Mid-Winter Poetry

Poets,


Squeeze poetry in wherever you can!  For me in this transition time, I¹ve
done as much as I can for the Annual Meeting, the new priest-in-charge moves
into the Rectory on Monday, her first Sunday is Feb. 21st and we have had a
few other things to do in the meantime!


You, however, have been working ­ thanks be to God! Merrill Gonzales has
written a psalm and gives thanks for the mercy and grace afforded her this
past year. Aldon Hynes is holding true to submitting a poem for publication
once a month. Carol Christoffers has noticed what happens to the Christmas
trees that so quickly are thrown to the curb. Brenda Dlugoleski, moved by
her co-worker¹s  grief over having to put down a beloved Rottweiler,  penned
a poem in which you will really get to know Brody.  Kathy Carle, on this day
of snow flurries, cooked us up a pot of soup in a narrative and poetic
style.  Lastly, I share the experience of what those two words, "-in-Charge"
added to my title of Senior Warden has meant since May.  Read it if you
dare!

Squeeze the poetry in, take time to read it and keep writing!

Barbara A. Campbell
Connecticut¹s Diocesan Poet


CHRISTMAS PSALM

by Merrill Gonzales
St. Paul's, Plainfield


At Christmas time

We hear the angel

Voices of our friends

Ring out in heavenly

Mercy, love and joy.

The gift of heart music

At this time of year

A light

   At the darkest time,

A balm

   For our everydays.

My heart joins in

With gratitude

For the loving GOD

Who comes to us.

My prayer flies

On those angel wings

With a newborn trust

In the infant CHRIST+.



*********************



To Seek the Unexpected
by Aldon Hynes
Grace and St. Peter's, Hamden



Perhaps it should be

my resolution

for the New Year

or even

my mantra

for the next twelve months.



To seek the unexpected.



Maybe, it will even become

a poem.



To seek the unexpected.



Like going alone

to an unknown museum

exhibiting

an unknown artist

and finding a new love



instead of running with the crowd

at the big museum

past well known paintings

at their  blockbuster

exhibition.



or taking the backroads to work,

less direct,

less traffic,

slower,

but worth it

for the different horizons.



This evening I went to church.



It wasn't a high holy day

or Christmas or Easter.

It wasn't even Sunday.



It was less than a week

after New Years,

when the usual resolutions

start wearing thin

and your thinking of taking down

the Christmas decorations.



Epiphany.

seeking the unexpected.



What was it like

for the Magi

traveling to a different country

and finding the new ruler

in an unexpected place?



What was it like

for Mary

having strangers visit

after her unexpected

and long expected

labor?



What would it be like

singing the familiar hymns

praying the familiar prayers

with a small group of faithful

on a weeknight?



The one thing

about seeking the unexpected

is that you usually find it

and it is wonderful.

------------------------------------------------

Evergreen Transformed
by Carol Christoffers
St Andrew's Meriden

                        Once proudly growing in the forest bathed in star's
pure light
                        Now tossed aside in the street in the midst of urban
blight
                        Once proud to be chosen carefully
                        To be a family¹s cherished Christmas tree
                        Stripped now of shiny decoration
                        No longer the center of celebration
                        Star¹s bright light shines upon this tree
                        God¹s small creatures gather together to see
                        A transformation taking place
                        Refuge from winter in this space
                        Useful now- no longer cast away, helping creatures
live
                        Proudly this tree offers its branches. It still has
love to give
                        A lesson can be learned from this brave tree
                        Hope is still there for all to see
                        Look to the light of the star hovering near
                        When least expected transformation will appear

*******************

Good Night Brody
by Brenda Dlugoleski
St. Mark¹s, New Britain

Farewell my friend
Our walk has ended.
It's best you rest
In time suspended
Where if you want
You'll chase a rabbit,
Or tree a cat,
And while you're at it,
Roll in the dirt
And shake off the dust;
Jump in a stream
And frighten the ducks.
Or, if you choose,
You'll lie in the shade,
Catching a nap
From all of that play.
Day turns to night -
Twinkling stars above.
Hear us whisper;
We send you our love.
                 Good night, good Brody.

