Tag Archives: christian

St Joan of Arc Chapel

A long drive, rainy and cold October afternoon.
Again what I thought I knew I didn’t know at all.
Michael and Lucifer want to claim victory today.
ST JOAN OF ARC CHAPEL. I see the sign there.
I pull in, needing solace, and the presence of light.
The door is open. The sanctuary empty. I am alone.
The cold grey day soothing. Patter of rain on stained glass.
I sit and pray. I ask St. Joan that I could be better today.
I let the silence fill with the longing for the light and bravery.
St. Joan, strong and brave, and willing to go to her death.
I don’t know, like she did, what aim I’m here to serve for.
I just know, I want to be strong and brave, not fall on flesh.
I leave my few dollars in the donation box. I leave a dream.
Michael pushes Lucifer away. The fire becomes soft sunlight.
A battle in war that doesn’t end today, but that we can win.

Mammon’s Winter

All night diner, south of the river, silent flurries lurid in neon.

Joan runs her fingers through her buzzed head, bleary, tired.

Winter is here, demons loud in the quiet, in the still darkness.

A couple of cigarettes in the pack, the stress pushes for more.

The black coffee is piping hot, bitter, and flushes her cold cheeks.

Cigarettes and coffee, keep her fighting, pleasures robbing the sun.

Mammon stole the faithful, and the hot dry smoke is soothing,

as that war grinds on and on and on. Coffee tender in it’s harshness.

Winter is here, and she has not done enough; Mammon’s feelers on her.

The waitress, grandmotherly and kind, always asking after Joan,

brings ketchup and scrambled eggs, pats Joan’s hand on the table.

This is God and devotion, so simple, so freely given, so tireless in the cold.

Simple meal, vinegary topping, cigarette finished, fresh coffee in porcelain cup.

Body can touch the holy, can escape the dust, even in these corporal pleasures.

Mammon’s winter threatens God’s creation, and in prayer, in the streets, she must stand.

Buzzcut

Buzzcut, short spiky brown hairs, disciplined.
A dark and big and poofed out parka her armor.
In her pack, a plain bible, cigarettes, Aquinas.

She has a worn and stickered scooter at the ready.

South of the river, November twilight, first stars.
Idolatry on that other side. Roar of the crowd, forgetting.
I imagine her to be Joan, keeping low to do holy work.
The cold insists that we hide. She gets on her scooter.
New castles may push us on somewhere else, take home.
Money buys too much, including respect and honor here.
The young woman, puts on a scratched helmet, speeds
into the falling night, sword invisible, mightier than men.