Quest

We have stretched arms to the heavens

  in hopes of touching

  the holy face of God.

We have traveled the seas unrelenting,

  in hopes of finding the Spirit

  that would carry us as the waves on which we were carried.

We have walked the earth unforgiving,

  upon rock as hard as hearts

  in hopes of finding the Rock that would not be broken.

And within the fleeting efforts of our toils,

  we laid our heads to rest.

And in the quiet and still of night,

  with arms drawn in,

  the waves stilled,

  the earth cooled,

 We have found the essence of our seeking,

  to be closer than the breath in which we breathe.

Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh

To the Man on Mansfield Street  

       by Catherine Chandler

I have imagined countless reasons for

your sleeping on the hotel heating vent ---

a lengthy layoff, months of unpaid rent,

a gambling debt, divorce, a private war . .

Or was it something darker, maybe drink,

a need to fill your veins with heroin;

insanity, a secret or a sin

you wouldn’t whisper to a priest or shrink?

The morning traffic soon will wake you up;

you’ll check there’s nothing missing from your bag;

you’ll bind your blisters with a dirty rag

and later gauge the clinking in your cup.

I see the bright-eyed boy you surely were;

I see the tender infant, newly-born,

the Baby who, before the cross and thorn,

was given gold and frankincense and myrrh.

Unlike the offerings of wiser men,

all that I give you is a cigarette,

the time of day, some change, my mute regret

that begs to differ with the word, Amen.