Larry's Blog

JOURNEY

allegro (matter of fact)

I have been indoctrinated in days and litanies,
and yellow autumn afternoons when childhood
was warned that a calling from the Lord

allegro (matter of fact)

I have been indoctrinated in days and litanies,
and yellow autumn afternoons when childhood
was warned that a calling from the Lord
(as leaves fell in a long white buzz of breeze)
could not easily be ignored without
the danger subsequent after years
of losing grace, perhaps to fall, perhaps
to call down attonement in unending
penitential fires - but not to worry -
as winter sunlight after snow
filtered in between the classroom
shades, and sister’s soothing voice
(perhaps replacing mother’s) had us read
“The First Snowfall” by James Russell Lowell.

lento (lower voice)

The lady in blue
can rest a bit perhaps.
The litanies in her
behalf have slowed.
Mother of Sorrows.
Queen of the Sea.
Gate of Heaven.
As dust gathers on
the organ top
and stained glass
light falls into
a silent church
in Maryland
perhaps she can
find some quiet
in October.
The “pray for us”,
the “save us”,
the “we beseech thee”s
have almost ended.

andante (relaxed voice)

The perfume of spring flowers
surrounds me.
I walk through a small wood (but
like King Arthur’s realm to me).
Heavy Jim and Dominic bring jars
to mix secret potions and construct
a laboratory in the forest shade.
Last fall - ages ago - we gathered
hickory nuts,
brought them as prizes to display
proudly in the dining hall.

The incense of the heart
still lingers, and smoke
rises like painful
memories - sort of -
from Sunday afternoons.
Altar boy surplice,
unending strains
of “Tantum Ergo”s, a
chorus of nuns
and now it seems
the whole world
suffers, for one
reason or another,
from Sunday afternoons.

dramatic (full sound)

Gloria in Excelsis Deo.
It is my voice that echoes
in the apse of the stone church.
Today is the twelth Sunday
after Pentecost (somewhere
in the unending nowhere
in the year of liturgy).
I like the sound of my
deep voice speaking
slowly - and cautiously -
(the topic designated
by the Bishop is the Trinity).
I will never utter
words I cannot believe.

lyrical (female voice?)

O the bells ring
the organ thunders
the Pascal candle
in symbolic glory
burns. Red-robed,
the celebrants parade
from the vestibule
of church to high
altar, a censor
swinging, its golden
chain ringing, the
smoke of Resurrection
rising.

philosophical (pensive)

They have trained me from infancy
in the telling of the beads,
midday visits to the most
blessed sacrament, Mary’s
supplication. I have often
walked out feeling clean
from the box of the confessional
with the sun seeming brighter
and the wind crisp through
my hair

andante (matter of fact - reflective)

What can I save
from this house of God?
The organ sounds -
Mozart, Bach - this
was their noblest theme.
The statues still stand
silent in the clerestory
light - men and women
parading endlessly
in our dreams
through centuries
of whatever this was.
Icons of mosaic
with rainbow colors
and gold, gazing
down on me through
my steps as a child
till now - when, I suppose -
I am old. The language
of Latin and Greek
in great red-leather
colored books -
bibles with poetry
of Ecclesiastes and Job,
Psalms sung by
choirs while bells
thunder, carol and
chime in all the
cathedrals of the
world.

agitated (intense)

An old nun smiles.
I walk by graveyards
with names that surprise
me - my heart squirms -
as I remember them.
There is a book opened
to a page where
November sunlight falls.
I gaze upon the words.
Like a bird, I have learned to fly.
I say goodbye.