Voice of the Stranger
God speaks, and God is to be heard, not only on Sinai, not only in my own heart, but in the voice of the stranger. Thomas Merton
Holy night,
human speech ceasing,
leaves whispering, praising
marsh-reeds swaying
in the gusty breath of God.
Throughout the hot day, lusting
tongues lashed; verbs clashed
through the busy lanes. Fear filled us
as we sought the hidden path.
Just listen
to the night-
song of dark meadows;
spring-swollen showers,
tears of passion,
engorge the sterile land.
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poem by Steven Federle
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First Flight
The young bird hops,
into my open garage.
Head hunched
it studies the veined floor
like a map; lost traveler
cast low from
wooded heights,
and lifts to its mother
a raspy cry.
Too early from the nest
fearful of the sky,
unsure of tender wings,
not able to fly,
it’s helpless.
I want to hold it,
feel its heart
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poem by Steven Federle
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Cain
The delicate action of grace in the soul is profoundly disturbed by all human violence. Passion, when it is inordinate, does violence to the spirit and its most dangerous violence is that in which we seem to find peace. Violence is not completely fatal until it ceases to disturb us. Thomas Merton. Thoughts in Solitude.
Like a delicate wind
your grace shaped my infant soul
filled my emptiness
with angelic form
and I was beautiful
and good
until, jealous for your love,
I slew my brother.
Now I fear the abyss
that opens beneath me
the grave
of my sin-withered soul.
and to you I pray
forgive me! bring me back
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poem by Steven Federle
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Hunter's Hill
Above Columbus Parkway
it rises to the east,
creased with oak
and dry grass,
grazing cattle, bored,
loitering horses,
and the gliding hawk hunting
in the rough granite
and withered timber.
But hidden by high, jagged peaks,
the mute Miwok headman observes
the cattle and the hawk,
and the swift automobile
hissing
down the smooth, black road
below
Hunter Hill.
Author's Note:
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poem by Steven Federle
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Cathartes Aura
Walking to my car
on a warm afternoon
up on the high hillside lot
close to the cliff drop,
I see rising beneath me
the bird,
wings spreading six feet,
head naked and red as blood,
white beak hooking invisible winds
to fill the creamy hollow of under-feather,
lifting on thermals
before my eyes,
when two small blackbirds
dive from unseen heights
and viciously caw as they peck
the black back.
Top guns, fighter aces;
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poem by Steven Federle
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Gate of Heaven
Through rolling green hills, in the bright winter dawn
together we’ll go to this wide winter lawn
over trails anointed by generations of tears
we’ll bring your still heart and at last face our fears.
For this is the field of our lingering pain
terminus for the somber parade
bodies blessed, broken and dressed for the grave.
But then, when the living have gone to warm homes,
you’ll stay in this place under the bright, cold dome
and wait ‘neath the grass of this wind-swept plain
for what will come next; your soul to rise once again.
For this is the field of our lingering pain
terminus for the somber parade
bodies blessed, broken and dressed for the grave.
poem by Steven Federle
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Raking Leaves
Look to the tallest tree
and see how the noon-day sun
glints through slender grey limbs
to where leafless Life contracts
to its tender core
(this year’s ring
complete)
and waits for winter’s storms.
Leaves lie,
golden harvest, luxuriant carpet
to kick and scatter like
brittle snow...
... years ago
playing through long autumn days,
we built castles and smashed them,
diving deep into fragrant mounds
as the incense of burn piles
filled the chilled air of November.
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poem by Steven Federle
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How Shall I Remember You?
How shall I remember you
searching memory’s dark, dry rooms?
Under high ceilings and dim attic lamps
I hear only echoes of my childhood’s lost past.
You’re calling me outside, past the dark screen door
onto the back porch, to watch the gathering evening storm,
and there I see the willow tree, dancing in the wind
its long green leaves thrashing the sky, its supple branches bend
when following its sure, straight path, the lightning struck it down
and, like all things ultimately, smashed it dying into the ground.
Although I’ve searched these dry, long years after both of you had died,
my tears are done, I see the sun, and my flashing anger is now satisfied.
poem by Steven Federle
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The Book of LIfe
"Perhaps the book of life, in the end, is the book of what one has lived and if one has lived nothing, he is not in the book of life. " Merton, Thomas, When the Trees Say Nothing: Writings on Nature
Turn the pages
past the flashy cover
beyond sincere dedications;
what do you
read?
Are there tragedies
lurking in your leafy folds?
Do you struggle, oh Hero,
with sirens and one-
eyed peep-
ing Toms?
Are you triumphant?
In your brief tale,
do you satisfy
harried Plot's demands?
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poem by Steven Federle
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The Palace of The Goveners, Santa Fe
Along the wall,
deep in the shade
of the Palace of the Governors
Indians recline,
casting invisible lines
with slender wooden rods,
nudging their rings of soft green
and glittering silver, hoping
to catch the eye of
a lingering tourist
fishing
for a spark of interest.
But every angler knows
that if you show
your desire,
the fish
will pass you by.
And so they idly glance
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poem by Steven Federle
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