Where two or more are gathered

Whisper like the twilight on the steps
between Harlow’s Pub and the rest of all
that does not matter

Enter and fingertip the blessed font,
christen your brow with a wash of greetings
holier than mere chatter

Pour a pint over the rim of the chasm
between laughter and the rest of all
that is simple to forget

Linger over bawdy conversation and
love’s perennial promises of kisses that
none could ever regret

Hear poet and player in shadow puppet
story and song in stringed rhythm
plucked without neglect

of days hardly spent and nights’ drumbeats
in vibrant ears, spirits tethered by
the tenuous ring of glass and the deep
longing for music without time

Dream against the daymares that steal
the moments of clarity and strength,
letting heresies loose, embrace the real
in gratitude for each life’s length

and praise the baptismal ale
at the pale end of day


©Bill Gnade
January 2003

Jane's Fingers

If there is a way for him to see
then he sees you cross yourself
below the melody of the organ
and above the silence of the crypt

I close my eyes and see the December
in your smile
I reach to feel Easter in your
smooth reassuring skin

As you cross the aisle looking over your
shoulder flirting with my flaccid hope
of a truly lived love, and a truly
loved life in the simplicity of a snow
flake in December and the April
daffodils as complex as love allows

He sees you cross yourself and kneel
to receive the death of that which is eternal
he sees you surrender to paradox
while the rest of the world settles
for the safe certainty offered by
certain fictions
and the clarity of some cynical truth
explaining so little yet manageable
like the moon in the utterly confounding sky
so clear, illuminating so little

When you climb a hill or lie on a beach
winging in the valley wind or ebbing
with the metered tides, drawing the sun and
surf toward your own gravity

in the union of prayer and faith
crossing the gulf, he sees you
stretch from wing tip to wing tip
from wrist to wrist, aloft with
a certainty only he can see,
and I can only dream
kneeling beside you, eyes closed
legs still touching the questioned earth

©Bill Gnade 2004/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.

Isabella's feet

are easily within reach
of her wordless mouth
happy-quiet in her travel seat
on the knee-swept floor of
this comely church, washed in
all colors, no shape or shadow
in her unblinking wonder at the
unnouned, unverbed world

her face brushed wet
with blue, yellow
redblush sunspots,
a breathing chiaroscuro in Rembrandt pleasure
washing her own feet
of dust she has not yet walked through
in stained glass lightspill she has not yet read
shaken by low tones of the
organ she has not yet heard

©Bill Gnade 2005/Contratimes -- All Rights Reserved.

The Force Of One: Poke And Prod Prose To The Bone

[This post is an addendum to Contratimes Writing Tip #2. What follows was originally written in 2002 for a writing course I led at a small private high school. Having assigned to the senior class the task of writing an essay where only one-syllable words must be used from start to finish, I felt it behooved me to model good form. "The Sound of One" and "To Love The Sky When It Rains", the former written as a sort of rubric and the latter penned for the sheer fun of it, could be models for aspiring writers everywhere. Both pieces are offered here as an example of how powerfully one can write when limiting oneself to small words; as such, they are full of whimsy, I believe, and hence are really prose poems (another reason why they are posted here). I want to thank master teacher and "verbifore" Richard Lederer (he used to teach at the prestigious St. Paul's School in Concord, NH) for first offering this challenge to me when I attended a New Hampshire Press Association awards banquet. His challenge changed my literary life, literally. I hope it will change yours, too. What fun!]

I. The Sound of One

Oh, to write and speak with one sound, clear, pure, bright, quick to the point, not with waste of word, thought or ink. That's the bliss of speech and pen: to tell one's tale or boast of truth in the speed of words that with just one sound lend so much to those who hear; who search for the real. That's the deal!

What is left for a man if he must sift through the stuff of wit that is not one whit wit? Must he shop cheap stores for a truth stripped of the weight of too much said? Can he find a gem that gleams, not one dulled by words made to say more than what is meant?

Think of the grand size of all that is small: truth, love, joy, faith, God! Why bring more than you need on your trip to truth?

Love the loss of more than you need, and you will find that you need less than you love.

II. To Love The Sky When It Rains

I want to hold the rain in the palm of my hand; I want to hold all of the sky: the clouds, the wind, and the deep blue that comes too late. Is there no gift of grace in this dream, this wish to keep what can't be held too close to the heart?

Hear, oh soul, hear the drum of rain on the slick roofs; feel the tap of rain on brim of hat; taste the rains that quench old thirst. Take the cup's clear drink borne on wings of wind and breeze, light and cool. Is rain not made of joy?

In dark times I try to blind my eyes to all that is true. I turn my back on what is good and just, fair and kind. There are days I choose to hate the heat of sun, when I claim that I am my own, lone and strong. But in the dark, fear comes in the knock on the door. In days of hate, fear comes in a kind word or warm laugh, and then I am not so bold to think that I can be hard to the joy that taps on the roof of my soul; that taps on the hold which is my frail heart.

Oh, sweet Faith, think of the Man who is more than man, who made the rain but can't hold what He wrought, for rain falls soft through holes sin spiked through the palms of His hands. He holds the sky and storms and suns, and drops of rain, no doubt, but rain still pours through, rain which lands with the beat of a small drum; like the sound of a light knock on the door, or the slow splash of blood at the foot of a cross.

©Bill Gnade April 15, 2002/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.

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