******************

by Kathy Carle
St. Mark's, New Britain


My spirituality is a pot of soup which was started

with a good stock of strong New England Congregationalism:
it was brewed by farmers and entrepreneurs.

A plain variety, a traditional one, it didn¹t have the seasoning
of liturgy nor the politics of the Church of England. It eschewed
the sophistication and trappings of power in favor of simplicity.

No kneelers were we, and some like my mother, were Old Testament
Christians. Her God wasn¹t about forgiving you whenever you asked.
More struggle and penance were needed.

An old fashioned soup sat at the back of the stove, and depended on the
addition of more ingredients for its taste and power.  Shaken in were the
spices of adolescence, rebellion, and one non-traditional grandmother.  In
winter, the mistress of the house would put the pot out in the cold to firm
it up.   Just so, I went through Œthe middle years¹ working to put my
husband through medical school and raising two boys. We didn¹t have a church
tradition in those years, until I moved back to Madison, CT as a single
mother.

It was time to bring the pot to a boil, which happened when my new husband
took our family to central Connecticut, where I entered an Episcopal church
for the first time; bareheaded, unrepentant. I did succumb to its grace and
attitude of forgiveness: I became a committed Episcopalian. What does it
mean, to 'let your light shine', or to let your music ring out?  I sang in
the choir for 19 years. Now I make music another way, by writing.  I believe
we let our lights shine, for a starter, when we make ourselves known to each
other.  Writing poetry is the way I make myself known to others. One of the
most beautiful parts of the liturgy for me, in our prayer book, is:

"Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this table for pardon only and
not for renewal, for solace only and not for strength.²  It calls me to
action: it rouses my energy, commitment and passion for contributing.



*****************



TRANSITION MATTERS, a poem
by Barbara A. Campbell
Connecticut¹s Diocesan Poet
January 2016

As a long time Senior Warden,
I knew a few strange things
about the parish.
I knew a deer had come into the Courtyard
and crashed through the glass door
   to get IN to the church.
(Did I say we are a downtown city church?
   Well, we are.)
I knew a squirrel
had come in a second storey window
                  and was eating inside
                  on the lunch table.
                  (Why not?  It's where we eat!)
I knew one day a shower cap
had been found
        on the cross on the high altar.
The theology of that we are still pondering.

And then those two hyphenated words
  -in-Charge
were added to my title.
Everything became more so.

Sunday mornings equal connections time.
EMTs took a 7:45er to the hospital -
   connect with Pastoral Care.
Ministers of Communion on board?
New ushers counting the house
   AFTER Church School children
   and teachers join the service?
Who¹s doing the Coffee Hour cake
   for next week¹s baptisms
   and how do we spell the names?
How did the tour of the Rectory go
   with the candidate and Property Chair?
When can Personnel Committee meet?
And in the middle of all that,
   the fervent prayer that
      The Blood of Christ
      IS the Cup of Salvation!

In the days of naivete
   a Senior Warden might think
   a parish is
             a place of stained glass beauty,
             a place of peace and quiet reflection
             a place of glorious organ music
             and meaningful liturgy
but no "-in-Charge" thinks that!

I answer my phone at home.
Without introducing herself, a woman asks,
    "When will the envelopes be out?"
That broke my concentration
on watering the plants and doing laundry!
Realizing she thought I was the Church Office,
I responded, "First Sunday of the new year"
and she hung up.

On my answer machine,
                  a woman did identify herself
                  but after listening three times,
                  I could not make out the name.
"When are you going to deliver
food to my house? The Junior Warden
said he would and he hasn't."
I knew the same message
was on the Junior Warden¹s voice mail.
I knew he had NOT spoken with her.

Downstairs in the Parish House
I heard very loud marching band music.
A drummer had made a reservation
to practice his drumming for one hour.

