We prostrate ourselves

before the altar, or down on our knees, head bowed,

penitent, hands clasped tight together, pleading perhaps,

at this shrine to a white deity hanging from a cross,

One we’ve created to justify, rationalize a rigid morality

of fear, a fear born of misunderstanding, of contrariety, of that

which is different from us, that which we cannot accept,

will not accept, fearing differences, fearing the changes

it might create awakening, and we raise our hands in praise,

Hallelujah, and profess our love, confess our sins

lest we fall prey to a lurking Satan’s wokefulness,

grieve our sinful nature, burying it, lost in God’s love,

and have our ticket punched to heaven’s pearly gates,

our New America Standard, a new King James, open

to the verses condemning this wicked world or the ones

lifting us up as better than, following those commandments,

setting us apart from the sinners around us, so bold

as to live these sins publicly, unforgivable,

glad that we are not like them, heaven-bound,

washed in the blood of the lamb, saved, sanctified,

and dutifully condemning sin and sinners alike to hell,

our good deeds, as our tithes, counted up, tallied,

our accounts growing, and the pockets, too,

of a religious right, fawning over them who would

establish a world religion, unmoving, these crusaders of ages

past returning, reforming, conforming, a new morality forced,

rigid and right, unreformed, and afraid of missing out,

left behind on the judgement day, reading the signs,

and fearing the end, the judgement, unprepared and afraid.

 

And their prayers fall not on deaf ears or blinded eyes,

but are heard through the tears of God

weeping for humanity,

                                       a Father’s tears for his children.

  

The Poetry of Autumn

The poetry of autumn begins

with the green of summer fading

into gold and rust and red,

backlit against a brilliant sky;

and with the warm air lingering cool,

a slight breeze and a hooded shirt

easily removed in rising temps,

easily restored with the waning sun;

and with the days slowing down,

late to rise and early to dusk, a new moon 

rising and the winter constellations 

beginning their journeys across the heavens.

The poetry of autumn begins with change

and ends with the barrenness of winter,

the silence of snow falling, filling 

us with the promise of spring returning.

An Owl Cries

An owl cries, flies

in the deep night, flight

lifting her great wings, sings

to the stars nocturnal, choral

calling to the new moon, attuned

to earth’s cycling seasons, reasons

for listening, reflecting, changing. 

The Last Time - Creative Non-Fiction (CNF)

            The last time I visited my brother … one of those infrequent, too infrequent, times, the result of modern adult children, adult sibling, going separate ways, pursuing other lives, jobs and careers, lifestyles, moving away from each other, from the family homestead out of necessity or desire or just the fortunes and happenstances life, of who we are, who we became, always promising to get together when we could, but those times were too infrequent and we joked about funerals becoming family reunions, like his funeral became, Mike taken from us too soon, leaving us too soon, feeling the pain, the hole created in our lives; all the sibling and spouses, children, grandchildren even, and the remaining aunts and uncles and cousins gathered to say goodbye and console each other and to remember, and we made promises anew that we knew we wouldn’t, couldn’t keep, after we said goodbye and returned to points too far to stay in touch as we promised, until the next funeral, just last year that we didn’t reunite at, what with COVID and fixed salaries and masks and restrictions – and now there are five of us!

            But the last time I visited my brother, there at the cemetery in Brunswick … where I try to visit as often as I can, a couple times a year at least, summer and fall, maybe spring, but never in winter, trying to find a grave under all the snow, though I’ve said I would, but it’s Maine and the snow is deep, but he’s among new friends, good company, right there next to Bowdoin’s athletic field where he can cheer on the lacrosse team - does he even like lacrosse? And he’s buried alongside other heroes, General Chamberlain of Civil War fame, for one, Maine’s native son, who besides a few tourists, history buffs, probably doesn’t get much family visiting him. I’ve never wandered by, not even sure where his grave is there among the older stones and obelisks intermingled with never stones, old family names, some nice shiny marble interspersed among the granites, worn with age and hard to read the chiseled names and dates, moss and lichen covered. Well-meaning on my part, to visit often, but some months I just don’t make it down, the long drive from here to there, the demands of life in later years, retirement.

            But the last time I visited my brother, there at the cemetery in Brunswick, among the other heroes … as always, I had brought some music to play for him, or rather to play for me, for my piece of mind, music I want to hear more than music he might choose to listen to, some classical pieces, some show tunes, movie tunes from movies I’m not sure he ever saw, except maybe the one from long ago, or perhaps he has forgotten it, but it’s one of my favorites from growing up, music from the annual, perennial movie, Peter Pan, the Mary Martin version, black and white now colorized, where Wendy asks the question I sometimes ask of Mike, where do you live, Peter, and Peter breaks into song, I have a place where dreams are born, and time is never planned, it’s not on any chart, you must find it with your heart, yes, Neverland, second star to the right and straight on till morning, where we dreamers go when we leave, so it’s Neverland and the newer John William’s Flight to Neverland, for us lost boys, music to accompany us there, from here standing alone in a cemetery in Brunswick to Neverland and home again, to remember the stories. And then some Hero songs, Fanfare for the Common Man, Mike a hero among us common men, and Amazing Grace sung by Celtic voices, no big church choir or even a less musical congregation making their joyful noise, I once was lost but now am, - no, I’m still lost sometimes, here alone at his grave, music streaming from my phone, louder than it should be, perhaps, but it makes me feel better, standing here, the tears streaming down my face, my sniffling covered by the music. And we end with Mike’s song, not the Dylan version he was listening to, but a version I like better, Forever Young, by The Tenors – after all, the music is for me – and may we stay forever young, he and I.

            But the last time I visited my brother, there at the cemetery in Brunswick, among the other heroes, music at the ready, Fanfare streaming from my phone, it began to rain, lightly, enough to spill onto my face even as the tears began to fall at the opening trumpets of the fanfare, no words, just trumpets, three notes, ta-ta-ta, three more notes, ta-ta-ta, and four more descending, ta – ta – ta – ta, in beautiful harmony, at peace now, here with Mike, once again. Cut now because it’s to Mike’s song before the rain comes too fast, too hard, just he and I, and that long pause just before the end, then softly, for both of us, may you stay forever young, brothers sharing a room, twin beds separated across a short space, even now separated by death, where I can still feel him, still feel safe, still comforted knowing he was there, feeling the strength, the courage, the wisdom of a big brother leaving too soon, leaving me alone.

            The last time I visited my brother, it began to rain, and our visit, too infrequent, was cut short …