THE ROAD TO EMMAUS
On Sunday, two disciples walk
dejected till they meet a Man
who sets their hearts ablaze with talk
of Christ fulfilling Scripture’s plan.
They cling to everything that’s said;
though understanding, neither can
discern from words His name; instead,
they know Him when He breaks the bread.
PALM SUNDAY
As all the wedding guests are well aware,
the bride and bridegroom’s burning hearts will cool.
No couple can escape the time-worn rule:
the budding branch, come winter, must grow bare.
A cynic mocks the thought that love might spare
these two from turning cowardly or cruel;
a witness (whom the former calls a fool)
thinks frost might yet give way to warmer air.
The shouting crowd who celebrate their King
grasp little of what lauding Him will mean;
arrayed in ignorance, the children bring
abundant fronds to lay a path of green.
Within a week, the crowd will turn away.
And yet — let loud hosannas sound today.
A new poem, “Syrup Season,” was published on March 2nd on the (always worth reading) Autumn Sky Poetry Daily.
I have two poems in the Summer / Fall 2022 issue of Light. One is a parody of a Shakespeare sonnet; the other is a confession about my Instant Pot.
Kitchen Signs
An unembodied oven mitt
that grips an iron handle;
up on the stool, triumphantly,
a long-lost purple sandal;
a pile of pants and dirty cloths
beside the basement door —
a language born of accidents
to mend what’s come before.
Inheritance
The ark will rise, the ark will fall,
And even after, we will find
Our father drunk, exposing all
The foibles of a fevered mind.
What then? Will he awake to scorn
Or sons and daughters fled away?
Or will he find a blanket borne
To soften the returning day?
Subliminal Stimuli
Blips too abrupt to capture consciously
Enchant you, planting seeds of new desire —
So goes the story. In reality,
These cues nudge extant wants a smidgen higher,
Supporting choices you’ve already made;
Or, oftener, they do nothing at all.
No adman pushing nuts and lemonade,
No brainwasher who plots a country’s fall
Exerts control through millisecond flashes.
The myth persists; it whispers you might find
Excusing factors when commitment crashes,
Veiled saboteurs who’ve undermined your mind.
Evading notice in plain sight, meanwhile,
Real motives amble, dressed in bare denial.
Outer Darkness
But he that had received one talent went and digged in the earth, and hid his lord’s money. (Matthew 25:18)
Sure, give a handout to the guy
Who begs for coins from passersby.
Pretend his story’s not a lie;
Be called a saint.
Or give your cash to institutes
Well-staffed by stiffs in pricey suits
Whose tendency to bear small fruits
They call “restraint.”
Your best attempts at helping hurt.
You go ahead and give your shirt;
I’ll keep my talent in the dirt,
Free from all taint.
The Hill
For my brother, on his fortieth birthday
Sweat drenched his jersey, and his stomach churned.
It wasn’t nerves — he knew that he had earned
His spot in the rotation. He was ill —
A bug so bad a man of lesser will
Would not have played. But he was forty-five
And for as long as he had been alive
He’d longed for this: October with the Phils.
Through decades in the league he’d honed his skills
To meet this moment: home, against the Rays,
The Series tied. Despite the nauseous haze,
He took the mound, and with him took the dreams
Of kids from Cape May’s shores to Carlisle’s streams.
At 10 p.m., a batter tapped the plate
(Delayed by rain, the game was starting late).
Our hero got the signal, wound, and hurled
A strike! The oldest pitcher in the World
Series that year began his epic quest
To ace his long career’s most grueling test.
Through cold and damp and misery maintaining
A steady pace, his ancient muscles straining,
He silenced Tampa Bay’s offensive power
With fastballs reaching eighty miles an hour
And change-ups barely lighting up the gun,
Allowing, through six innings, just one run.
Mid-seventh inning, things began to fall
Apart a bit, and Charlie made the call.
Our hero watched his teammates lose the lead
But kept the faith: the Fightin’s would succeed.
They did — and with the last out of the game,
The crowd commenced to chant our hero’s name.
Just four days hence he watched through joyful tears
As Brad Lidge closed it out. Engulfed by cheers,
With sons and all his teammates close around,
He sprinted from the dugout to the mound,
Where, trying hard and failing not to blubber,
That son of Sellersville dug out the rubber.
You who now stand in feebleness’s foyer,
Take comfort from this tale of Jamie Moyer:
Despite how close decrepitude appears
You might have five or six more decent years.
Because What the World Needs Is More Poems About Mowing
With apologies to Robert Frost
Whoever mowed left tufts of grass
Around small objects on each pass,
Endowing with a verdant halo
A baseball glove, a doll that lay low,
A rock, a stick, a crumpled dress.
Whoever mowed here must possess
A poet’s soul and eye, to see
Such glory in mundanity.
(“Or he’s just lazy”? Don’t I know it —
Perhaps you’ve never met a poet.)
Coleman Glenn 