There was the morning
a fight rolled down the hill
     from Walnut Hill Park
     across West Main St
     into our front yard
resulting in simultaneous 911 calls
                  from the Church Office
                  the lawyer's office
                  and the library.
The bloodied credit card found in the church parking lot
was given to the police.

There had long been a drain problem
in the kitchen.
A rectangle cut out of the floor
revealed a disgusting sight that dictated
two stoves, a dishwasher, refrigerator and
stainless steel table be moved out, then
the floor jackhammered (That was impressive!)
And all through this "no kitchen" time
    September through January,
Thursday Morning Mingle carried on.
Fifty to eighty to one hundred people
who have to leave homeless shelters
at 7 am every morning
were kept warm, surrounded by community and served
     coffee, orange juice, French toast,
     pancakes or egg sandwiches.

In the midst of all this,
the decision is made.
All five signatures are on the Letter of Agreement.
The announcement in two parishes is timed.

Our expectations have become real,
colored at times by stained glass,
quiet and reflection appreciated,
spirits lifted by music;
and values shifted.

Relationships have become central.
We work with people who have names and stories,
        not  "the homeless."
We are helped by those storied and named people.
We stand by as things go wrong.
We share their joy as they move
        into apartments of their own.
We greet them as they come back,
        feeling better about themselves.

We minister with,
         not to,
         not on behalf of,
         not for
but with...and do so as part of
a now counter culture
intent on being quick to listen,
doers of the word
affirming with James that
         God is here and now
                  and simply,
                          loves all.

TRANSITION MATTERS

TRANSITION MATTERS

          From a parish in transition, Vestry member Brenda Dlugoleski writes about an actual experience put to rhyme and she tells us "Many times we are comfortable where we are, but need a push for our own good. We need to listen and be open to the word of God, lest we get stung. "

                                                                                Read, enjoy and move with those pushes,

                                                                                          Barbara A.Campbell
                                                                                          Connecticut's Diocesan Poet

I Thank the Lord for the Little Bee

         by Brenda Dlugoleski
         St. Mark's, New Britain

I thank the Lord for the little bee
That buzzed my face
And made me flee
My reading place.

I sat with my cat under a tree,
A book in hand,
Sipping my tea.
The day was grand.

From nowhere came the annoying bee
Too close in flight
To look at me -
I took a swipe.

Enough! I thought, as it dove again
I'm sure, to prove
He'd cause me pain.
I made the move.

To the steps, my cat and I did flee
To read my book
and sip my tea.
I was so shook.

It was then I heard the first sharp snap!
A squirrel, I think.
Another whack!
What's on the brink?

The cat seemed not the least bit flustered.
No flicking tail
Or filibuster.
No clawing nails.

There was suddenly, with much ado,
A mighty crack!
The feline flew,
Hair up on back.

A branch came crashing past leaves and limbs,
And came to rest
Where we'd just been.
I do not jest.

I looked to the cat in disbelief
Then to the branch
In sheer relief
I'd done the dance.

It would have been a catastrophe
If we had stayed,
And was no bee
To swat away.

Poetry for 2015 into 2016

Poetry for 2015 into 2016

Poetry you have written, perhaps in sync with the Christmas spirit, in sympathy with the flowering trees that think it is Spring, in prayerful reflection on the situations of refugees, or in appreciation of learning the name of a homeless person who accepts the coffee you offer, is welcome here.  

Also welcome are the poetic voices of those of us in parishes in transition.  What does it feel like to, temporarily we hope, be the lay persons with "in-Charge" after our  names?

Send such poems and others fresh out of your printer to me at campbellba@earthlink.net.  (Temporarily I hope) I can't open the gmail address you may have.

Peace and keep writing,

Barbara A. Campbell

Connecticut' Diocesan Poet

           

            Sometimes the Gospel is direct inspiration as Mark 13:1-8 was for Garth A. Myers when he heard it read at Trinity Episcopal Church, Wethersfield.  He wrote “Shine like All the Brightness of the Sky" while sitting in the pew and he hopes to set these words to music.

