Some do not believe people have souls.
They are biological literalists,
accepting only what their eyes can see,
their fingers touch,
and their ears hear.
Perhaps they are right.
Maybe the ache I feel is merely chemical reactions
in my brain, synapses firing in my nervous system,
and the natural result of my body reacting to both.
That could be all there is to it.
But I believe that my soul is aching today.
It is an ache beyond just the natural consequences of
living a life in a world filled with pain and sorrow.
It goes beyond, at least for me, the physiological.
I could be wrong; I know this.
And yet I believe my soul aches
for all the hurt and hate and cruelty I see.
My soul aches for those in grief and mourning.
My soul aches for this world we call home
and for all love and life lost.
Yes, it is just a belief and I have no empirical proof,
but my soul aches.
Tags: Poetry, soul
I hear them breathing
and in the dim light of the luminescent clock,
I see the gentle rise of the covers and
their subtle movements
walking to their room,
the cold of the hard floor on my feet
had seeped into my heart,
but it was not cold enough to numb
the panic I felt.
kneeling in my underwear by their bed.
at 4:00 a.m.
things are better than I thought
mom and dad are here, asleep,
and I know I am not alone.
the terror invoked by my dreams recedes.
touching their sleeping feet -
just to make sure,
I turn and tiptoe back to bed,
I will sleep again,
the dreams will return,
but for now,
for just this moment,
I am not afraid.
This is perhaps my favorite Easter poem.
Make no mistake: if He rose at all
it was as His body;
if the cells’ dissolution did not reverse, the molecules
reknit, the amino acids rekindle,
the Church will fall.
It was not as the flowers,
each soft Spring recurrent;
it was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled
eyes of the eleven apostles;
it was as His flesh: ours.
The same hinged thumbs and toes,
the same valved heart
that–pierced–died, withered, paused, and then
regathered out of enduring Might
new strength to enclose.
Let us not mock God with metaphor,
analogy, sidestepping, transcendence;
making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the
faded credulity of earlier ages:
let us walk through the door.
The stone is rolled back, not papier-mâché,
not a stone in a story,
but the vast rock of materiality that in the slow
grinding of time will eclipse for each of us
the wide light of day.
And if we will have an angel at the tomb,
make it a real angel,
weighty with Max Planck’s quanta, vivid with hair,
opaque in the dawn light, robed in real linen
spun on a definite loom.
Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,
for our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are
embarrassed by the miracle,
and crushed by remonstrance.