Ash Wednesday Collection
collecting lent
Harvey S. Mozolak
embrace us
in this bruised season
where the cold has broken branches
and allowed our tears to seep beneath
rotting the rooms where we live
make Lent a shelter
to weather our worst
under your sparse
but protecting rafter
offering a holy hereafter
stroke of ash
Harvey S. Mozolak
passwords they say
ought to include
letters like found in a word
numbers perhaps three
and at least one symbol
the carbon code on the fore wall
before the thought and thinking
above the eyes and mouth
between the hearing
the choice of God
divine secret shown in Christ
of the three
his cross
stoking the fires of hate
the ashen stroke
printing in the dirt
the earth's opening
beyond burial dust
accumulation
Harvey S. Mozolak
over the years by decay
dense and darker
the topsoil grows
with dead matter
rotted flowers and wilting weeds
in the corners
behind and in the seams
the dust deepens
like a quiet indoor snowfall
from unseen drying clouds
parched where we were placed
make and take refuge
wood-raftered room
under the endless roof
shingles
stars and hair
flake away like layers
of skin sloughed
by what we are
do and do not do
draw intersecting lines
rigid right angled to each other
in the dirt
breath expelled
will gather us there
blow the trumpet in Zion
Joel 2. 1-2, 12-17
Harvey S. Mozolak
clang the alarm
ring the threat bell
not the weekly check of the system
followed by the all clear
to move into Monday
sound the trumpet to arms
caution the careful to care
alert the fragile
the young and occupied
even the baby and bride
high from the community pole
change the code color to red
dripping down its wooden stem
warning
entering dangerous days
the nearness of the Lord
left hand ignorance to right doing
pair of gloves, left
Matthew 6. 1-6, 16-21
Harvey S. Mozolak
absent-heartedly my hand
reaches into my pocket to check
the security of my wallet
walking toward the man
in the tattered brown coat
thick wiry beard
strange wide eyes
on a rusty face
of wind-sanded skin
three stores down
if he moves toward me
will loose change do
to step around?
my shopping list:
sauvignon blanc
red peppers
bathtub spray
dilled cauliflower
accidentally comes out
with the two quarters
three dimes a nickel
and seven pennies
and a twenty sticking to the grocery note
stealing my secret fear
ambidextrous
pair of gloves, right
Matthew 6. 1-6, 16-21
Harvey S. Mozolak
her story is of no interest
it will be sad
long and demanding
she with her gaunt children
their stringy hair
untied shoes and misbuttoned shirts
how can she afford to wear a watch?
mine says 12:40 in the afternoon
their faces stained by the street
this small thin trinity
mother with boy and girl
offering me
a chance for a hardly noticed fast
on the way to lunch
in the closet of my chest
my heart flutters for a moment
a moth rousted
escaping the light
for an alley
there to the side of that store
a Wednesday before
Harvey S. Mozolak
encroaching on laughter
descending at merriment
disquieting contentment
and veiling our pretty faces
with the visage of divine suffering
Lent leans into the week
Ash Wednesday arrives
a date the printer knew
last year and sold to us
on the glossy page of a calendar
several months ago
for a recent turn or rip
—we have done no shopping for the holiday
no baking, cooking or cleaning
and the only decoration—
the dust has settled more slowly
but names can be written
deeply on the covered wood
walling us from the mere counting
of time
in a dusty day
the storage chest
Matthew 6. 19-21
Harvey S. Mozolak
the hinges rusted
needing a rib or cane
a stick to pry open
a coronary-shaped lock
that can be by-passed
loose hanging
its curved metal artery barely
holding a silent cold steel fist
in frozen defiance
that once held the combinations
of minutes moments hours and events
the lining moth-holed and torn
and what is stored there
within is the wealth
of being buried and uncovered
by the seeking heart of God
restored as ardent and abiding treasure
almsgiving, prayer and fasting
three devotional legs of Lent
Matthew 6. 1-18
Harvey S. Mozolak
i
music for trumpeting
the giving of alms:
pianissimo
with the refrain in silence
the tone
deafness
a tune handed
by an anonydextrous giving
to those who are songless
ii
standing like a little cathedral
on the corner
the minister in a dark blue suit
with a golden cross on the lapel
stands loudly
praying for pedestrians
that their shopping be fruitful
their business successful
and lunch longer than an hour
off to the side down the alley
leans a stubbled face
stumbling legs
blood-shot eyes
and a mouth that smells and mutters
“O God, O God, O God….”
the door to a closet prayer
iii
fasting can not be done quickly
one skipped meal
the arch in the belly
a slightly lightened head
and somewhat heightened senses
the emptiness must deepen
stretch the skin of the soul
a hunger must house the hidden
oil the thoughts
clear the vision
of a God within
a filling with an ache
for more
wednesday marking
Harvey S. Mozolak
on my head
enthorn your image
rooted with the soil
where sharpened pain
grows dense
as thicket
barbed enclosure
around your thoughts
forsaken in human words
fence of forever
unangeled now ungated
burns the brow
bloods the head
blinds the strength
of God like Samson
to a pole
column of all who crowd
and celebrate the earth
by whose fall
will all come down
oak to ash
dirt to dust
mark our ruin
in this destruction
judge of our salvation
crown-marked
a barren brown tree-cloud
above your closing eyes
each drop of red
the fruit replaced
thumbing God
Harvey S. Mozolak
ride on ride on
in misery
can we hitch
hike along
with you
to the crossroads
where we will thumb
our noses
at how you carry us?
criminal smudge on plate and cup
Harvey S. Mozolak
ashes burned
from Jerusalem branches
so fine they fill the furrows
of the thumb print
following marking the foreheads
of the faithful trudging
toward the place of the crime
corpse of the murdered
modeled on the wood
lined like accused before the judge
to kneel as if before their graves
for fingerprinting the guilty
the broken dead and shed
on their tongues
and flaming their throats
with declared innocence
Lent-marked
Harvey S. Mozolak
burned branch
thrust into a hole-shadow
imprinted
plugging the soil
smudges of dust
bound to our brows
we wear this cross
on which he wore us
as nakedness
breathless blood
dripped into the earth
his hidden wet roots
crowning the way
walked below the heavens
