Posted on February 27, 2010 - by Klumpp

Dear Karen

Dear Karen:

i can but gingerly trace a walk around these words
i once was a poet
(you never knew me then
but think you do)
no one did
which could be trite and vain
(but is not)

on ash wednesday
“because i know that time is always time”
i entered the church of my soul
and began to weep
which could be trite and vain
(but is not)
for the loss of someone dear to me
who was buried long ago
beside the house
away beyond the sun and under a useless garden

my mother warned me
not to eat the berries on the juniper tree
and so i was safe from that
death
and there are no bones to live
no heart nor conscious left to remark at the wonder of heaven
or the blue blue sky here in so african a kansas as ever there was
or by the road in louisiana
where the moss hangs lifeless and grey
from that death
i was spared
but dry and lifeless
upon the edge of darkness and the west side of our house
i was laid down with all of our ancestors
and there under the wings of acacia and juniper
i slept a wakefull sleep
the waking dead

Father forgive me
for i know not what i do

and mary’s followers chant
- at the hour of our death, amen.

now –
here at the moment of time and space as only it can be
i must summon strength.
strength of a new kind.
strength of fire and water
water and wind
wind and spirit
spirit and oil
oil and herb
healing in the sun
under the sand
where only root can drink and live
where all else fades to sorrow.
here at this moment in time and space as only it can be
i must offer up my penance.

a hand please
from the heavens please
a finger please
dipped in ash
crossed upon my forehead

DEUS meus,
ex toto corde poenitet me omnium meorum peccatorum,
eaque detestor, quia peccando,
non solum poenas a Te iuste statutas promeritus sum,
sed praesertim quia offendi Te,
summum bonum, ac dignum qui super omnia diligaris.
Ideo firmiter propono, adiuvante gratia Tua,
de cetero me non peccaturum peccandique occasiones proximas fugiturum.

and mary’s followers chant
- nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. amen.

mortem autem crucis

and now
as there is upon the edge of each moment
another moment
“And what is actual is actual only for one time”
another time is now and now is another time
which could be trite and vain
(but is not)
i must make a decision
whether to stay beneath the sand
in this sad garden
or roll away the stone and join myself again
bringing joy to sadness
and life to dead bones.

my apology –
had you known you would have done well to wear black at our wedding
a veil and not lace
lilies and not roses
the fair face of our daughter
an icy image from beneath a foggy frozen pond
but you never knew
(who could have know)
that you had wed someone so lost
so dry
so dead
bleached bones white and lifeless.

and now,
“Although I do not hope to turn again

Although I do not hope

Although I do not hope to turn”
this act of penitential glory
which may be trite and vain
i will collect my bones in the cradle of my ribs
place my head upon the cavern left by my heart
and walk
perhaps to sing
and regain some voice
some melody
which chants something more than prayer at the hour of our death. Amen
and hands which broken dry and ice like
regain warmth
and smile upon this pen
which may be trite and vain
but which will again cry out

know only this –

the wind.

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