BUT WE ARE WARY

tonight, the last night of the old year
we stroll the beach,
older,
appreciating each other more,
soberly thoughtful.

Sand encrusted,
beached by receding
tides of days,
this old year lies spent,
wizened in the sun

shall never rise
to volleyball or swim again
slow cycle spent,
profits won
losses counted
by tasks undone
or executed poorly
to be forgiven
and begun again

tomorrow,
surfing in upon a curling wave,
a new year,
muscular and bronze
lithe and lean,
reckless and brave.

but we are wary,
we know the tides,
they wax
before they wane again.


by c van gorkom

I CANNOT LOVE

I cannot love you pure
nor can you love me innocent

His pen
the pen that wrote the Bible
is dipped into the holy water
that we drink---
a disease
a medicine
an ink

His words
though now disolved
liquid smoke
still circumscribe
our shattered firmament

bind the broken contract
we wrote
that only a cross-hung saviour
can unshrugging bear

bends our wishful loves
to the greater broken there
pure and innocent


by c van gorkom

BIRTHDAY SIXTY

who is a greater friend than you,
who will stay with me
from the beginning to the end?

I have known your presence,
I have felt your pleasure,
your blessing upon me:

we walked together in the slums,
the Desperate put their guns away,
but then came one from behind,
held his knife to my throat;
you made him laugh
at my bloody jokes.
He put his knife away
in laughter
and we walked on
in prayers and praising;

over and over again people heard
your voice
even brought me money and food,
heard your voice,
I watched them turn to follow you

once in hunger I prayed
along an Ohio highway---
you provided a fresh sandwich
from thin air--
ham and cheese on white bread--
I wasn’t going to eat it ,
shocked at pork and bleached flour,
but I heard you laugh,
that was food enough,
and we both were satisfied.

you have answered my prayers
with earthquakes,
my enemies with death,
quieted storms
around my tossed canoe
instantly restored my broken thumb,
raised me from the valley of death
with no memory of pain.

you brought me friends and helpers,
jobs and customers
as I needed them,
shall I now cast you away,
or trade you for another?
all that I am,
I owe to you.

surely your goodness and mercy
have followed me
all of my days,
may I live in your house
forever?



by c van gorkom

CHRISTMAS THE HERALD

Every Christmas I ask
“Is this the last one?
have not maggots
and worms of avarice
polished white
the last bone?”

Man always needs a holiday,
a break from work,
the economy can always
use an orgy
of materialistic consumerism,
a fish dried
over a smoky fire,
a shrivelled pickle
in a jar,
a seasoning tradition.

Christ is cut and broken
every Christmas,
a condiment served with cheese
and crackers with wine,

but this speaks only
of corporate memory,
Jesus really was born a man
who lived and died
and rose again,

not really fish dried,
or pickles in a jar,
a real king who shall come
again,
heralded by a real star.



by c van gorkom

NORTH SONGS OF HOPE

the fierce North Wind outside
sings lullabies
with Snow Mary
for Ice Baby Jesus
swaddled warm in caribou,
lying in a sealskin bed

Flakes fly all around,
moths with crystal wings
flutter in kennel fish-oil light,

a choir in my stove fire
sings “glory, glory, glory
to God in the highest,
on earth, peace
to men of good will...”

across the moonlit snow,
tracks of wise men in mukluks
go, seeking Him the star
foretold
who parts sky-falling curtains
of colour
legended by ancient tongues
orally passed down
from prophets of old:

“The hope of all mankind has come,
Jesu the Saviour is born,
Jesu is born!”


by c van gorkom

FROM THE DYING TO THE DEAD

Today I heard a sick and dying man
who rose staggering, stand swaying
after his dad’s funeral
with only a small pocketful
of words left in his life to speak,
honor his father before the gasping crowd.

Each word was a five pound sledge,
the chipped blade
of a rusty knife,
or a twisted length of greasy baling wire,

told with these tools
the hard man his father was,
the patient, loving dad he became
by virtue of his Saviour,
God of redeeming fire,
refining flame.


by c van gokrom

FORETELLING TOLD

A river begins
beneath mountain
glaciers and snow,
seeps down
broken, colden,
cracken stone,
gathers deep below,

in music drop-dripping
into pools
in echoing caves,
cascades
from level to level,
sings a private song,
gathers unto itself
as it falls,

grows larger underground
in its own history,
grows,
intentions of God
brooding over a broken
sin-drunken world,

unseen,
but by those who dwell
along His sacred banks,
prophets who slake thirst
or wash in its flowing

who saw first,
thousands of years ago
the unborn Messiah,
Lamb Of God,
slain from before
rock pools formed rivers
in the foundations
of the world.

They knew
little Bethlehem’s glory,
a virgin with a baby,
they heard cries
of innocents slain,
weeping mothers--
find all this in their poems--

prophets who saw
sacrifice, shame, and salvation,
rejoiced in the resurrection,
entered by faith
the past and future kingdom
with bathers and dwellers,
redeemed of all time,
who drink these sacred waters.

by c van gorkom

Miracle

I know a country road
one never walks or drives
in winter;
its snow is seldom plowed,
it leads to no one’s home.

Towards Christmas every year,
when snow is deep and soft,
I try to walk that road at night
towards a solitary
street lamp always lit
while I pray and listen,
watch in silence
for a touch of nativity,
advent of Divine agony
or glory,
seek epiphany of love,
feel the hand of God

Tonight I watch snow flakes
from heaven fall,
twirling dancers,
random blessings,
in this cone of light,
mid-winter’s soft cocoon

I have known the approach of God
by tears,
but tonight I pray and pray--
another year has gone by
since I was here,
why am I so distant,
dull my hearing,
hard my heart--
make me once again
a poet of your beauty,
Lord.

Then suddenly I heard faintly
growing louder the ringing
of little bells,
yes, little bells ringing
at midnight
in the wilderness of no place
people are

Is it angels singing
in silver voices,
or cows with bells
stirring on a farm
far across the river?

Could that river be of stars,
that silver singing still rise
from the very stable?


by c van gorkom

QUANTUM CONCERT FOR ADVENT

In the beginning
the violins were out of tune,
indeed, there were no violins,
no tune.

The stage was dark,
no one could see,
the stage was not
even in the building,
there was no building.

There was only Maestro God.

When He lifted His baton,
nothing listened,
nothing was ready.

No one saw the descisive God-like
down beat
or heard the command
“BE”

Yet instantly
a stagelight
flashed on in the darkness,
the stage itself appeared
in a concert hall filled
with breathless watching angels.

The Maestro swung his baton
at the empty stage,
on beat commanded “BE”,
colours never seen
exploded into a garden
of flowers and trees

Music began with the sound
of tumbling shore-line waves,
chuckling brooks,
wind in the trees,
rising and falling
like the breathing
of a new-born planet.

On the Maestro’s fifth
mighty swinging command
to “BE”,
clouds of singing birds
teemed tree and sky
schools of fish
teemed in the sea.

Bird song rose and fell
in waves of leaf-rustling wind.

The Maestro smiled
at his creation’s musical swell,
his symphony was playing well.

For the finale,
beat number six
of his commanding baton,
the crowning creative
pronounciation of “BE”,

filled the garden with animals
of all kinds and sizes, furs and hooves,
paws and claws,
and then,

then man made his grand entrance,
cosmic rafters rang
with applause
that went on and on;

Two beautiful creatures,
male and female,
made in the Maestro’s image,

each with their own song,
each with their own baton.