of the Annunciation is found in Luke 1:26-39.

Mary said, “Be it unto me according to thy will,” and then, in the famous words of the Magnificat, she said, “My soul doth magnify the Lord…”

 
It is often difficult to say either or both of these things, or to mean them when we say them. The Spirit reminds us that our yearnings are resolved only in the Holy One, and our desires fulfilled only in His plan for us. 

Lent is our spiritual reset button. Our mortality is impressed upon us. Our frailness recognized. This is a time to submit anew to the Triune God and whisper praises for the comfort God speaks to our hearts as we struggle to repent. 

Ed Pacht explores the hardness of a Lent formally or informally observed in this poem.


It Has Been …

A hard Lent,
a thoughtful Lent,
a less than pious Lent,
with less time in church,
less formal prayer,
less meditative reading
than in other Lents,
but with a sharpened knowledge
of the weakness of the spirit,
and the frailness of the body,
and the shortness of the time
that one is given on the earth –
it is a Lent of sickness,
of myself and others around me;
a Lent where death is near
and several die around me,
where sickness in a church
brings changes that seem wrong
but have descended willy-nilly on it;
a Lent of laws that work injustice,
of discouragement and near despair,
of depression, but of hope:
for behind the negativity of life
there is the hand of God,
there is the gateway of the cross,
there is a pathway from the trials of this life
that surely leads unto the throne of God;
there is a will to good I cannot see,
to glories never to be seen with eyes,
to a presence seldom fully realized,
but never absent from a Christian’s life;
and in the hardness of this Lent,
in the midst of burdens I can’t really bear,
at the heart of all my unhappiness,
I give thanks:
for God is good,
His goodness never fails,
and even now I walk and dwell
in the arms of One who’ll never let me go.

-ed pacht


Related reading: John Donne's Annunciation

Waiting for the Spring Rains

Ask the LORD for rain in the springtime; it is the LORD who makes the storm clouds. He gives showers of rain to men, and plants of the field to everyone. (Zechariah 10:1)

Rain

Falling wetly from the sky,
a weeping from the One who cares
to cleanse and heal a messed up world,
falling wetly from the sky,
to show the world His deep compassion,
a calling to the badly broken,
falling wetly from the sky.

-----ed pacht

Wise Men Follow: A poem by Ed Pacht

Alice,

Thank you for posting Chesterton’s poem on the Wise Men. I was not familiar with this one. Three of his couplets became the framework for this piece.  The three italicized couplets are from his poem.

Wise Men Follow

We are the three wise men of yore,

    And we know all things but truth.

And so it is with humankind,

who standing tall on two strong legs,

thinking thoughts with one strong brain,

and reaching out with wondrous hands

to grasp what we can never grasp,

think that we have found the truth,

have seen the way,

begun to comprehend what is,

but have not.

We think we know,

or that we can think it out,

and plumb the depths of this creation,

and decide ourselves what is best to do,

but, though we’ve partaken of that tree,

and have thought by it to be like God,

and, though we bear His holy image,

we are not God,

nor shall we ever be,

nor can we really know the truth,

unless we know the One who is the Truth.

The way is all so very plain

    That we may lose the way.

What we have understood,

figured out and comprehended

is what WE have understood,

figured out and comprehended

in the limits of our finite mind,

having tasted of the tree of knowledge,

that fools us into thinking we are God.

We are not,

and in the finitude of our mind

we think we know the way,

and since our mind is not the mind of God,

we lose the way and fall into destruction,

unless we let ourselves be led by Him,

who is the Truth and has prepared the way.

So very simple is the road,

    That we may stray from it.

Simple is the road:

it is the road that He provides

through Him who is Himself the Way,

who is the Truth, who is the Life,

and if we try to bend the way

to meet our untrue understanding,

we shall surely wander into darkness,

and in confusion fail to reach the goal.

But His sure and simple guidance leads us

to the infant King who comes to save us,

and with him through the Cross and empty tomb

to the everlasting City of our God.

-ed pacht

2015 Random Word Poetry Contest Winner

This year's winner, Ed Pacht, is from New Hampshire. Ed, a frequent contributor to this blog, has written:

Poetry is a calling. As a Christian, I consider it a sacred calling, an expression of something other than earthly. I consider this true even when, as is the case in most of these poems, the subject matter is not religious at all.

