All poems copyrighted © Noel K. Anderson

The Congregation

The congregation expands into the light-speed universe:

Friends meet in a restaurant to discuss their days,

Others drive the freeways listening to new music

Or talking on mobile phones;

Old folks worry about their bodies;

Young folks fret over emerging personalities;

A middle-aged banker sitting on the cool, bathroom tiles with the flu

wonders what life is all about as his brow goes clammy;

A sensitive girl in college deeply contemplates her fear of death

And its ultimate reality for everyone she loves;

A German man drinks and plans to pick his first fight;

An Asian family at worship will go out to eat fish—the youngest son

Will think of Jesus eating fish long ago;

A round, sad mother angrily clucks away in Spanish

To her sister about the son who left home;

An Indonesian man in Yogjakarta, Java drives his bike-taxi

For 10,000 rupiah this evening—the competition is stiff

And business slow;

A farm-boy in Iowa burns porn after pleasure to clear his

Searing, fundamentalist conscience;

The Hassidic father in New York begs God

For explanations over the loss of his only son;

A wealthy daughter of prominent parents

Has just discovered that she is, in fact, pregnant

And feels her world collapsing and future dissolving;

An African-American attorney eats crow after mercilessly

Overstating her case;

A gay, Catholic priest fights hard not to act out on his feelings

For a boy in his parish: today he will win;

A nun in Spokane prays God would forgive her gluttony;

She took the larger piece of cake after dinner.

The Masai chief dreams of extra wives when the parrots wake him;

The arrogant realtor in Westwood suddenly suffers a moment

Of severe self-doubt: it’s okay, it’s gone now;

Invisible demons reach in, creep in;

A handsome man with a beautiful wife and three good children

Chews salad and wonders “What the hell is going on?”—

His wife will think he’s seeing someone else;

Mary’s brain suddenly and inexplicably tells her

That her violent and abusive ex-husband is better for her

Than her kind and loving husband of three years;

A twelve-year-old girl, alone in her bed, discovers

The pleasure of flesh. She is scared, guilty, and feels

She has no one to talk with;

An old man in a hospital bed sees an angel hovering

With inexplicably-colored robes.

He smiles and his eyes widen.

Cotton Candy

He holds the Bible like a conductor's baton —

Like a long, narrow, paper cone —

Spinning thin, pink sugar

Like sweet, sticky spider webs:

A delight to the eyes, sweet to the tongue,

Insubstantial and vaporous —

A mere mockery of nutrition.

Everyone thinks he is wonderful.

The Other Nun

Okay, so she's not Catholic

and never took any vows

but her life is lived enduring the same sexless solitude

arranged through searingly potent pieties.

They used to call them spinsters and old maids.

Dowdy discount clothes, sad choice of eyewear

And a constant stream of rationalizations

Against the growing grief

Over bygone opportunities and former importunities.

Here: a post-menopausal, never-married, plain Jane

takes her place in a church too large to care.

She sprays the boundaries of her territory

With snap judgments and censorious hostilities.

Like a she-eagle: gliding, soaring through the air

she rides amidst the divine presence in prayer,

looks down to see her floating shadow cross

her empty nest down below.

Fighting Adulthood

Watching Mother waste away

and Father lose his bearings

(without his knowing his gears were going)

We stepped up to turn the leaf

like a mob usurping the king.

I waited in the bushes,

watching the castle towers erode,

ever saying to myself,

"It's no so bad."

"It may be okay."

"They'll come around yet."

Tidal Wave

Unexpected changes

delivered in derision, monkey-fisted,

based in fey intrusions and settled in non-conclusions.

There seem few discussions left,

all blasted, all wasted —

A buried inheritance in indolent service —

all has become superior sneers, hyper-hubris,

and the stylish insolence of stylish insolents.

The tidal wave favors their course, and we few

who stand in protest face humility –

a feint of praise on our lips –

as we kneel in the descending curl's shadow.

Imminent eclipse would seem to loom certain

but we are counting on something more

than just gravity and the moon.

Message

Stuck over in immediate tidings of immediate regret,

the arms of the betrayer opened wide

to receive the inveterate Messenger.

"It has not happened," said the angel,

"Your hopes remain complete in immanence."

The arms of the betrayer closed across his chest

as he glared over a sneering smile.

The Messenger looked at him as if to say:

"It all counts for you as well!"

But the former returned no gestures

indicating appreciation or acknowledgment.

The message brings hope for those in reprieve

but regret to those who fail to receive:

the immediacy of the present,

the expectations of past assumptions,

and the divine promises of future good

sealed in the blood of innocence.

