Beeswax Candles at Vespers

A brokenness in my body
at the end of the day
weakly calls to weakness
asking for a silent peace
to attend my way.

O God make speed
to save,
O LORD make haste
to help us.

Incense rises
on some altar
daises in the
islands of
Greece,
on the Holy Mountain,
and at Sinai.

I hear the crackle
of the candle flame, slowly
hissing as it burns
the beeswax up and
through the wick.

As wax melts from
the fire, may those
who hate THEE flee from
before Your throne.

Words rise up,
all over the world,
as day comes to rest
in the evening
vesperal light.

O Gladsome Light,
sing on from the
fourth century,
call our hearts
in the groan that is a
chant and a cry.

Now lettest
Thou Thy servant
depart in peace,
according
to THY word.

TJM+

O God, Come to my Assistance

Everyday
the church cries
out the same
simple notes

the same
cry of
the heart

oh God,
come to my assistance

oh LORD,
make haste to help me.

Centuries turn
on centuries
and words and hearts clamber
to be seen,
clamber to be heard.

Can I make my
words climb
to heaven.

Can I strain
my song
enough to
be heard.

It is in the
quietude and
simplicity
of the chant

that its sound
echoes
throughout the
ages -

through all eternity.

It is in the
beating of the heart
and its feeling
that these words,
this hymn,
this chant

are carried
aloft
to the ONE

that MYSTERIUM
TREMENDUM.

They
are the words
that feed our GOD;

the words
that nourish
our LORD.

_____

Peace,

+Tom

Chants on the Air

I kneaded the
dough today,

the dough of
five loaves

as the monks
sang psalms
to God.

The plaintiff
notes were kneaded
into the loaves -

into the five loaves
of french
peasant bread.

O GOD,
come to our
assistance.

O LORD,
make haste to
help us.

Help us rise,
help us bake,
help us cool,
help us digest.

The kneading of
dough is a needful
thing,

a thing as needed as
gregorian chants
in the early morning

with strong coffee,
advil, and stillness.


_____

Ciao!

+Tom

Morning Prayer

The cool stillness
of the morning abbey
soaks the prayers into
me as warmth and heat.

There is a pause, here;
there is a pause
between the words,
between the lines
of mourning;
the lines of prayer;
the lines of beseeching.

I used to think the words were the
prayer; today, and perhaps
through all time,
it is the pause.

The Trees Chant

The wind
blows steady
over the surface of
the frozen lake.

From the hills
it carries the sound
of trees chanting
the chants
of the monks
of old.

Gregorian tunes
mingle with the
rattle of leaf on
leaf.

If you hold your
heart still
in the gray morning
hours, even the
cry of the hawk
rises as a prayer

like incense
to the nose of
the ALL-WISE.

An aroma of
piety
and song of
salvation
blows in across
the stillness
of the frozen lake.

Blows in and sets
us free.