Rabbi

For his birthday I took
ambrosia to the Rabbi
boxed in a recycled
Smithfield Ham container.

He will be, mid bite
the last spoon of the sweet fruit
being ladled into his
peyos-centered mouth
when the kosher bell
rings in his brain.

Gingerbread Village

Gingerbread Village

In every gingerbread village
there is a house exploded
the walls are pounded out
and the roof has fallen in
from the weight of the adornments
and the lack of interior support.

Such a house sits in close
proximity to God’s house
within sight and song.
Parishners pass it every Sunday
on their way to pray,
pitying the people who lived there,
though they never knew them.

The wrecking crew will come
and remove the candy carcass
the ginger sticky walls
the green jellied bushes
the jolly peppermint windows
the coconut snow

Left behind will be
a vacant lot, a foil floored hole
gaping in the community,
where the labors of the
home builders are forgotten
even though nobody really knew them.

©Judy Eurey

Lonely Battlefield

On this lonely battle field
I think of home

The roses by the front gate
which prick the visitor
The deep well, from which we have
drawn our cool water
The worn path to and from
the brown barn, where the cows stand nodding after milk time
The apple tree in the side yard,
and eating the small green bellyaches
my tree in one arm
my friend in the other,
spitting forbidden snuff
to the bee sting on my shoulder
The rasp of the chickens scratching
the hard pan under the eave of the house
The mew of the yellow cat
and her inches long kits
The gobble of old Tom
too tough a bird for a Thanksgiving meal

I think of home, the careless days,
the wicked nights,
the domestic skirmishes ending in door slams and
new day mornings, hugs and a cup of coffee,
cigarette breath,
and a kiss on my neck

I think of home
and
I hold these jewels of memory
as my sacred sacraments
eating and drinking them
in Great Thanksgiving,
because they are life giving to me

a way to transcend
this lonely battlefield

Peter! ?

(Meditation on Mark 1: 14-20)

What was in his voice, the turn of head,
the light in his eye,
that made a man to drop his life
as if it were a lie?

In what frame does such a
picture grow,
where family and funds are
loathed, abandoned, cut?

To end in tumbled cruciform
with beaten brow and chest
instead with nest of Spirit
to eat your full life’s best?

To fish for those who do not swim,
to heal and not consume,
to speak the words that drove you thus,
“Come and follow him.”