A poem represents a stepping aside from ordinariness, a suspension of the usual way of thinking, an entrance into a realm of words that point to what is beyond words. I find this to be true even in the most trivial of my poems. Even when I am making a bad pun, I find that I am not seeing as I usually see, nor thinking as I usually think. And then there are poems that speak of deep things I can barely imagine, and these too arise from extraordinary ways of thinking.

Ed used all the required words and met the guidelines for this Random Word Poetry Contest. Here is his winning poem:

Merchant-Boy’s Despair

by Ed Pacht

In the southern sky flashes a clear light

amidst oily-seeming black and churning clouds

that threaten those whose course must pass beneath.

The merchant’s son has been entrusted with a task:

to lead his father’s caravan through this gloomy land

in pursuit of the scent of gold to place upon his scales.

Beneath the lowering canopy above the merchant band

they press on, encouraged by the luminous glow,

attracted by the wealth of the newly settled lands.

Their traveling clothes are patched in many places,

and their faces are mere masks of dead emotion,

no speck of joy revealed as they push on and on.

When at last they have reached to their objective,

a clipped, unfriendly voice conveys the wrenching news

that their rival has arrived some days before them,

and there’s no trade left, no business they can do,

and they so sadly must press on further southward

underneath the threatening cloud-filled skies.

Poet Ed Pacht performing his original poetry at the Exeter Town Hall, New Hampshire

Ed has an inviting manner and expresses himself in a transparent way. He reads his own work and also Chandler Hamby's "Screaming Fire" which was published here.


Other poems by Ed Pacht

Spoiled Milk
In the Wildness of My Soul
Thumbs Mightier Than Fear
The Love Soaked Road
Go Ye Into the City
Fire Screaming in the Sky
Pain Like Broken Bones
A Really Big Party
Mass of the Visitation
Lament for the Hills
Reflections on Screaming Fire
The Rose
Spoiled Milk
Why Do I Write?
Acrostic for Hannah Mulliken
Leah's Burden
Ed Pacht Captures Mickey Blue Eyes
Novum Ordo
From Random to Reason
Jesus and the Concrete Jungle
Belshazzar's Wall
My Party
Ghosties

In the Wildness of My Soul

Sin, like the tall trees in the forest, has kept me from feeling God’s light. I am getting cold in the shadows, and God is calling me to make the clearing that I’ve needed for so long.
-------Amy Bridges' Lenten meditation

The following poem was written by New Hampshire poet Ed Pacht after reading Amy Bridges' Lenten meditation.


In the Wildness of My Soul

In me,
in the wildness of my soul,
the seeds of sin were planted.
In me,
in the wildness of my soul,
the seeds took root and grew.
In me,
in the wildness of my soul,
the trees grew up and spread their branches.
In me,
in the wildness of my soul,
the growing sin has blocked the sunlight,
and the shadows take the place of warmth,
and I am growing cold.
The gloom of darkness chills my soul.
In me,
the Gardner’s voice is calling,
in me,
a summons to a change of life,
to a clearing of a tiny place of welcome
in me,
where He will open up the forest
in me,
where warmth and light and mercy enter,
in me.

Ed Pacht on Poetry as a Calling

Ed Pacht, a frequent contributor to this blog, has written:

Poetry is a calling. As a Christian, I consider it a sacred calling, an expression of something other than earthly. I consider this true even when, as is the case in most of these poems, the subject matter is not religious at all.

A poem represents a stepping aside from ordinariness, a suspension of the usual way of thinking, an entrance into a realm of words that point to what is beyond words. I find this to be true even in the most trivial of my poems. Even when I am making a bad pun, I find that I am not seeing as I usually see, nor thinking as I usually think. And then there are poems that speak of deep things I can barely imagine, and these too arise from extraordinary ways of thinking.


