Peace

Palm Desert

Posted on by stephen t berg / 2 Comments

I’m looking over a golf course in Palm Desert,
the sprinklers have quit, the sun is up, the mowers are out,

as are the dog walkers,
and there is no war here,

and the queen palms and date palms
lean over the asphalt paths like young toughs,

but there is no inner-city here, no ghetto, not that kind,
only a mallard that has 40 acres of lawn to itself,

and last night I dreamt of angels,
not the guardians of cities, with swords aflame,

but of gardens, a thrush on a branch,
a hummingbird in a land of begonias,

and the hummingbird said,
the apocalypse is not the end,

but an integer of hope, and when I awoke,
an unwarranted calmness overcame me

and I read a morning psalm
which seemed to be saying,

the acknowledgement of fear, the owning of doubt,

is already a kind of peace,
and in that cock-crow space,

I could imagine a kind of cleansing
from the victories of my ego, the ashes of selfishness,

and when I turned to look out
I saw the darkness melt

saw life, brilliantly crawling out of the sea,
saw the world turn itself inside out,

and though I came late,
I joined the mushrooming throngs insisting on peace,

such peace, as is here in the desert,
a Mediterranean gecko, motionless, under the awning,
in the absolution of dawn.

Art/Poetry/Prayer

A friend who talks to God

Posted on by stephen t berg / 21 Comments

 

I have a friend who talks to God. Literally, audibly, lifts his head and speaks into the air, prays devoutly, believes it makes all the difference.

Prayer, like art, he says, is formed through friction. It’s a hard yearning, he says, a beggar scanning for home on some opposite shore, a traveler’s recurring dream of an aerial bridge.

We sat, once, in one of his praying spots, an abandoned rowboat, beached and battered.

We smoked Maduros and watched the ebbing evening tide empty the estuary.

In time he turned and said with all tenderness (not a question), what use is your poetry if it fails to meet the cries of war-torn mothers, dying children.

I had been watching a Blue Heron, standing, as though, alone and silent in her own small room, a figure of truth, a flagpole bearing singular loyalty to the stillness of the present moment — and I was undone.

Then he said, by way of comfort and guidance, watch the gulls move through the sea haze, see how they balance sight and instinct — follow that with the nib of your pen.

That is how I pray. I come to this boat and sit, the soles of my feet through the holes in the hull, on shale and shells, and I breathe

to match the tide, slow as the estuary. And the prayer comes as groaning, spears my own heart, then turns, and I follow its grace and compassion into the burning world.

 

~

Happy Barista Day — Encounters

Posted on by stephen t berg / 8 Comments
Today, March 1st is Barista Day

In celebration of all the hard-working, underappreciated, wonderful baristas, that set the tone for our mornings — Happy Barista Day!

Encounters

I

“Good morning! What can I get started for you?”
“Americano, Grande, thank you.”
“Did you see the meteor shower last night?”
“No, totally missed it.”
“It was like the sky kicked over a bucket of stars.”
“Really, wow.”
“Yeah, it was like city lights, far off, then suddenly,
right at your eyes, a lightening of fireflies.”
“Amazing, sorry I missed it.”
“And don’t let them tell you there isn’t accompaniment,”
“What?”
“it was like listening to a drove of xylophones.”
“Crazy — triple shot please.”
“It was like I couldn’t inhabit the moment fully enough.”
“That’s big.”
“It was like seeing my ex-boyfriend flung out into the nebula,”
“Room for cream, please.”
“… while hearing news that his new girlfriend fell through a grate,”
“Debit — thanks.”
“and I’m like, oh, so this is why we have senses. Right?”
“I guess.”
“They say there’ll be another one tonight.”
“I’ll be sure check it out.”
“Oh, you must, it’s like a lesson in how to walk three feet off the ground.”
“That’s some lesson.”
“It’s like having all your beliefs melt into mysteries.”
“Interesting.”
“Isn’t it? You have an excellent day now!”

II

“Good morning dear.”
“Americano, Grande, please.”
Did you see the stars just before dawn?”
“No I didn’t.”
“Oh they were brilliant, you could have plucked them like strings.”
“Really, I’ll need to step outside earlier.”
“Oh yes do, you’ll hear the music of spheres.”
“Remarkable.”
“The original music that launched all language.
“Extra shot please.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I’ve not seen them like that before, brilliant, as to be prescient.
Do you understand?”
“Maybe? — debit, please.”
“Even now I see them. Almost wish them out of my head,
but for the radiance.”
“I’m sure the memory will let up.”
“I feel them watching under the cover of daylight.”
“What?”
“Like angels — receipt?”
“No thank you.”
“Right you are, no use being encumbered.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your drink will be waiting for you at the end of the bar —
don’t read the couplet beneath the cup until you’re finished the coffee.”
“I’m not sure…”
“You’ll be fine, remember, everything finite reveals the infinite.”
“…I follow.”
“Simply follow detachment, the sister of fearlessness,
the child of love, the way of peace, and you’re free, my dear.”

Peace/Resistance/Spirituality/War

Fearful Times Require Fierce Dancing

Posted on by stephen t berg / 18 Comments

Like the old man, Fedil Fejzic, who goes out under the cover of night
to avoid the snipers, to milk his cow,
and each day for 440 days, delivers its milk before dawn
to a young widow with a baby, not even a compatriot.

Or like Noi, tall as a garden fence, and Thorn, her partner,
slightly taller, same smiling disposition,
who each day deliver tins of food to the hovels of Bangkok,
call themselves, “slum sitters,”
call it their calling.

Or like Nelly Stharre who sang her heart,
was burned down in Dominica,
her only threat, singing Jah’s song of Peace and Love.

Or like Mildred Ryder who put on a pair of canvas sneakers,
donned a blue tunic on which she had sown her new name,
Peace Pilgrim,
walked across America five times — 25,000 miles in three decades —
through all the wars, until her death in 81.

Or like the soldier, Logan Laituri,
so struck by the Sermon on the Mount,
was rendered helpless
to pick up a rifle, so offered his body.

Or like Arno Michaels, former white supremacist,
who wrote, Life After Hate,
where he says, his change of heart was nothing so dramatic,
just common association with ordinary people.

People, like the lady in a calf-length woolen jacket,
orange toque pulled over hijab,
who cleans the Save-On parking lot early in the morning,
who I love to say hello to
because she smiles so easily,
and so well.

Like all of us, ordinary people, fearful, angry, 
and just as often, courageous, magnanimous,

who now see: the point at which we feel helpless
about the current crisis, is also the point of truth:
the fierce dance, to pray for justice, for peace,
to act faithfully towards others.

Like the old man who later fell on hard times,
his cow, slaughtered for meat before the end of the siege,
and when approached by a reporter who knew the widow,
his eyes brightened,
his first question, “And the baby, how is she?”