           

Shine like All the Brightness of the Sky

Poem/Song by Garth Myers, Trinity Episcopal Church, Wethersfield

Inspired by Gospel Mark 13:1-8

Shine like all the brightness of the sky

Shine like rays of sunlight on the land

Rejoice in the path of this one life

Rejoice in all the fullness of your time

Goodbye to all the pain on the earth

Farewell to every weight that holds you down

Give birth to a new and lighter day

Good morning to an age of perfect peace

            We can dream our way

            Past all the buildings tumbling down

            We can dream our way

            Through the blood in which we drown

            If we can’t dream, we fall apart, break our hearts

            Drop back into the pit where we start

A thin black line that stretched from end to end

We know how thin and easy to break

Link arms and hold each one of us up

Together raise the good news cup

And shine like all the brightness of the sky

Shine like rays of sunlight on the land

Rejoice in the path of this one life

Rejoice in all the fullness of your time

Rejoice

********************

Sometimes poems are shared as signs of encouragement and and community.  Aldon Hynes' poem was written on a church retreat at Camp Incarnation and sent to Jane Mansfield Bouvier who responded with one of her own.

The Retreat

by Aldon Hynes
Grace and St. Peter's, Woodbridge

It had been thirty years
since I last came
to this wooded camp.

I was living in the city then
going to church
with hundreds 
of young men and women
artists and businessmen
trying to find themselves
in their crazy twenties
in a crazy city.

I was trying to find something then too,
God, friendship, myself, meaning.

I was awkward.
I was other.
I only fit in,
around the edges.

What would the camp be like
for me
thirty years later?

Then, 
I came,
seeking 
a blessing.

At this retreat
we came
to practice
pronouncing blessings.

Blessed are you
o road,
that has carried
so many school buses
and church vans,
so many hopes
and fears
to these
hallowed woods.

You’ve been repaved
so many times
over the past
three decades,
May you continue to be
a path
to those who seek.

Blessed are you,
o acorns.
Your ancestors
were buried
by forgetful squirrels
when I was here last.

May your descendants
continue to fall
punctuating 
the reflections 
of other
retreatants

Blessed are you
o squirrels
running from tree to tree
following ever bending
paths, 
performing 
leaps of faith
we wouldn’t dare.

Your great great grandparents
leapt from tree to tree
the same way
years ago.

May your faith 
and playfulness
live in your grandchildren
and continue to inspire
those yet to dome.

Blessed are you,
o buildings,
so many the same,
though renovated,
and some new.
May you continue
to shelter the seeker
and provide memories.

On the deck,
in quiet meditation,
we looked at the trees
the way
I’ve sat
and looked
at paintings
in art museums.

By the lake
I’d often swum
a piece of bark
rested
on the outdoor altar,
it’s probably now been moved
during a Eucharist.
What does this altar
have in store
for me?

Perhaps, 
I’m finding,
what I was 
truly looking for
three decades ago,
not some great insight,
friendship,
or goal,
but the beauty 
of always
finding 
and always 
being found,
the beauty
of always
blessing,
and always 
being blessed.

 Chapel on the Green
   by Jane Mansfield Bouvier

The morning rain ends.
Sun breaks through the clouds above the New Haven green.
The trees proclaim autumn in bold orange, red, and gold.
We are here to celebrate Mass with the homeless.
The congregation gathers on the green.
John, a professional drummer, arranges volunteer musicians.
They sit in a semi-circle before blue plastic containers.
They will beat a rhythm with drumsticks to the hymns.
“We Shall Overcome” is first.
There is much to overcome.
There is homelessness, poverty, stigma.
There  is mental illness and addiction.
There are physical limitations.
We sing with conviction.
Our pastor gives the eulogy.
She says, “Every life is precious.”
She says, “ You are all made in the image of God.”
She exhorts the congregation not to be silent.
The prayers of the faithful follow.
One man prays for a friend about to have surgery.
Another prays for the homeless community.
A woman prays for all the soup kitchens in the city.
One man prays for the two people he stole from.
On and on go the prayers of the faithful.
They will not be silenced.
More prayers and the sign of peace.
We move about, acknowledging each other's presence.
We say, “Peace to you,” and “God bless you.”
The communion wafer is dipped in grape juice instead of wine.
Our pastor explains this is out of respect for those fighting addiction.
After communion, we sing.
“Amazing Grace” is the hymn.
I clear the lump from my throat and join in.
We are a community.   