Ed Pacht's poems

Go Ye Into the City
Fire Screaming in the Sky
Pain Like Broken Bones
A Really Big Party
Mass of the Visitation
Lament for the Hills
Reflections on Screaming Fire
The Rose
Spoiled Milk
Why Do I Write?
Acrostic for Hannah Mulliken
Leah's Burden
Love-Soaked Road
Ed Pacht Captures Mickey Blue Eyes
Novum Ordo
From Random to Reason
Jesus and the Concrete Jungle
Thumbs Migthier Than Fear

Belshazzar's Wall
My Party
Ghosties

Thumbs Mightier Than Fear

I attend have an annual Teen reading with multiple students from local high schools, and there is some really good writing being brought forward. I’m attaching a piece I wrote at one of those events that should be encouraging to kids with stage fright. (I was one for sure – so very long ago – terrified to stand up before my peers – so I ended up as a preacher and performance poet. Go figure.) Anyhow, all the scheduled readers had read and the moderator was just about to close the meeting when one lad, urged by his girlfriend, raised his hand and asked to read. He’d been thumbing madly into his phone all during the evening, and bravely stood up to read a compelling piece about being afraid to read, but yet wanting to write and be heard. That grabbed me and I had to write as soon as I got home. I think you’ll like this one.

ed pacht

Thumbs Mightier Than Fear

Afraid,
afraid of speaking out,
afraid of what they’ll think,
afraid of what I’ll say,
just afraid –
I don’t trust myself,
not my thoughts, not my words,
and I don’t trust those others here,
afraid to be called a fool,
afraid to be a fool;
and I don’t want to speak,
but yes, I do,
I want to be up there,
but I cannot.
will not,
but …
I can write:
I do have thoughts inside;
I do have words inside;
my thoughts and words are pressing hard,
and must come out, must be said,
and so I write.
From my head,
through my thumbs,
on this screen,
I write,
and write,
and write –
and there they are:
my thoughts,
my words,
the things I need to say,
and I will say them,
up there,
to you,
afraid, yet brave,
my demons left behind,
denied,
defeated,
and I speak!

Jesus and the concrete jungle

The following poem reminds me of Jesus' business in Jerusalem and His lament over than city which welcomed Him at His triumphal entrance on Palm Sunday, and within days, condemned Him to die on a cross.



Go Ye Into the City


Behind me.
over my shoulder,
look upon it,
think upon it,
the moon hangs low,
and seems to scrape the peaks,
of mountains men have built
where there were none,
where once a forest grew,
and beasts roamed
and fed upon the lesser beasts,
where the hunted were the prey,
and hunters had control.
Look upon them,
the lights upon the darkened mountains,
where not much has really changed:
among the manmade mountains
the beasts still roam,
and feed upon the lesser beasts,
and the hunters and the prey are men.
Look at me.
Look in my eyes,
as I take leave to enter destiny,
to walk the path prepared for me,
 to step into the concrete jungle,
to be prey,
to be devoured,
to seem to lose,
to do my father's business,
and in what seems to be defeat
to win,
to enter into the hearts of men,
some men,
those who will receive,
to change those hearts,
to make the concrete jungle bloom.

--ed pacht

The Deeper Mysteries of Halloween

Halloween originated as a Christian holy day (holiday) called the "Eve of All Saints" or "All Hollows Eve." The evening of October 31 was the first time that the feast of remembrance of all Saints could be celebrated in the churches. November 1 is the Feast day of All Saints, but just as Christmas celebrations begin on Christmas Eve, so All Saints begins on All Saints Eve.

The following poem, by Ed Pacht, is dramatic and evocative. It takes the form of a Litany and speaks of the deeper mysteries of Halloween. The secularization of Halloween has caused people to lose the original meaning of this Christian holiday. Traditonally, this is the time of the year when all those who had died are remembered by name during the service and thanks offered for their lives. In the earliest days of Christianity many who had died that year were martyred for their faith; some crucified, some beheaded, and some burned alive.

Today Halloween is a cheap fall festivity. It is about costumed children going from door to door, asking for treats. It has been used also as an excuse to damage property and disrespect tradition.

Ghosties

From ghosties and ghoulies and

things that go bump in the night,

good Lord, deliver us.

In the darkness of the night,

in fevered imagination of troubled mind,

in nightmare dream of restless sleep,

in waking terror of fearful heart,

evil takes form, and flesh of a sort, and walks.

Incarnate, as it were, in the world of men, it walks,

and, walking, works its ills, and cursing brings

along the path its blackened steps have trod.

From ghosties and ghoulies and

things that go bump in the night,

good Lord, deliver us.

In the minds of men are many monsters,

many terrifying evil creatures, calling, crawling,

running, flying, dead, undying,

squeezing, seizing, captivating

those who fall afoul of their devices.

Fairies foul are chasing children, 

choosing that they may be changelings;

Sirens sweetly singing summon sailors to their death;

Ghosts inhabit houses where they once drew breath;

and Voodoo dead, as Zombies, walk upon the earth.

