an exploration of caritas

Through a Glass Darkly by Henry Fraser

An Exploration of Caritas

She tries the known and unknown tongue,
clashing and clanging;
it sounds like dissonance;
she, standing on the corner soapbox
screaming love,
echoing imperfection.

Knowledge past and future
beats at his soul;
released left and right
the words flow like a torrent,
drowning love,
like an authentic counterfeit.

She cut her hair,
he sold his watch;
they gave it all away
for empty pockets
and bottomless cups;

So she chose the burning building,
and he ran in to save the cat on the third floor;
they became food for worms—
"meaningless, meaningless," blazed
the scorching disco ball.

Fresh breezes renew what once was,
evanescence removes the blotted cloth
and love's voice is heard again;
ashes swirl
and the clay molded;
he is made new,
she is made new.

He offers her his watch, she combs his hair;
a honeysuckle vine guards and sweetens their bed
under the great ancient oak—

love never promised rosebushes daily blooming,
but promised long suffering;
charity did not offer velvet cushions
but offered the cool spring of kindness;
unconditional love did not vow golden crowns
but vowed humility and grace.

Thistles and thorn bushes he bore
to save the snowdrops planted
in the scorching heat;
she gave the keys and her pearls to his able hand;
they ran a marathon through a sea of broken bottles
with the horizon setting in their eyes;
they held a ticker tape parade
in honor of words that withstood the fire.

Through a glass, darkly;
an impoverished reflection,
skinny and malnourished,
the picture is not whole but
dimly shaded,
corners darkened gray;
our view is poorly framed—
someday soon
perfect love will no longer cast shadows
and we will see face to face.

Copyright ©2010 by Micah McDonald

frustration with general shwe

set her free, myanmar, set her free.
her waters poisoned by decay.
her people swollen with hunger,
dying from disease and starvation.
her freedom sealed in junta pride.
her roof broken and leaking.
her home swept away.
her rice gone to wind and rain.
her pride in your hands,
her life under your thumb,
her strength in your power,
her posture in your control.
and you do nothing. you hold her back with guns and threats.
you let her stand naked in demolished fields.
you let her orphans run through barren streets.
you keep nourishment in holding cells
like her daughter of freedom,
the lady of peace,
you hold it under house arrest.
this is your people
and you have broken her like a weakened un-weened lamb.
you are the cyclone. you are the disease. you are the rot. you are the decay.

and all you have to do is let go.
set her free, myanmar. set burma free. and release the captive.

sir caedmon's plight

a highland claymore supported
a heavy sigh,
a dark horse rode west
without his knight,
armor lay rusted and worn,
and wild dogs run off with the kill, a pheasant,
today's nourishment now feast for headless hounds;
a bow and arrow broken by samson's might.
clothes tattered and torn
barely shielding evening's dreary fog
from saturating bone and soul;
his face weary from travel,
his heart dismayed,
his pride wounded,
his countenance contrite,
the fallen knight waited by the road.

he knew not where the road led
but he knew where it led not;
he knew not what lay ahead
but he knew what did not;
uncertainty stayed his steps
and fear pulled muscles and sinews
from any forward movement,
for regret and remorse
he wore like a cloak.

his fire smoldered by soaking rains,
cold now became master;
he was not defeated
and he was strong for this kind of battle;
but yesterday's battle
dethroned him,
bested him
like sir gawain's shame;
all had fled
and the fallen knight agonized
all he had lost.

with no meat or mead to sate hunger and chill,
the knight set out
down the road through heathered fields
and stony hills;
he could find provisions in this wild land,
he could hunt and kill;
a stag ran past,
and another.
a coney skipped the path followed by a clever fox;
game was plenty;
the knight could survive here.
the hills could hide and protect, shield and defend;
pelts could be made to blanket the cold,
fires could be kept.
self sustainment was possible in these untamed hills.
the knight could survive.

ten miles west
a banquet was prepared
where snowdrops adorned a well worn table
and provisions were plenty;
a soft whisper called for return
while hearty hands snapped peas and kneaded bread;
a fire was raised blazing
and song could be heard over the distant murmuring brook;
lamb prepared,
the almonds ripe,
fresh apples filled the basket,
and pie steamed on the sill;

a warm hearth waited
while the door remained open.

woman worthy

to a sister fringed and frayed from life's rags, afraid of being unknown and unloved

my love,
your eyes carry your spirit's wearied wear and i hear
you ask in words spoken otherwise,
loved?
cherished?
honored?
haved and held?
beauty surrendered to spoiled milk stains
and youth's fancies and dances gone with
soiled hands and chapped cheeks;
friends now fading;
time constrained to
serving others' mouths and wounds
and life's rhythmic demands.

seek deep within
and remember,
rise from these ashes
as woman worthy.
you are worthy of love
you are worthy of cherishing.
you are worthy of being held.
know yourself and stand in truth;
you are not alone.

seek the beauty,
mark the joys,
reminisce past confidences
and choose to walk in their light,
for my dear, you are woman worthy.

remember your strength?
remember your adventures?
remember your heart?
remember the spirit calling you?
remember the mountains and rivers and waterfalls?
remember your voice?
remember your fluid tongue and the languages it loved?
remember your eye that captured visions not seen by others?
remember play?

put behind the lies,
the words that linger to bind you to this
life of self lost.
put behind the feeling
that significance is found in the glory of other's praise;
search for it in the voice that never changes,
the one who dances over you because he calls you
daughter.
put behind the mantle that
has been crusted by other's shit and shame,
the mantle that weighs you down
and hides starry eyes and widened smiles.

beautiful one, you are woman worthy.

love's charge dear sisters, dear brothers

dear sisters
my loves,
i charge you
as daughters of the most high king,
as women of worth and valor,
as ones who seek to know the
sovereign face of Love's true embrace,
guard your hearts
for the heart is the wellspring of life;
it is a precious thing,
an honest treasure of inestimable worth;
treat the men in your life with
a sister's care, with tender words and
holy kisses, with truth and grace;
do not arouse or awaken love
until its time,
until the Beloved
releases the chords that hold your
hearts and bind them to Him;
your hearts, they deserve to be honored;
your love, it needs to be cherished;
and you, you are worth far more than rubies;
do not toss away something so dear to the wind
hoping it will carry you across the waves;
wait! take heart and wait.
let love find you.

dear brothers
my loves,
i charge you
as sons of the most high king,
as men of honor and dignity,
as ones who seek to know
the face of Glory;
guards your hearts
for the heart is a value worth more than gold,
greater than precious stones,
it is the wellspring of life;
protect the sisters in your life
with truth and fraternal tenderness,
with grace and loyalty;
do not give love away
until your Sovereign releases you;
and when His charge is given
pursue it with the force
of the knights of old,
with david's lire
and solomon's passion;
for your love is thing of great worth
not to be won by lust or flattery
but to be held dear and held close,
to be counted far more beautiful
and costly than any earthly thing.

Sisters, remember their mothers when thinking of your brothers. Brothers, as a brother once said to me, "think of your sisters as the mob boss' daughters." Honor each other in the Love of the Beloved.