The poetry prompt “What words of love surround you”
Leads me quickly and inevitably
(unlike John I love the unfashionable adverb)
To “Words of love
Soft and tender
Won’t get you where you want to go”

And soon I am not writing poetry
But dancing in the streets
With the Mamas and the Papas

Even though Christine McVie
(she of Fleetwood Mac,
Not Mamas and Papas)
Died yesterday

Sadly and inevitably
Dead
To dance no more on this earth
Except with worms, maggots and other bugs
Until she dances again as a blade of grass
Or a tree root or just rich dark loamacious earth

Impossible that Christine would want 
A dirge: dance-free, song-less
No, not that, but
Perhaps a second line
With colorful umbrellas
Jazz dancing down the street
Behind the brass band

Memories of music
Merge and twist together
As though choreographed 
By Chubby Checkers

Wrap me warm
Bless my rhythm
As my now old body
Continues to dance

Certainty has become a weapon
Sharp and deadly
Strident and unyielding

Ah, I could fill the page
With the certainties
Of this, our time, our world

But instead I think I will go lie in the shade
Listen to the breeze in the trees
Lazily let my eyes follow a falling leaf
Yawn and stretch
Close my eyes
Enjoy my body
And maybe even twitch my tail

I found God
rocking on the back porch
as water fell
from pitcher to pitcher to pitcher
into our small - micro really
rock pond

Across the lawn
I glimpsed the infinity
of God
in blades of grass
burning bushes
Carolina jasmine
daffodil bulbs
waiting to be planted
Japanese maples
old and new
upright and weeping
tall and small
and our towering Norway spruce
keeping careful guard
as robber squirrels
raid the garden

There sat God
with my husband
so I quietly joined them
to worship at the feet
of our world

To learn the unwanted lesson
To walk the uneven path
To seek an unknown destination

What lesson must I learn
From estranged children
Seeking their own world
Needing freedom from mine

I learn the hard lesson
Of loving more
And holding less

What path must I walk
Through light and dark
Seeking my own God
Needing freedom from others

I walk the hard path
Of believing more
And knowing less

What destination lies ahead
As I stumble onwards
Seeking my own divinity
Needing freedom from depression

I seek the hard destination
Of accepting more
And trying less

My childhood was lived in awe
Awe of God, 
our Father Creator
Awe of Jesus Christ,
His only begotten Son
Awe of the Holy Ghost
Three Persons in one God
Awe of the one, holy, catholic, and apostolic Church

Mostly awe of the Church

Each parish church 
Cathedral-like, darkly quiet
Each daily Mass 
Celebrated by the robed priest
In millennial choreographed Latin
The host, True Presence
Received on the properly prepared tongue
(By which I mean a tongue that belonged to someone who had gone to Confession on Saturday)
No wine then, except for the priest

The buildings
The statues
The candles
The incense
The pews
The Communion rail
The Repository
Everything bejeweled

Awe everywhere
Awe enough to shout down questions
Awe enough to shut down mouths
Awe enough to wound, again and again

And always, all around
Just outside the triune God
And His church
Just outside
Unnoticed
Was awe enough for anyone

“It’s raining leaves”
Mom is beyond the autumn of her life
Living through the deep winter of loss
Even those of us a generation younger
Are now old ourselves

Her world overflows with bad news
Sometimes a drizzle
As she learns of a younger relative
Entering assisted living
Sometimes a torrent
Death, disease, disability
Drumming a sad song
On the roof of her mind

Born and raised in steadily green
Southern Louisiana
She reacts with a child’s glee
To Virginia autumn

I thank Mother Nature
For small blessings
That make a 98 year old
Sound young:
“It’s raining leaves.”

Law pulled my eyes up to God
Somewhere above sky and stars
Beyond sun and Milky Way
Greater than greater
Stronger than strong
Longer than long
Giving the law
That we must follow
To reach his high exalted throne

Law pushed my eyes down on myself
And on others
We sin, venial and mortal
Close to worthless
We fail, time and again
To follow our high Father’s perfect law

It is hard to love
When you feel worthless
Hard to love
When you feel unworthy
Hard to love
When you look down
On being human

Love, oh love
Set my eyes straight
Taught me to look at flowers
Trees, bees, grass, dogs, fireflies
Love held me still
When the black snake 
Slithered
Into our small pond
When the dragonfly
Flew 
Across the back porch
When Woody 
Pressed 
My face to his chest

(“Ada’s poem” refers to Ada Limon’s poem, What It Looks Like To Us And The Words We Use”)

My morning question
Often
“What does God look like to me today?”

Once
(Seems like a long time ago in a galaxy far far away)
The image of God
Came easily
An old bearded man
Finger outstretched
To create, yes
But also to blame
And to damn

All-knowing
All-seeing
(try mediating on THAT as you sit on the toilet)
Quick to condemn

Sacrificing His own Son
In His thirst for justice
(Or was it jealous vengeance)

The perfect son
Of the perfect mother
Both virginal
Both suffering
Both lonely
Exalted
Impossible role models

And the Holy Spirit to complete that triune God
Later I learned this theological nonsense:
The Father’s knowledge of Himself is the Son
The love between Father and Son is the Holy Spirit

The best thing about this
In the theology of the Catholic Church
Is that no woman is necessary
No desire, no lust
No messy menstruation
No messier childbirth
All clean, neat, sterile
Masculine

…

Then, for years
I knew the Goddess
First as part of that Trinity
But more and more
On her own
Her own trinity
Virgin, Mother, Crone
Adventurer, nurturer, wise woman

Now my answer more often
Resembles Ada’s poem
Divinity is the name I give
To the supernatural immanence
Of this gloriously natural world
To Gaia, to humanity 
To the eternity questing of my own spirit

Just imagine
For one moment
A day of atonement

One day
Each year

What would my life be
I wonder

With a day of atonement
Each year

Well, to start, maybe
I would only have 364 days
Of regrets

No need, perhaps
To carry still
65 years later
That stupid mistake
That angered Sister Rosemarie

No need, perhaps
To carry still
56 years later
That stupid mistake
That angered my parents

No need, perhaps
To carry still
47 years later
Those stupid mistakes
That ended my marriage

No need, surely
For indulgences
Worth centuries in Purgatory

No need for weekly repeated
Forgive me, Father, 
For I have sinned

Atonement
Such a restful possibility
Such a sure foundation
For tomorrow