Archive #2

Here is a poem I wrote recently while on a poetry writing field-trip. One of the stops was at The Broad Street United Methodist Church in downtown Columbus, Ohio. This is one of those really old churches with tons of history; but with its downtown location, it is now a small struggling congregation on Sundays and an inner-city soup kitchen during the week.

We sat in the church space and wrote. This is a response to the building’s spectacular stained-glass windows. As I thought about it, it seemed also to be the right poem to dedicate to my maternal grandmother who passed quietly this morning in her sleep.

I Spy… 

In memory of 

Isabel Helen Mocker 

(1916-2011) 

From the front pew in the balcony
I look over the congregation in the
Broad Street United Methodist Church
this February Sunday morning in Ohio
and cannot find you.

Under this Victorian-Gothic ceiling,
in August of ’54,
before Grandpa Bill lost his hog farm,
when serious grounded folk sat quietly in   worship,
Reverend Brumfield drizzled sacred water
over your forehead, and you laughed.

Later, in the leaded and stained windows,
we secretly played I Spy when the Gospel was too long to hold out attention or
when the sermon was about greed or envy.

In my dreams I whisper:
Is it the faint halo around Christ’s head?
Is it the disapproving hand of Judas

clutching the chair?
And you giggle and quietly say No.

Like a dam cleaning its foal,
I would eagerly pour scented oil
over your dusty feet and 

gently pat them dry.

But Grandpa Bill and Reverend Brumfield

are long dead.
God of the Ages is now sung 

in American Sign Language.
Borrowed preachers now speak of 

service and compassion.

And I whisper,
Is it the challis in the left panel?
Is it the wreath in Victory’s hand?