Trolls beneath the bridges, Yeti upon the ridges,

and in the forests hungry lurk in packs 

the men made wolves,

and worst of all, with piercing fangs 

in dark of night there walk,

or fly on leather batlike wing and seek warm humankind

to drink and drain from them life's blood and terrify

the ones yet living who believe 

that Vampires truly are.

From ghosties and ghoulies and

things that go bump in the night,

good Lord, deliver us.

Graven in stone in old cathedrals,

penned in ancient manuscripts,

carved in wood for illustrations,

described in words in countless books,

there are the countless kinds of demons,

filling Hell, o'erflowing to the earth,

in the ugliness of every evil to be seen,

tricking, tempting, fouling all that will

allow the Devil's hosts to have a place

and ultimately to destroy.

From ghosties and ghoulies and

things that go bump in the night,

good Lord, deliver us.

And, O my friend, if thou believest 

that this fearsomeness is real,

and that these terrors stalk the night,

and by this truth is justified thy fright;

or if thou doubtest what hath been said,

and refusest that thou walk'st in dread;

then, friend, thou must now ope thine eyes,

behold what lies beneath the skies,

and see the horrors seen by God on high,

the greatest horrors that are most nigh,

for the fearsome evil in thee doth lie,

and of that evil doth the spirit die.

   

From ghosties and ghoulies and

things that go bump in the night,

good Lord, deliver us.

Far darker than the thoughts of men,

more evil than the things that might have been,

the darkest evil can be found within

thy heart where dwells the curse of sin,

a horror to the God above,

a deep offense to holy love,

convincing thee that it is right

to see thy brother's faults as blight,

worse by far than thine own life,

for he is weaker in the strife

than thou,

and thou by deep and dark and hidden lie

hast by devil's voice been made the measure,

choosing some for trash and some for treasure,

knowing not the everlasting love of Him

for thee

and he

and all who have to darkness fallen,

bit by ancient horrid curse, condemned,

and doomed,

and justly earning full damnation

such as thou dost fully merit

and eternal death thou shouldst inherit.

From ghosties and ghoulies and

things that go bump in the night,

and from fearsome darkness deep within,

good Lord, deliver us.

Yet, my friend, He hath delivered,

as His holy Blood outpoured,

and upon the Rood His Body

with one final breath expired.

There in death he tasted to the fullest

all that thou and I deserved,

buried, broke the bonds of prison,

and triumphant leads the way,

reaching out to all that follow

a glorified, yet nail scarred hand.

Yes, my friend, he conquered horrors

and the terrors no more reign,

and, when asked, hath sins forgiven,

and for Him no sin so great

exists that stops redemption,

save one,

self-righteousness.

--Ed Pacht

Ed Pacht Reading Poetry

Poet Ed Pacht performing his original poetry at the Exeter Town Hall, New Hampshire

Ed has an inviting manner and expresses himself in a transparent way.  He reads his own work and also Chandler Hamby's "Screaming Fire" which was published here.

Ed Pacht's Novel is Out

Read all about it here.


Price: $18.00

 

 

A fantasy loosely grounded in Medieval England concerning an order of friars based in a parallel world who are much involved in the social struggles of the time. There is an element of mystery involving time travel and the delivery of manuscripts to the author in various New England locations by a pair of friars from that alternate world.

Cheese Poem Winners

On January 12, 2012, I put out a challenge to respond to this quote: "Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese." --G.K. Chesterson.


The winners are Ed Pacht, Hope Rapson and Jordan Romain (Grade 10).

Ed Pacht sent his submission with this note, "Chesterton may or may not have realized the effect his words would have, but they have often been taken as a challenge, and I have seen a number of poems about cheese from a variety of poets, all responding to him. This is my second such piece."


