Joseph Lisowski writes

FROM DEATH’S SILENCE [part VIII]

KEEPING FAITH

We limp along at best.

Wounds will heal

if our hearts hold hope.

Scars don't matter

unless we keep examining them,

stop bending toward the light.

One halting step is as good

as a spry one. We move

in spite of echoes, phantoms

along the way.

CAUTION

Day's light accents night's terror--

what darkness I have felt

and wake to! Nothing,

no amount of will, wish, prayer

dispels it. It is heavier

than tropic air that trails

the wrecks of hurricanes.

In the end, little matters.

Pain or suffering does not endure.

Depression inevitably gives way

to high pressure, breezy skies.

I need to be careful

how I tend my wounds.

Sometimes attentive ministry

does not help them heal.

CANTICLE

My wife wanders through the house

opening doors, cupboards, closets,

calling her daughter's name.

It is a strident canticle.

Later, she tells me

that what our psychiatrist said

was wrong

that what our psychotherapist said

was wrong

that grief is the sole significance.

When that's gone,

nothing matters.

REPRIEVE II

My friend calls

and pulls some of the sorrow

1,500 miles through undersea

telephone lines.

He will take it later

to that place in his cellar

where many dreams have died.

They hang on canvases

he's abandoned, in the poems

mislaid, photographs discarded,

and music that no longer plays.

My friend called today

breathing a cold northern wind

that pushed aside this desert sun.

RECENT PHOTO

In a recent photo, my daughter smiles

among hibiscus, bright red in promise.

In the lens, she is close,

mere days before her leaving.

The focus is sharp,

the sun plays off her face.

Her eyes are filled with delight.

PARADOX

We are connected

by the thinnest lines

often unseen and unfelt,

but they are of tungsten steel

so many and strong.

Our stupidity insists we ignore it all.

What demon is in us

that demands only lies,

that demands we are alone?