Adventures in the Word

The Magi mapped and marveled at the stars,
their questions probed beyond the earthly sphere,
grown too big for Persian ways, their minds,
nurtured by the stars, soared to find
a stellar path to worship a worthy God.

It surely must have been a brilliant star
that rose one night – a star more radiant
than all the rest, that made them stare
and check their well-worn astral maps,
no Magi ever witnessed such a sight.

Surely King Herod must have marveled when
they asked him where the King of Jews was born –
sincerely they said no common king deserved their gold,
so subtly Herod hid his jealous rage
and vainly asked them to return.

But on the road to Bethlehem when the sun
laid down to rest, the star arose
to escort them with its graceful light,
then slowed and stopped to cast a glow
upon the house where Mary rocked the Child.

And when the caravan arrived
and camels laid their weary heads to rest,
and Magi opened and arrayed their gifts,
how did his little face reflect that light,
what made them bow their hoary heads with joy?

I wonder if that star possessed a special shape,
I wonder if it formed a cross that beamed
two rays: one to God and one to all
mankind – a silent witness like the one where,
at the end, they nailed him and his sign:
   ‘This is the King of the Jews.’

– David Herin

The lowly root unfurls itself, content to live within a darkened
world, it grows a leafless tree, inverted, digging ever deeper
without a map, micron by micron, drenched and vulnerable
with rain, then wrung to dry. Its tapered columns
anchor, buttress, steady its penthouse partner
who sways to a breeze it’ll never feel —
ugly, unseen and unthanked,
soaking, sucking, lifting
microscopic food,
keeping nothing,
giving all for
bright red
blooms
and
fruit
it
can
never
see
.
.
.
all
the
while
it
waits
for
a
seed
.

– David Herin

We walk down halls with unobstructed views,
they call us constantly through windows clear,
and yet we focus on our cluttered rooms
while misty mountain vistas disappear.
Our papa sits ensconced, removed, his eyes
are on his food. My siblings – silent now –
their missing conversations eulogize
the death of life that could have been allowed.
My neighbor sits alone, his fridge is bare,
he numbs himself with fantasies galore –
I know, but can I face my lack of care
and walk outside to knock upon his door?
Our modest Bethels, where God erects a stair,
they often find us humans unaware.

– David Herin

Noah’s rainbow arced across the sky
against the darkened east horizon,
receding from the setting sun – golden
and bowing low to the higher sign –
the fragile arch waves triumphantly.

The red to violet spectrum dares
us reach and touch its colors,
now suspended, embedded in air,
surely such stunning splendors
need not dazzle long, they’re quickly gone.

And in among its folds –
if you could get up close to see
the colors deep between the hues
of red and orange, what a sight you’d
see of umbers and ochres and blends of gold.

Without warning colors fall in line,
they know their place, then just as quickly
break their ranks of fellowship,
not waiting long for us to see
the bridge that spans the heavenlies.

How can the rainbow stand so still
when built on a million falling drops,
each one a tiny crafted lens
that beams a thread of light
to form the Master’s exquisite bend.

Can you drink this iridescent wine?
it offers up its rarest vintage,
and invites us up to sit
at her atmospheric table and sip
what cannot yet be felt by hand.

To what end do giant arcs of color serve
anyway? Do they guide or warn or inform
us, or do anything to help or harm
us? or do they simply stand as silent
signs of an otherworldly generosity?

– David Herin

The deepest blue September sky
quickly blackened, billows overhead,
and crowds of faces open-mouthed
and speechless, sped away.

We huddled ’round our bedroom’s 13-inch
TV and stared at the insistent sight;
our kids stood for an hour in the room
but really couldn’t understand why.

Our initial thought: ‘accidental crash’
crashed and burned with tower two,
the repeated scene, just minutes in between –
our hopes fell under the towers’ debris.

Is human evil still so hard to see?
A glance at our own history
should have warned us sufficiently,
so why are we blind to the black in ourselves?

The depth of our depravity
is only matched by beauties
lovingly made with our own hands,
admittedly angel nor animal are we.

But Evil donned its unpretentious mask
to hide its ugly open sores –
who can unmask this silent beast –
who can pay his just abhorrence?

Maybe only One could fully face
Evil’s fiercest fury unleashed
from Cocytus itself, sealing
hell’s destruction by the One’s ‘defeat.’

– David Herin

Out of breath and still I lag behind
my son who’s already lapped me once,
his longer strides will never fail
to outpace mine, but I really don’t mind.

His two miles to my one just
shows how far he’ll go past me.
He’ll do things I’ve never done;
he’ll see things I’ve never seen.

The days and hours I’ve spent
on things I knew would never last,
I now can weigh in flab and count in vacant
eyes that look for answers I don’t have.

I wonder: where did the hours go?
Tell me: what do I have to show
for the artificial pixel shows,
for endless hours on the go?

