PHARAOH'S ARMY, ET AL.

When we came to the water's edge . . .
When we sat in the ICU waiting room . . .
When we learned the levees were breached . . .
When we were told we had to wear a yellow star . . .
When we set out on the Trail of Tears . . .
When we felt the walls shaking . . .
When we heard the baying hounds . . .
When we saw the bombers coming . . .
Then . . .

THE WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY

It really had almost nothing to do
with me. I understood that nearly
from the first. Somehow his wife
had wormed it out of him, our liaisons
I mean. I hated her then for that
but now . . . well, time is healing
salve. Had I been in her place . . .
But that is neither here nor there.

The point is I was terrified. Oh,
not the stoning. I really never
thought that it would come to that.
It was the shame, ruin of everything
I was or hoped to be. My father would,
I knew, turn his back on me. And did.

Try to understand. Try to imagine
being snatched from lover's bed,
clutching cloth to cover your
trembling body, being dragged through
streets, then thrown like trash
before the one they called the rabbi.

I knew what they were up to.
I'd heard how they were out
to get him into trouble. Yes,
they used me as their bait.
Men are very good at that,
using us, I mean.

He knelt down then, acted
like he hadn't heard the charge
they brought against me, hadn't
heard their question put to him.

He fingered figures in the dust.
I wish that I could tell you what he wrote.
I cannot. Then he stood and faced them,
calm as an unfluttered flag.
He spoke and knelt again and wrote.

One by one they went away, eyes downcast,
faces sour and sullen. He rose and looked
me in the face. His eyes were bathed
in light. They spoke to me his sorrow,
not contempt. I wonder to this day
what he felt sorry for: for me, for those
who walked away, for all of us,
himself included? Some say when
he was hanging on the cross he prayed
forgiveness for the very ones who'd
hung him up to die. If so, I'm not surprised.
I'm not surprised at all.

(Published in the current issue - October 2012 - of MESSENGER magazine)

THE RACE

Ready       Set       Go
And she explodes into
the downhill dash to the house,
dark hair lifted from her head
by the breeze of her flight.
One Rule: I must give her the usual
head start commensurate with
a margin appropriate to a four-
year-old racing against
her father of thirty-five.
The distance between us narrows,
her arms and legs pump like pistons.
The finish line -- our driveway --
awaits a winner.  This time
she wins, or thinks she does.
I will let her revel in her victory,
knowing, as she does not, that
no matter who gets there first,
I win every time,
each and every time.

LOVE LOST

Classic, perennial theme
of storytellers, song writers,
poets, movie makers.
Always bittersweet, or, to be more
precise, sweetbitter, due to the usual
pattern of felicity giving
way to its opposite.
Always a crowd-pleaser, inducing,
if not tears, at least a rueful sigh,
a sad shake of the head over
what once was,
what might have been if only . . .

I hereby register complaint.
No, a counterview, a rebuttal.
Love is never lost. By its very nature
love is not loseable. Love accumulates,
infuses, multiplies. How did the ancient
song put it . . . many waters cannot
quench it? Yes. And don't forget
that saint from Tarsus who
insisted that it never ends.

It doesn't, not really.
Think back to your life,
your own "lost loves."
See what I mean?

LESSON PLAN

When you are lost in a city
-- not really lost, of course,
but turned around, confused,
unsure, unable to find
your way . . . okay, lost --
you will go up to strangers,
people you would never
ordinarily give a moment's
notice to, and you will
throw yourself into their
care. You will trust them.

If you have never been lost
in a city, you should.

Go, get yourself to a city.
Get good and lost.
Get lost.
Get good.

SONGS IN THE NIGHT

Perry Como used to croon that when
he was worried and couldn't sleep
he counted his blessings instead
of . . . well, you can guess. 
Good for him, I suppose.
I've tried it. Doesn't work.
Mostly I call up the people
I've known, many of them gone:
childhood friends or schoolmates
who may really be gone or
simply grown old somewhere.
Simon and Garfunkel wanted to know
where Joe DiMaggio had gone, and
maybe Perry Como too, even though
they didn't say so.

How about you, Mrs. Robinson,
or whatever your name is? Who do
you miss who has left and gone away?
Hey Hey Hey?

FAITH RESTORED

I don't remember his name
and not much of his story.
Like many others, he needed money,
in his case enough to fill his gas tank.
When, like many others, he assured me
this was just a loan, not a handout,
I tried not to look irritated.

When, a month later, an envelope
post-marked New Jersey came
a check was inside and photos
of his wife and child. Photos!