Deborah Beach Giordano
January 31, 2012

Well, it’s happened again, God.
One whom You love —
and who loves You truly —
is ill.
What are You going to do about it?

Surely it is not Your will that she suffer.
Even less, I pray, will You withhold Your healing touch.
Give strength and joy to your servant;
do not let her perish.

We have no need of another Bethany miracle.
We know You have the power
to restore the dead to life;
don’t bother to show us again.

O My Lord, my God,
You have been present
during the anxious vigils,
paced ceaselessly beside us,
and heard our sighs too deep for words.
You know the longing
that touches the very depths of our souls.
Let our cherished friend
recover from this illness;
bring her back into our circle;
give us cause for great rejoicing.

Lord, hear our prayer.

Deborah Beach Giordano
January 26, 2012

The Beloved speaks
and the earth weeps for joy,
fields array themselves in emerald splendor,
flowers burst forth from the ground,
pines lift up their branches in praise,
willows bow their heads in awe,
oaks tremble in ecstasy,
and ferns swoon in delight.

Breezes swirl across
the ice blue sky
trailing wispy clouds
above the still, shimmering lake,
melting snows
rush down the mountainsides
becoming whirling, surging, streams.

In the forest shadows
wolves sing psalms of gratitude,
awakening drowsing bears,
while curious trout
explore the thawing river’s depths;
robins and swallows,
geese and wrens and chickadees
are filled with a sudden, urgent longing
to return to a place they’ve never seen.

The voice of the Lord
sets the world alight
with the radiant beauty
of springtime
when all creation
comes alive
shouting, “Glory!”

Paused in flight,
dripping pearls,
clad in velvet finery
and ostrich feathers,
disheveled,
skin too white
eyes too bright;
ribbons streaming
from unkept hair
of a garish orange
that would embarrass
a parrot.

A half-wild harridan
invading
an elegant parlor -
the crazy aunt
escaped from the attic
encountering
the genteel artist
awaiting
the appearance
of the delicate
and celebrated
lady of the house.

Free
from the confines
of social convention
and family censure
for an instant;
the nameless woman
claims our attention,
challenging our prejudices
of who belongs here
and who
does not.

Deborah Beach Giordano
© December 7, 2011

Who were you, little one?
with your large dark eyes
your comfortable
and steady pose
patient,
unhurried;
looking
out of the gilded frame
gazing calmly
down the years.

What were you thinking
as the artist
selected his brushes
adjusted his easel
blended the colors -
struggling
to snare the sunlight
reflected
in your eyes,
the rainbows
arcing through
the curls of your hair?

Did you hear
pealing church bells
summoning the faithful
in the distance,
the voices of merchants
and muleteers
making themselves heard
along the busy streets,
or the boisterous shouts
of children as they climbed
those leafy trees;
or was it still
and quiet
on that brilliant
afternoon?

Was the air
fragrant
with hyacinth,
or the smell
of the strolling scarlet lady’s
richly-scented scarf;
was it ripe with the aroma
of baking bread,
and roasting meat,
or the heady fragrance
of newly-mown grass?

Did you notice
the sounds
and sights
and smells
that surrounded you,
were you aware
of being
in the midst of life
there
where you were captured,
and held eternally
on this oil-coated canvas?

And what of us;
we
who wander
down these marble halls
gawking
at once was,
oblivious
to what is,
ignoring
the here
and now;
missing
this very day.

Deborah Beach Giordano
© December 3, 2011

Standing boldly
chest out
stomach in
hands on hips
a regal stare
into the far distance -
some princely youth
of long ago
well fitted
in a full-metal jacket;
full of himself
sure of his future,
certain
he was destined
for greatness,
now turned to ashes;
forgotten,
lost to history,
his sword broken,
his shield rusted:
thin and brittle
as the pages
in the church register
where faded ink
whispers
his name.

Deborah Beach Giordano
© November 28, 2011

There is the blessed Virgin
the first
of a countless multitude

coating wall after wall:
a holy mildew
of blue-clad girls

with flawless skin
clear eyes
and fulsome bodies;

resembling, most often
(so we are told),
the artists’ concubines.

The ultimate example
of the whore-virgin dichotomy
revealed before our eyes.

What if Mary
wasn’t perfectly pretty -
but undeniably unattractive?

Could we bear it
if the God-bearer
wasn’t photogenic:

if her teeth were stained
or chipped
or a couple were missing,

if her smile
was lopsided,
her nose askew,

what if her brows were thick,
her hair was thin,
and she needed a manicure?

What if Mary
was just a plain Jane kid
and not a raving beauty -

would we recognize
the inner holiness
that God so clearly saw?

And
do we
now?

Praise God
for the sweet small joys
that bless your days,

give thanks
for the moments
that warm your heart

remember
the sights and sounds and fragrances
that lift your spirit.

Hold to the beautiful,
the good, the kind;
cast out the bad.

Learn from nature’s rejoicing;
see the exultation
arising in all that lives:

the roar of the sea,
the harlequin-clad trees,
the soft-sweet scent of autumn;

the clouds play make-believe,
shapeshifting constantly
across the silvered sky;

flocks of robins
chirping in evergreen hedges
filled with red-chested berries;

belated dawns,
lingering dusk
and lengthening darkness

reveal
bright planets
and radiant stars

glories unseen,
obscured
by sunlit cheer.

Life’s pace slows
as winter approaches
along a snowkissed street,

we are drawn in,
the serenity whispers
a sweet assurance:

there is time enough
and quiet enough:
be still and know I AM.

Wake up
and shake off
your tired habits and time-worn routines.

Look beyond
the same old words,
the same old prayers and hymns;

dare
to do a new thing:
speak to God in your own way.

Dance,
or paint or sculpt,
or throw mud at a fence;

clarity
and honesty
are what matter most.

Prayer
is communication -
it doesn’t have to be pretty.

Ancient
poets wrote lovely rhymes
that make the angels cry;

yet
now and again
a good goddamn

speaks
a deeper truth
too powerful to deny.

Traveling thoughtfully
along the quiet rows
of rich
dark
soil;

in the distance
the sun raises
its haloed head
bestowing a warm blessing
on the earth;

a thorny hedge
blocks the way,
and so turn and go
and start again
pacing endlessly.

Comforting and familiar
the river, the trees,
the sound of hooves
treading gently
on the ground;

routine
but not unwelcome,
a quiet
meditative space
within the workaday world.

Sunward is the light
and all is clearly seen,
yet even when
we turn our backs
it warms us tenderly;

distance
makes no difference;
it reaches us
from a million miles away
like love

immortal,
invisible,
invincible,
irresistible,
essential.

Without it there is
nothing;
no sight
no breath,
no life;

the earth
would be barren:
a cold, dark,
empty,
rock.

Love and light:
the holy components
of creation;
all else springs
from these two things.

He smiled to himself
how he wished
that others
might come to know
what he understood,

yet he knew quite well
that it could never be
as he heard again
those familiar shouts
of “Whoa!” and “Gee!”

His thoughts and feelings
would always remain
unspoken and unheard,
for though he was very smart,
he was could not say a word.

reflecting on the term “Dumb as an Ox”