Spoiled Milk

Spoiled milk is what it is,
emulsion broken, gone to pot,
curdled in an ugly mess,
ready, one would think to be disposed,
garbage, maybe fit for pigs,
but not for drink,
not for stirring in a drink,
or pouring on a bowl of grains,
or making smooth white sauce.
Spoiled, wasted, gone, or is it?
Like so many lives that seem destroyed,
that seem beyond all hope,
beyond redemption or reclaim,
wasted, to be forgot,
the future of spoiled milk still remains,
it has a place, it has a use,
and promises to be a blessing,
if one will squeeze it tight,
if one will form it right,
and with patience let it rot,
the right way,
in the right place,
with the right bacteria within,
with a growth of proper mold,
and that which now may be disgusting,
under treatment so repulsive,
after time becomes delight:
Cheddar, Feta, Ementhaler full of holes,
Edam, Gouda, fragrant Camembert,
Roquefort, Stilton and the many blues,
countless wonders of bad milk redeemed;
and like the patient expert chef of cheese,
there is One that looks upon the broken lives,
the spoiled and rotten spirits on this earth,
without condemning, seeing promise,
and does the work with patient loving-kindness,
to turn disaster into sheer delight
that He might enjoy in His domain
forever.

--ed pacht

Pepper Jack

Please be nimble, please be quick!

Pepper Jack jalapeno dip

Melted on tacos or tostadas,

With hot tamales and enchiladas.

Oh, the surging warmth of spiced delight…

I mean the heartburn late tonight!

--Hope Rapson

Melting Minds

Come, writing teachers, stand alone!
Oozing, curdling, firming tone
Gouda comments, cheddar snips
Bland mozzarella quips
Havarti cubes, holey slicing
Pressing sharp to soft, enticing
Maturation from wordy bunk
Crumbs, layers, and misused chunk
Cheesing composition students
To form foam to hard evidence
So when Truth and Beauty combine
They can age in circles, flavored by time.
Oh, to defeat the meaningless shred
To protect melting, dipping minds ahead!
Not leaving the cheese to stand alone,
Come, writing teachers, seize the throne!

--Hope Rapson

 

Crumbling World

What is our world coming to?

Humanity crumbles like soft feta.

Earth rots like aged Roquefort.

Families have gaping Swiss cheese holes.

We don’t solve problems

We change them like melting cheddar.

We sprinkle Parmesan to cover them.

We regret missed opportunities.

We are grated by what we have done.

Too late in life, we try to amend when we are like string cheese.

 

--Jordan Romain

Winners of the Random Word Poetry Contest

And the winners are... Jordan Romain and Ed Pacht.  Here are their winning entries:

Web of Lies

Your web of lies appears to show
the gladness of a kind soul,
masking the prickly strips of silk,
fragments that flash
like hollowing salutes.
A pair of love-soaked silk ribbons
swoop between the pillars,
cinching a tightly laced corset.
The dust of betrayal fades,
revealing a blood-red trench.
In its midst clay
molds your life to the lies
you created.
Deeper still,
iron chains box and bind you.
Before you realize, you are forever deep
in the bottomless pit,
caught in your web of lies.


---Jordan Romain (Grade 10)



The Love-Soaked Road

The cacti stood in prickly rows beside the path,
much like pillars lined beside a sacred way.
A pair was walking hand-in hand in blowing dust,
bare feet slapping on the hard-packed clay.
In gladness beginning a journey together,
they watched the eagles swoop so far above,
with snow-white feathers flashing in the sun
in silent salute to their growing love.

For two whose lives were cut to ribbons
by the iron forces of a cruel world,
pounded into battered fragments,
and into the trash with scorn were hurled,
there seemed no choice for such as these,
that were prisoned, and trapped in that dark box,
and hopelessly caught like flies in a web,
straining and struggling to break through the locks.

Then a kind soul with a voice like silk
discovered those two, each in a trench,
brought them together, lifted them up,
and left them alone on a little stone bench,
hollowing there a place in their hearts
each for the other, where pain had been,
reaching to touch both hands and soul,
each healing the other deeply within.

The cacti stood in prickly rows beside the path,
much like pillars lined beside a sacred way.
A pair was walking that love-soaked road,
bare feet slapping on the hard-packed clay.
In gladness beginning a journey together,
they watched as sunset made the sky red,
a radiant salute to their growing love,
knowing that soon their vows would be said.

---ed pacht

Ed Pacht on How Nothing is Something

I recently received this message from Ed Pacht, a regular reader, and I am posting it with his permission.

Alice,

 

In the course of writing a response to that good article on workshops, it occurred to me that you might find some value in this piece. I've been trying to write every day (today was day #434) and some days have been without much inspiration. Some have a kind of writer's block, and that is what I make myself write about. I call the results, "Nothing Poems." This is one of those, which will be gathered together into a chapbook entiled, "Nothing: Poems about Not Writing Poems."