****************

May the litany below put you in a good place for continued writing of poetry.

V:  We who play with words and are played with by your             Word,

R:  Gracious Lord, hear us.

V:  From drivel and saying the obvious,

R:  Good Lord, deliver us.

V:  When phrases stick in our minds,

R:  Help us develop them.

V:  When metaphor expresses the truth even better,

R:  Guide it home.

V:  When we're stuck,

R:  Send us another word, or three or four.

V:  Teach us to appreciate community,

R:  And ask for editing.

V:  Help us to accept when the poem really ends,

R:  Gracious Lord, hear us.

Cookout in the Courtyard, Part 2

Continuing Poetry from Cookout in the Courtyard

            We opened then with a haiku about lights at dusk.  Now from Liz Massey of St. Mark’s, New Canaan, we have critters, (black and white with tail raised?  read on!) playing in the woods and on the road also at dusk.  With the second poem, Liz accepted the invitation to write poems in accordance with daily themes of General Convention 2015.  Her hourglass shaped poem on the theme of Praise was read, excerpted, during the liturgy on the second day of General Convention.

VOYAGERS

by Elizabeth T. Massey

St. Mark’s, New Canaan, CT

dusk draws out night wanderers

shadows on the black road’s meanders

between darker ash foreboding sight

midsummer eve plays out late

tag and hide-and-seek for adolescent

foragers in the woods

headlights glaze their eyes

spotlight their white capes

their ebony bodies merged

what do they know of danger

that noisy beast bearing

down fast rattling them

one raised tail signs scatter

they scramble tumble bump

new taste fear of the unknown

the beast stops confused     five

innocents running this way and that 

the heart within the beast heaves

loves sheer loveliness     asks

bright stars crescent moon to caress

blessed union one with the other

beast and babies move apart

depart     safe homes draw

to other conjunctions 

PRAISE

THE  COSMIC  HOURGLASS

Homage to George Herbert

When God Creator in loving word and deed rendered planet earth

He packed it full of sky, leaping crags, green hills, and sea

With two joyous humans adding notes of mirth

Until a heart-deep sadness came to be

By dint of sin, and thereby dearth

For you, my dear, and me

Of selfless love.

Instead, death

The end of peace above

The braided funeral laurel wreath

No longer sail of angels’ wings to hove

Our frail craft safe to shore, but dark-eyed stealth

Tracking us error by error away from heaven’s starry trove.

Then - in time - the son descended to the world’s morass 

To bring a message full of lasting hope and cheer,

Birthed by Abba and Mary (full of class)

With stalwart Joseph standing near,

A youth who would surpass

All other boys down here.

Jesus at last

He did become

The throat of the hourglass

That spins encompassing the sun

The moons, the comets, the galaxies en masse

That sends new-born souls down and draws back ones

Abba and the Spirit inspire to navigate life’s shoals and into heaven pass.

Elizabeth T. Massey

St. Mark’s Church, New Canaan CT

Poem read during Prayers of the People at Eucharist, General Convention, Day 2, 2015.

Poets' Cookout 2015

Poets’ Cookout            July 2115

            In spite of rain in the morning and the continued threat of afternoon rain, poets met outdoors in the Courtyard of St. Mark’s, New Britain to enjoy a cookout and learn about reading poetry theologically from Wendy Lyons and Liz Massey who had taken a summer course at Yale.  Poetry was heard from poets of Grace and St. Peter’s, Woodbridge; Holy Trinity, Enfield; St. Mark’s, New Canaan; St. Paul’s, Plainfield; St. John’s, East Hartford; Old St. Andrew’s, Bloomfield; and St. Mark’s, New Britain.

            Merrill Gonzales introduced us to the evening’s reading with a haiku of evening lights.