Walking Without Envy

Whose homes are these? I think I don't know.

The mansions of this wealthy neighborhood,

like the ones from the dreams of my youth

recline under rich, spreading live oaks

like kings at a table or great ships on parade.

I walk to cool a fire in my heavy head —

heavy from dreams and youthful expectations.

A Tudor house with argyle windows

nestles groupings of overstuffed furniture;

a spreading, western ranch with luxurious eaves

windowing warmth, oak and a cowhide chesterfield;

a spanish mansion with thick, stucco walls

strewn with black, iron filigree fences and framings —

each a set for fulfillment and joy.

Nervous boredom in my chest

Drives me ever out of rest

Fit and lovely, every one — happy in their fortresses —

these loving families with their lives of plenty

playing out win after win, ease upon ease

like virtuous royals in a perfected world

(I imagined this for myself as well).

Any one of these houses would be fine enough

but today I live in a backhouse — an old lady's house

with the old lady's furniture, though she died years ago.

Jack, the owner, at 86, is a good and kind man, but I am not.

I am a small church pastor, and have a roiling fire in my head.

I walk better streets and for the moment feel better about myself,

reminding myself that I am very well-educated with sophisticated tastes.

I rent. I own little more than my clothes and my old car.

Had I taken a priest's vows, I'd be in the same place

only more secure in my calling to poverty,

but I did not choose this; it chose me.

When young, I knew, I too, would rise to the top.

I knew, that I, too, would live in houses like these

and be a happy family.

I don't know who lives in these homes

But I know, many are not homes at all

(I envy only my own imagination).

An easy breeze crosses my path,

caresses my furled brow

and stills me in my tracks.

Until I walk without envy, my praise is all in vain.

Praise and praise alone constructs a true home

Repeated praise — every heartfelt phrase —

detoxifies my covetous ways.

Taking a non-possessive delight

in the particularity of every thing

subjects my heart's longings

to a superior, divine ordering.

Walking without envy is the only lasting peace

gained amidst the riches of this lavish complicity.

That yearning should fail and covetous lusts cease

seems grace enough; or that Heaven's host of pardons

in their divine mercies would take a moment of pity

for the temporary, fallen caretakers of these gardens.

Mea Culpa

I sought relief from that which I sought

I wished to leave the things I watched

when I was unhappy—to dissociate

from painful associations.

I look at my sins and realize

my sins have the look of sins

that are looked at.

My spine bends back before the face

that bends me.

Kyrie Eleison!

"Lighten up," I hear from a voice

outside which speaks inside,

"Your sins are of no significance."

Such an offense to my morose dignity

undercuts the severe gravity of my penance

(and oh, how I so treasured my holy remorse!)

all now here blasted, all wasted, all spun up

and dissolved in an instant

like an angry tornado that changes its mind

and immediately dissipates — the sun shines

through the ashen tufts of ragged cloud

and the word spoken is the word completed:

I am lightened up.

Sacrament

I stepped out on the scaffolding to talk to the panicked man.

His pain and desperation, like sweat smeared in his eyes,

blinded him from seeing what was inside.

Inside, downstairs on the ground floor off the sidewalk,

his Diner and employees awaited his return.

So we went in, and he served me coffee and pie.

Sister Pam

She never wore a habit

but it makes little difference.

She wore her backpack like a parachute

just in case she should fall from the skies.

Pam was simply Pam,

her inner peace veiled by excitability

and an urgency for what is right

which held fast her focus—she was a tractor-beam

for correctness as she understood it.

She kept her phone in her ear

in fear of new laws prohibiting drivers

from using hand-helds.

Although she wasn’t driving, she was obedient.

She had her own place to sit in worship,

with her fanny-pack of snacks for the ride.

Sometimes she spoke aloud during sermons, answering

rhetorical questions—dialoguing freely through the event.

It will be an effortless joy for me to remember

her smile, her energy, her awkward, intermittent hugs,

and the constricted wings in her shoulders

held back by the straps of her parachute.

Cleaning the Pool

I used to think the walls were painted

light blue to discourage photosynthesis

but the walls are white—always have been—

and the water is truly blue.

Water is truly blue, perhaps bluest when most pure.

I sweep the algae off the pool walls

in long, steady strokes of the brush

like a gondolier carefully steering

the canals of Venice.

The sweep and glide propel a movement

awakened by the sun on my head

and the occasional fly on my leg.

As unsettled as I can be—

as restless and horizon-hungry—

this is as close as I come

to feeling at home:

Just this: cleaning the pool and knowing that

at its purest, water is truly blue.