The Diminutive of Grace

Tianjin, Beijing, and Hubei Provence, China 

December 6, 2012; October 1, 2014

For Xiang Wén Yàn (Gracie) and her father, Xiang Heng-Zhu – Grace and Peace

恩典
It can come anywhere,

which is why I travel,

why I make myself

stranger, bumbling

about the far ends,

seeking the epicenter

where subterranean  

grace probes thin places

and could even emerge

from the traffic of Tianjin

which, of course, it does

though we could not

know her just yet, caught

in the converging weave

of bikes and buses, trucks

and cars, each urgent

to shoot through now

to the next knot, and the next

in the wan afternoon light

of a jet-lagged Sunday.

恩典

Travel teaches hard truth –

Great Walls can be blocked

by blizzards, blogspot by

censors, blue sky by smog,

and old men mired in ideology

can meet in museums

by the mausoleum of Mao

to choose among themselves.

  

But Tao blows which way

it will and grace still flows

through whom it will.

Through tiny frames

born to mouse,

or to dragon, farm girls

from Hubei who pack fire

into forty kilos, carrying

a father’s dream through

far cities, sustained

by songs of the Silver River

dividing celestial lovers

on dark nights far from

pavement. By small dogs

and bright days following

father through fields

feeding on stories, lessons

fit for weary souls – When

days grow hard, remember

well the ones who hunger,

mountain children far

from school. And dear

Wén Yàn, do not forget

to feed your buffalo.

恩典
I can still hear her song

soft in my ear, subtle

tones dancing gracefully

around my comprehension.

  

And I can still feel

her coarse silk warmth

resting on my right shoulder

in a tight bus barreling

through what time

we shared, what spirit

that smiles across culture

and binds the wounds of Babel.

恩典
This is why I travel, why

I cross the terminus

into tomorrow, to talk

in darkened halls the idiom

of equations, sharing

PowerPoints and polite

smiles, software suffused

with life-blood, coded bits

of mind, bequeathed.

But Gracie, did I never 
lecture on the math 
of absolute? A fraction

of the infinite
is infinite itself;

the diminutive 
of Grace is grace.

The Dueling Harmonics of Unending Fall

Athens, Georgia

October 2, 2012

1.

Amped by anger

      bankrolled

      by billionaires

righteous fools feed

      on grievance

      spit out blame

ill-tempered tools

      respond

      the same

self righteous tribes

      reciprocate

      offended

minions escalate.

      Impelled

      by honor

social loops resonate

      to unholy

      harmonics

in a world wired close

      and wound

      tight, trolling

the soundtrack of

      triumphalism

      braying 

arias echo the   

      alabaster

      façade

of a once shining city

      set proudly

      on a hill

above the fertile

      fruitless

      plains.

2.

Prophetic words come as cold wind

      to early fall –

            Your noble ideals

wielded without compassion

      are no more than noisy

                  gong and clanging

            cymbal.

3.

Up from rubble wasteland plains

    past the crest of weathered heights

        a rock is rolled to ruined walls

            founded once on noble

                dreams and human flaws

                    repaired with vows

                        and painted

                            cracks.

                         The rock rolls back

            to rubble plains.

                   Squaring shoulders

                          once again

            our Sisyphus descends

alone.

4.

Yet somehow through the centuries

      Saint Paul’s savior

            whispers

                  Love.

 5.

There are autumn afternoons
that would grace eternity, when
echoes of ageless minds penetrate 
prepackaged lives, and strife 
recedes to hush 

         when out of stillness          

             peace descends     

          on dry leaf flurries    

       and tittering cascades    

             of celestial love      

      as a thousand starlings   

           speak in tongues          

               of tiny angels             

           timeless blessings       

               to life joyfully             

                     borne.                        

 6.

When blessed by birds

      and righteous

      ghosts

      a holy

harmonic takes hold

      of hearts

      compelled

      by Love

to wield the tools

      of peaceful

      arts –

      dancing

endless autumn days

      confronting

      endless fall

      of night

committing all to ágape

      through toil

      and play –  

      raising up

large rocks to height

      hard words

      to harmony

      come what

might – through rise

      and fall

      Camus

      and Paul

would claim delight

      set shoulder

      with Sisyphus

      heart-fire

with Love, foregoing

      treasure

      achieving due

      measure

of life nobly worn.

"Leaves and light" by David Noah, Winterville, Georgia