I am but a mote
Floating alone
Through the smurr of troubles
Unaware of the brilliant Light above

Or a ruderal
Trying to flourish alone
In hardness of heart

Too often I am marcescent
Clinging to my past mistakes

Until the susurrus of others calls me
To the divine murmuration 
Dance flying together
Softly quietly 

Until, one by one,
We alight on the Sun’s zenith.

Long ago
Before my memory formed
I learned that letters form words

I sat on my father’s lap
I am told
In the small apartment
One bedroom
Over a garage
Around the corner
From my mother’s family home

Come evening
I sat on my father’s lap
My sober laughing father
Long before alcohol and illness
Stole his laughter

I sat
Snuggling close
I am told
As he read the newspaper
Every day
Long before we owned a TV
Although even then
He preferred reading the news

He read aloud
Right through the paper
News and opinions 
Obituaries and ads
I am told

And so I learned
I am told
In those small evenings
That letters make words
And words make meaning
And meanings make feelings

And later, in the time of memory
Those words and meanings
Made a retreat for me
A cave of words
A security of worlds
A beauty of escape
From my once gentle father

God breathed their Word
Into the void
And the void filled

God breathed their Word
Into the world
And the world bloomed

God breathed their Word
Into the flesh
And the flesh awakened

God breathed their Word
Into the woman
And the Word was made flesh

God breathed their Word
Into me
And the Word is Immanuel

God with us 

Wring out the old rag
Dripping water 
Dirty
From cleaning dishes
Piled too high with excess

Bring in the new cloth
Dry and clean
Handmade
To lay the table
With plenty for all

Wring out the old lies
Dripping promises 
Empty
From bought lips
Filled too long with greed

Bring in the new truth
Bright and sure
Shining
To fill our nations
With goodness for all

Wring out the old wars
Dripping blood 
Red
From bodies
Sent too young to die

Bring in the new peace
Ringing out
Loud and long
To fill our spirits
With life for all

Twelve steps to atonement for alcoholism’s hurts
How I wish I had such a clear, straight path
Well-maintained
Sign-posted
Broad shallow rock-defined gravel-filled steps
On the trail to the summit of atonement

Perhaps atonement would be easier
had I not eschewed my family’s generational 
alcohol-soaked sin

Perhaps atonement would be easier
had I not eschewed my family’s generational
 Jesus-soaked faith

Perhaps atonement would be easier
had I not eschewed my family’s generational
French-rooted home

Perhaps atonement would be easier
had I become a quite different I
A New Orleans alcoholic Cajun Catholic
Perhaps, but probably not 

The womb of creation
Those words nest in my mind
And shiver down my limbs

(I have resisted Googling the phrase
I suspect it is a rather common imagery
But not to me)

Listening 
Christmas morning
To the start of John’s insight
Sitting behind my mother
My 99 year old mother
In the sunlit activities room
Attending Mass
In the assisted living unit

In the beginning 
God exhaled Their Word
Into the void
And the void was no more

In the beginning 
God’s Word
Was the womb of creation

And then again
Later
In Mary’s womb
Was the Word of creation