"Egg" by C.G. Hanzlicek

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 answers,
Here's your egg. 


Psalm 119

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

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 for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used. 
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.