December 31: Poem Full of Hope, Surrender and Trust, "Braiding My Daughter's Hair"

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I was looking for an appropriate poem for New Year's Eve.  It had to be a poem full of hope.  I came up with the poem below.

When my daughter was very young, I used to braid her hair.  After her bath, she would kneel in front of me, and I would go to work.  I loved those few minutes of complete and total surrender and trust that my daughter gave me.  It was one of my favorite daily rituals.

So, I couldn't think of a better way to end this year then looking back, meditating, praying. 

Happy New Year's Eve to all my faithful disciples.

Braiding My Daughter's Hair

by:  Martin Achatz

She lies on her back,

hair floating around

her head like kelp

in the Pacific,

sea otters diving

in and out

of the brown waves.

She hears water

swimming in her ears,

along her five-year-old

limbs, skin smooth

as fresh snow,

feet and hands perfect,

nails like pink snail shells.

When I wrap her

in the towel,

she puts her cheek

against my shoulder.

Her wet heat soaks

through my tee shirt,

into my skin.

I feel her breath

on my neck,

like August rain.

I rub her dry,

squeeze her hair

in the terry cloth folds.

Her just-clean body

squeaks against my fingertips.

I dress her.

She grips my head

for balance as she steps

into her panties,

raises her arms

as I slip the nightgown

over her head,

watch her boy

chest and hips

disappear beneath flannel.

She sits in my lap.

I pick up the brush,

test for knots and nests.

The teeth of the brush

glide and stop,

pick and untangle.

I repeat the motions,

gather a thick rope

of hair at the back

of her skull.

I slip the pink tie

over the hair,

to the base,

pull it tight,

the way a sailor

secures a rope

on a dock.

I divide the hair

into three strands,

begin to braid,

looping, crossing, pulling,

looping, crossing, pulling,

this eternal rhythm

of the planets

circling the sun,

the moon dragging

ocean to rock and sand,

a farmer sowing

seed in black earth,

my daughter stretching,

growing like winter wheat.

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December 31: Trumpets of Praise, Peace in the Middle East, Acceptance and Love

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Emerson saw it.  "I dreamed that I floated at will in the great Ether, and I saw this world floating also not far off, but diminished to the size of an apple.  Then an angel took it in his hand and brought it to me and said, 'This must thou eat.'  And I ate the world."  All of it.  All of it intricate, specked, gnawed, fringed, and free.  Israel's priests offered the wave breast and the heave shoulder together, freely, in full knowledge, for thanksgiving.  They waved, they heaved, and neither gesture was whole without the other, and both meant a wide-eyed and knee-eyed thanks.  Go your way, eat the fat, and drink the sweet, said the bell.  A sixteenth-century alchemist wrote of the philosopher's stone:  "One finds it in the open country, in the village and in the town.  It is in everything which God created.  Maids throw it on the street.  Children play with it."  The giant water bug ate the world.  And like Billy Bray I go my way, and my left foot says "Glory," and my right foot says "Amen":  in and out of Shadow Creek, upstream and down, exultant, in a daze, dancing, to the twin silver trumpets of praise.

I thought it was fitting to end the year of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek with its final paragraph, which is a beautiful call to praise and thanksgiving, to embracing all of the world's great, intricate, messy blessings.  And it's a fitting paragraph for New Year's Eve, when we all, hopefully, can offer up prayers of praise and thanksgiving for the closing year.

I will be ringing in 2017 as I do every year, with my family--eating pizza, playing board games, arguing, kibitzing, loving, and then eating some more.  Since January 1st falls on a Sunday this year, I will also be playing the organ for Mass this evening.  Another opportunity for praise and thanksgiving.

Tomorrow morning will dawn, cold and white.  Newness in the midst of oldness.  Of course, I hope for great things in the coming year.  Health and happiness.  Peace in the Middle East.  Impeachment of Donald Trump.  You know, the things that all good people hope for.  Sure, I want to lose weight.  Exercise more.  Publish more.  Be named the next Poet Laureate of the U. P.  All that would be good, as well.

But, above all, I think the prayer I will send up at the stroke of midnight this evening is for acceptance and love, which I think has been in short supply in the world--and especially in the United States--in 2016.

So, may all your lives be filled with unconditional love--Jew or Muslim or Christian or atheist or refugee or Democrat or Republican or gay or straight.  Peace and amen.

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December 30: A Riff, Psalm 23, "23 Revisited"

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At the funeral this evening, Psalm 23 was read.  It's probably one of the most familiar psalms.  Because it's comforting.  It's about the love of God, an Eternal Parent, watching over all of us.  When I hear Psalm 23, I feel safe, uplifted.

A few years ago, I did a little riff on Psalm 23.  Call it psalm jazz.  Charlie Parker, the great jazz saxophonist, once talked about playing "in between" the melody of a song.  That's exactly what I tried to do with this poem.  Write in between the lines of Psalm 23.

Please don't be offended.  Laughter is a gift from God, as well.

23 Revisited

by:  Martin Achatz

The Lord is my shepherd.  I lack for nothing.

Well, almost.  I could use a bigger

House.  Mine is a little crowded for four people.

Plus, the neighbors smoke pot in their garage.

He makes me lie down in green pastures.

I try to stay out of pastures.  Not a big fan

Of livestock.  I once had a bull chase me

On a friend’s farm.  It scared the shit out of me.

He leads me beside quiet waters,

            He refreshes my soul.

Getting back to the house, I’d like a view

Of the big lake, be able to hear waves

Through my bedroom window in summer,

Watch snow roll across surf in January.

He guides me along the right paths

            For His name’s sake.

I always try to do the right thing, give

To Haiti earthquake relief, tsunami aid

To Japan.  I even skipped McDonald’s

For a week or so after Oprah’s exposé

On the cattle industry.  I’d look at a Big Mac,

See corn-fed, hormone-enhanced cows,

Balloons of beef on toothpick legs.

Even though I walk

            Through the valley of the shadow of death,

            I will fear no evil.

I’m a college adjunct English instructor.

Need I say more?

For You are with me;

Your rod and your staff,

            They comfort me.

This morning, when I woke at 1 a.m.,

My hand an ache of carpal tunnel,

I sat in the living room, said a prayer,

Felt Your presence on the couch

With me, like my grandmother’s afghan

Around my shoulders.  I felt better.

Then I took a Xanax, went back to bed.

You prepare a table before me

In the presence of my enemies.

Which reminds me, I haven’t had lunch.

I brought two pieces of cold pizza,

Left them in the fridge.  I hope none

Of my coworkers got into them.

I once brought leftover potpie.

The bastards ate the whole thing.  Really.

You anoint my head with oil;

            My cup overflows.

My mother taught me to say thanks,

Count my blessings the way I counted

Seashells I collected on the beach

As a kid.  So, thank You, Lord, for

My small house, cold pizza, Xanax,

Coworkers who don’t respect boundaries.

Surely Your goodness and love will follow me

            All the days of my life.

Each night, when I go home, feed,

Bathe my kids, their skin

Fresh and pink from hot water,

I know You are there, Lord, watching.

And I will dwell in the house of the Lord

            Forever.

As long as it has three bedrooms, two baths,

And a really, really, really big kitchen.

Please vote for Saint Marty (Martin Achatz):

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