Against Nothingness

Egg by: C.G. Hanzlicek I'm scrambling an egg for my daughter.  "Why are you always whistling?" she asks.  "Because I'm happy." And it's true, Though it stuns me to say it aloud, There was a time when I wouldn't Have seen it as my future.  It's partly a matter Of who is there to eat the egg: The self fallen out of love with itself Through the tedium of familiarity, Or this little self, So curious, so hungry, Who emerged from the woman I love, A woman who loves me in a way I've come to think I deserve, Now that it arrives from outside me. Everything changes, we're told, And now the changes are everywhere: The house with its morning light That fills me like a revelation, The yard with its trees That cast a bit more shade each summer, The love of a woman That both is and isn't confounding, And the love Of this clamor of questions at my waist. Clamor of questions, You clamor of answe

Psalm 119 By Andrew Demoline Always you are with me God But sometimes it is hard, Coming from the world I do, to ever get Down in your word, to trust or live at all. Even when I know it’s good, For your word always is, Going forth on your path Has ever been a pain. I want to have within me, even Just for one brief moment, Kindled in my heart, Love for you and your word. To have in Me an undivided soul, focused Now and onwards solely On your promise. To have the Psalmists trust in you, in Quiet and in song. Rarely am I persecuted, Seldom must I run, But in The face of difficulty, Under even hottest sun, Verily I ask thee, O lord of all my heart, When times like this do come, X-out all my fear and doubt, as You alone can do, and fill me with a Zest for all things that are true.

To Be of Use by Marge Piercy The people I love the best jump into work head first without dallying in the shallows and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight. They seem to become natives of that element, the black sleek heads of seals bouncing like half-submerged balls.  I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart, who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience, who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward, who do what has to be done, again and again.  I want to be with people who submerge in the task, who go into the fields to harvest and work in a row and pass the bags along, who are not parlor generals and field deserters but move in a common rhythm when the food must come in or the fire be put out.  The work of the world is common as mud.  Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.  But the thing worth doing well done has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.  Greek amphoras f