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.