            Kathy Carle read a portion of her trilogy entitled INNOCENT which, by focusing on a burnt piece of wood from a church burning, tells part of the story of the genocide in Rwanda.  The Christ figure formed becomes integral to the plea to “Take it to America, let them see, let them hear.”

            The Rev. Jim Bradley sent us a poem written for the Life Profession of Shane and Elizabeth founding a new Episcopal order called The Companions of St. Mary the Apostle (for Mary Magdalene) at Holy Cross, West Park, N. Y.

            Barbara Campbell, riveted to the horror of the shootings in the church at Charleston, S. C., relives working for the church “the year after the Governor stood in the schoolhouse door” at the University of Alabama, Tuscaloosa.  What rings loud and clear is the line from the Confession that we be forgiven for “the evil done on our behalf.”  Keep in mind the events described happened when Joe Namath had just received his first professional football contract and was being driven around campus in a limousine, when Bear Bryant was the football coach, and when the only air conditioned dorm on campus was for male athletes.

Read, ponder and do keep writing poetry,

Barbara A. Campbell

Connecticut's Diocesan Poet

Haiku

by Merrill Gonzales

St. Paul’s, Plainfield

evening delight
fireflies competing with
the garden LED's

*******************

INNOCENT

                     by Kathy Carle

                St. Mark’s, New Britain

In the Craftsman’s cellar workshop

neatly laid out are the bits, burrs, buffers he uses

to smooth, sand, debride a stump or branch

he chances upon in his walks,

and in one corner “Innocent Observance,”

a huge section of bark from a singular tree,

at the heart of it a figure with a history of disaster.

Come late to church, a young man named Innocent was in time to watch helplessly

as his church, 650 women and children locked inside, was burned to the ground. Those who tried to escape were hacked to death by Hutus.

A small tree next to the church had been charred. Innocent pulled it up by its roots and fled to the hillside. Shocked into insensibility,

he neither ate nor drank for two days.

When he regained himself, in his hands was a Christ

carved from the wood of the tree.

A traveler returning brought this directly to the Craftsman. She told how Innocent had given it to her:

“I can’t have it here; each time I hold it

I hear the screams unbearably.

Take it to America,

let them see,

let them hear.”

    The Craftsman mounted the Christ

on his large vee of bark in the shape of Africa

ascending , swirling like a whirlwind of fire.

The Christ nestles in the rift at its heart.

The twinning of two woods – dark char figure against the lighter inner bark of this other tree – tells of fire as destroyer and creator.

Human in agony, pain twisting the length of his face, He stretches his arms upward

and outward, both in supplication and in blessing.

Forgive them, for they know not what they do.

**************************

PROFESSION

by James G. Bradley
7-21-15

Not just an occupation,
though that is the usual definition.
Oh, no, more than that, much more.

“Profession” as a verb, not a noun,
is wondrous indeed.
To avow, to declare, to promise--
“profession” leads into all sorts
of nonsense and wonderment and joy.

To actually 'say so' about
what your lives will be and consist of
and contain.

To 'profess' opens up the possibility
of a future you speak into being.
A future that wouldn't have happened
otherwise, until you spoke it.

Few people in the world
make such a 'profession'--
speak a future and a life
into being like that.

And today you two do.

Astonishing, memorable, inspiring,
full of being and hope and wonderment.
Like that.
Thank you for going to the edge
of what you can know and see
and then stepping off.

And I know, as you step off into what
is not known, not knowable,
you will be caught by loving arms
or learn how to fly.

***********************

50 Years of Reflection                       

and then Charleston

Barbara A. Campbell

Connecticut’s Diocesan Poet

July 2015

I arrived

the year after

“the Governor stood in the schoolhouse door”,

   painted line on the sidewalk still visible.

National Guard had prevailed.

Blacks did enter that door

   and registered for classes

   at the University of Alabama, Tuscaloosa.

I stood

in that same Field House

   when the symphony came to play,

rising for the office of governor

   when he entered to join the audience.

I sat as quickly as possible.