Why do I write?

I have to write.
When words within my head
jostle one another for a place
upon the paper or the screen
that blankly sits before me,
I have to write.
I have to set them down,
to let them speak,
to say the things they wish to say:
profound thoughts of highest wisdom,
incoherent babblings of an empty mind,
something worthwhile to be said,
or not.
I have to write.
I want to write.
It is in writing that I find myself,
whether what I find is what I’d like to find,
or whether what I find will make me cringe,
and wish that I were not the one I find.
I want to write.
I want to put my thoughts in print.
I want to share them as I read aloud,
and, I guess, to share with others what I am,
but why?
Am I really of much interest to those others?
Am I really worth my own attention?
Often do I ask myself these questions;
seldom do I find a worthy answer.
Do I think my writing to be worth the sharing?
Is it honest to be saying that I do?
Probably not,
but …
I have to write.

--ed pacht

Poem for my Godchild with Leukemia

Leah, Age 7

 Leah's Burden



Hard things come upon us.
When we are unready they assault us.
When our hopes are high and we have dared to breathe again,
Hope is dashed and darkness floods into our souls.

When the body of a pretty child
turns upon itself in bitter ugliness,
How it wrenches loving watching hearts!
How it tears them from their trusted moorings!
How the grief pervades their very being!
And what questions tear apart their minds!
Earthly reason cannot comprehend such a thing as this is,
And a solid faith is by it strained,

For we do not know,
Cannot know,
The whys and hows and reasons of such a thing as this,
And in our anguish only scream in useless hurt,
In doubt, perhaps, that God is truly good,
and we are brought so near to deep despair.

God knows.
He knows what this child must be enduring.
He knows the hurt that fills a parent's soul.
He knows the questions that the younger ones must face,
And He knows the meaning borne in this sad and tragic tale.

God knows.
God loves,
And in His plan all things are brought to work for good,
All things,
Even this,
Though we cannot see the good that He is working,
Though we surely cannot now give thanks,
And though we want to raise our fists in our frustration,
God is good,
Cold comfort when we hear it in the midst of pain,
Yet it is true,
And, in our grieving, if we only let Him hold us,
He will bring us through.

--ed pacht


This is Leah's second battle with leukemia.  She was in remission for about 10 months.  Leah continues her fight with Leukemia (ALL) and is embarking on a several months journey of chemotherapy leading up to another long journey of a bone marrow transplant. This challenges all in the family,  including her mother Sarah, her father Robert, and her precious siblings: Mae- age 6, Issac- age 4, and Aaron- age 2. Through this LotsaHelpingHands website, we hope to rally your support. You can help with housecleaning, meals, prayers, and financial assistance.

If you can help Leah and her family, please do by going to Lots a Helping Hands. You will need to register to sign up to help.  It is easy.  If you have any trouble, email the case worker, Nanette Efird at lnashky@gmail.com. Nanette can sign you up over the phone or by email.

If you are a member at St. Andrew Church, coordinate taking the Nash family meals with Alison Morris 859 263-7732.

Thanks for praying!

Alice C. Linsley

Poet to Poet: Reflections on Screaming Fire

The following poem is a reflection on Screaming Fire, a Fourth of July poem written by Chandler Hamby.


Fire Screaming in the Sky

There are times when one observes what is around one,
and one sees much more than eyes have seen,
when in the midst of seeming joyous celebration,
one’s heart begins to flag, one’s joy to fade,
when the beauty of exploding fiery patterns,
the music fit for bravely marching armies,
and the words of proud and patriotic exultation
fail to fill the blackness of the darkness of the soul,
and only serve as highlights in the looming blackness.
In times like that a poet may be moved to write,
may attempt description of the beauty of the show,
may want to speak of the brightness then attempted,
but one’s heart is drawn to pierce beyond that veil,
to see the blackness and the bleakness of the shadow,
to sense the falseness of the wild display,
to cringe without full knowledge in its presence,
and to speak what one does not know that one is speaking.
In times like these the poet’s muse is active,
speaking through the cracks between one’s words,
and truth, even when one has not quite heard it,
flows from undetected depths within one’s person,
speaking with a still small voice within another heart,
and I have heard those quiet words that have been spoken,
and as the colors fade away to darkness,
those words are resonating in my soul.


--ed pacht