Bless the President

Bless the president;
Somewhere he heard on the TV
light would cure the plague.

Somehow the contagion
could be stopped by a simple spray,
an injection into the blood.

He got the mechanics wrong.
He mistook a surface for the soul.
We did not need to be injected
with light or a fluid
To learn we are radiant
and redeemed.

Within the waves from when time begun,
the waters of the earth,
the lamb’s costly blood, enough
to echo in the words of The Healer:

This was not meant to be magic,
but the ferociously gentle revelation,
that our salvation
is in our solidarity.

Happiness

Happiness

Jane Kenyon

There’s just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.

It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

Source: Dancing With Joy edited by Roger Housden