How can I know my life won’t die
and shrivel up from wishing I’d done more –
a slow but certain death of secret regrets,
I must get off this carousel of lies.

I’m slowing down and feel the uphill climb,
one day my son will come behind this way,
I hope I can give him hope enough to get up
this last steep incline they call Golgotha.

– David Herin

At lunch I sit alone surrounded by four
other tables also taken by one –
the only other one has two, and though
face to face, they too are absent and alone.

The air of afternoon hangs over
and around us, a clouded atmosphere
of crowded thoughts and fears that stare
us down and will not leave us be.

The chair across from me sits vacant,
not reserved for any person,
yet phantom eyes are somehow blankly
staring back at me and beckon.

Even when I’m by myself
I can’t stop searching other faces –
people walking, laughing, talking,
nothing draws my eye as well.

Why can’t we peer above our papers
long enough to look around –
to spot a human being near,
who’d like a cup of coffee, right here?

But when I finally sit and sup
with someone so our words
embrace and intermingle . . . hmm . . .
Someone else is seated at our table.

– David Herin

I wrote the poem below the day before my mother was buried in December of 2002. I thought about reading it at her funeral, but decided against it. I thought it was too depressing at the time and I really wanted it to be just between the Lord, my mother and myself, (although I let my sister read it). But I printed it out and rolled it up and put it secretly in her casket.

Until now I thought the poem was too much of an intimate window into my mother’s life. But now I want her life to continue to speak to me and to anyone who will listen. And for the record, I want both the good and the bad of my life to be spoken of at my funeral. I don’t believe we honor someone by whitewashing over their life.

But this poem does not really speak badly of my mother – only to her fragility.

   Dear mom,
Why did your rose not bloom?
Your stems were grown, complete with thorns.
The blooms of spring were poised,
but your reds and pinks and scents,
we could hardly see – they still were closed.

   why mom?
Did the hemlock cast a shadow?
Did the ground grow still and fallow?
Did the rains not come
and grace your leaves and petals well enough?

   O mom . . .
I wish I’d cut the hemlock down,
and loosened the root-bound soil around,
I wish I’d cleared the ground,
to coax your fragile flowers bloom.

I’m sure the colors would be bright and bold
and heavenly to hold
under our noses.
and I’m told your special kind,
though hard to grow,
would well be worth the extra time.

   but mom,
at least now, let your flowers open wide,
with praise and love to Christ.
Never, ever again to close;
forever now, give the beauty of a rose.

–David Herin

I thought I knew what love must be
and so I put it in an envelope
and affixed its label carefully,
assigned its taxonomy along
with faith and hope and dignity.

But love wouldn’t stay holed up for long;
it had a way of eating away
at its chains, so subtly, secretly
until it kindly returned the favor and
shackled me, yet I really didn’t mind.

Love. There. But now that I’ve said it
any other flowery words are
plainly way too small and unworthy
of it at all. We barely touch this love
and then it hides – it’s unpossessable.

Like Jesus, a guest in Emmaus
breaking bread, their eyes together
saw him risen – shocked they couldn’t
hold him, but once he’d gone his words
lit their hearts and made them smolder.

For generations now the world
has cut and carved their wood and stone
trying to congeal a god of love for all
but all they got were caricatures –
loony ’toons that made us joke and moan.

But little did we know that love
was working all the time
behind the stage, then briefly came
on the scene and stretched himself
for love – finally nailed, on a beam.

Oh, if life itself could be a walk of love
and every stride, that much closer to its shrine,
if I could lay myself upon its altar
and refuse to wiggle off its flame,
then my life would be a fitting, but unfinished frame
    for the One who is this Love.

– David Herin

I mastered the art of walking
at least by the age of four or so.
The problem was my strides got longer –
my legs kept wanting to grow.

What could then be simpler than
a right, a left, and soon we’ve got our groove,
but careful – looks can be deceiving,
it’s tricky balancing such automatic moves.

Self-ambulation seems simple enough,
but its enemies stand and stare
and dare to ask the paraplegic if
she wants to get out of her chair.

Some are laid up in casts and crutches
and hobble around, holed–
up, kicking themselves for
painting from a ladder, tip-toed.

Most can walk just fine, most of the time,
’til vertigo’s whimsy strikes them down,
their minds swim around and ’round
and finally drop in a heap to the ground.

Some try to run before they can walk,
frustrated, they just talk
and think of themselves much too much
and so cannot run or – much less – walk.

Walking has no want for foes:
stroke, or sickness, sloth, or shades of death,
whether suddenly or slow,
all await to trip us in their net.

We walk, rocking arms and legs
like pendulums, canceling,
trying hard to balance east and west,
but aren’t we abler just by joining hands?

I’m walking, straight and sound,
but only with my Unfathomable Friend.
Sure, I could try to run a marathon,
but in the end, we’ll just start walking again.

– David Herin