Hang Me Among Your Winds

Hang Me Among Your Winds

Hang me among your winds, O God,
     Above the tremulous stars,
Like a harp of quivering silver strings,
     Showering, as it swings,
          Its tuneful bars
     Of eerie music on the earth.

Play over me, God,
     Your cosmic melodies;
The gusty overture for Spring's
     Caprice and wayward April's mirth;
          The sensuous serenade
     Of summer, languid in the alder glade;
          The wistful symphonies
     Of Autumn; and Winter's rhapsodies
          Among the drifted dunes --
     Her lullabies and her torrential tunes
Moody with wild cadenzas, with fitful stress
          And poignant soundlessness.

Touch me, O God, with but a gesture --
     And let each finger sweep
Over my strings until they leap
     With life; and rain
Their silver chimes upon the plain,
In harmonies of far celestial spaces
     Of high and holy places.

~ Lew Sarett

From my mother's poetry notebook

April Music

April Music

Thy lyric sound of laughter
Fills all the April hills.
The joy song of the crocus,
Thy mirth of daffodils --

They ring their golden changes
Through all the azure vales;
The sunny cowslips answer
Athwart the reedy swales.

Far down the woodland aisleways
The trillium's voice is heard;
The little wavering windflowers
Join in with jocund word.

The white cry of the dogwood
Mounts up against the sky;
The breath of violet music
Upon the breeze goes by.

Give me to hear, O April,
These choristers of thine
Calling across the distance
Serene and hyaline,

To clear my clouded vision,
Bedimmed and dulled so long,
And heal my aching spirit
With fragrance that is song!

-- Clinton Scollard

From my mother's poetry notebook

How Beautiful The Feet

How Beautiful The Feet
by Genevieve Glen, OSB

Along each dusty road and busy street
the gospel walks on tired and wounded feet
whose tread is steady though the road is long.
The sound of herald footsteps falls as song
on those who labor in the heavy heat
of life grown burdensome, which once was sweet.

A freshness follows when the footsteps come
and play surprising music through the hum
of boredom making noise to hide the sound
of fear that lurks behind the daily round
and whispers that of all life's hours the sum
is empty beating on a hollow drum.

The steps awaken hidden hymns of praise
which murmur, spring-like, at the heart of days
that suddenly remember hopes which grew
in future's endless fields when life was new.
Their seeds in dark earth stir and dare to raise
green shoots that startle jaded, jaundiced gaze.

The footsteps gather crowds that run behind,
astounded at the beauty that they find
in words that sing of other ways than those
that lead the disillusioned to suppose
there is no life beyond the dreadful grind
that starves the soul and stultifies the mind.

But no pied piper, this, with jaunty air
to lure us to the place where dreams despair
before the gates of death that once stood shut.
These footsteps that we follow, bleeding, cut
a passageway that leads us out to where
life's music catches fire -- for God is there.

[Oh, God bless Genevieve Glen!!!  Thank you, GG, for your inspiring and nourishing poetry!!!]