The game in the balcony continued,

   “There’s one.”

   “No, he’s OK.  He’s faculty at Stillman.”

And so on to identify

   the 5 or 6 Blacks in the audience

   of 1000 or so.

I ate

   for the first time

   French fried sweet potatoes

in the restaurant

while the Imperial Wizard

of the Ku Klux Klan

was dining there.

I entered

the State owned Green Front store,

   a door for Whites,

   another door for Blacks,

and paid for my bottle of wine

at the one cash register.

I noticed

a car

always parked across the street

a man sitting in it,

watching my apartment.

I called

the Tuscaloosa Police

who came

and told me

“If you want to buy a gun,

we’ll teach you how to use it.”

I drove

my car full of college students,

White and Black,

to a conference

at Sewanee, the University of the South,

   with a list of restaurants

   where a mixed group

   could safely eat.

I watched

   the Crimson Tide Homecoming Parade.

Tuscaloosa High School Band marched.

I asked,

   “There’s a band at Druid City High School.

     Why aren’t they marching?”

I was told,

   “Barbara, you don’t understand.”

And then I remembered

   the fraternity float

   with the brothers

   as 9 Supreme Court Justices

   in blackface.

I encouraged

   university students to tutor Blacks

   in reading

   so they could register to vote.

Those students,

   sons and daughters of plantation owners,

   plantation owners

      who would stop paying tuition

       if they knew

      what their sons and daughters were doing.

Each evening as we entered the University building,

   a man was just leaning against the tree,

      watching.

   Klan or White Citizen’s Council,

      we never knew.

The University withdrew permission

   for use of the University building

   for tutoring purposes.

So we moved to Canterbury Chapel.

My seminary classmates

   marched in Birmingham,

   were arrested,

   put in jail.

Students came to me.

   “Bishop Carpenter is doing nothing

      to get them out of jail.

      Barbara, what are you going to do?”

“I’ll go visit them.”

And I was stopped.

   “You have Connecticut plates on your car, “

     the Chaplain said.

A trip to Tuscaloosa City Hall

   got me Heart of Dixie plates.

A student put them on my car for me.

“Now I’ll go.”

And again the Chaplain stopped me.

   “I forbid you...No, I can’t forbid you.

    You can’t go on working time –

     only on your day off.”

Saturday was 5 days away.

I learned

   I could make a person to person phone call

   to a prisoner in the Birmingham Jail.

Steve was glad to hear from me.

They were being well taken care of.

Would be released,

by Saturday, my day off.

I watched

   as the Chaplain’s Black maid

   worked all morning in his house,

and after lunch,

   walked with his wife to teach

   at the nursery school the church ran;

the Chaplain proudly proclaiming,

   “I pay Mattie out of two different budgets,

   so I don’t have to pay Social Security

   though she for us works fulltime.”

I was invited

   to spend Thanksgiving

   with Bishop Carpenter and his family.

I watched

   his Black maid

   walk behind our chairs at the dinner table

   serving us vegetables

   from the sterling silver dish

   as the bishop carved, very nicely,

   the turkey

   and a Smithfield ham.

After she finished doing the dishes,

   the bishop drove her home in his Rolls Royce.

There was no bus transportation

   in Birmingham.

This month

   all those doors

   within me

   were opened again.

Wednesday Night Bible study.

The stranger welcomed in.

“They were so nice to me.”

Nine counts of murder,

   three of attempted murder.

“We forgive.”

Confederate battle flag

   comes down.

You don’t understand.

And then Obama’s eulogy –

If we knew the AME

we’d know

AME doesn’t make a distinction

between pastoring and public service.

You don’t understand.

We knew exactly what we were doing

   as we did it.

Why else would there be

   one cash register,

   or a score card

      at symphony,

   or a university

      distancing itself

      from reading?

  

 What if

   we stopped distinguishing

   between sacred and secular,

   between ours and the other,

   stopped believing

   in whatever binary you want to set up.

What if

   we accepted

   our actions show the truth.

What if

   our actions,

      not our words,

   say,

“All are loved.”