celebration of a read
Harvey S. Mozolak
I am reading a novel
recommended strangely due
to the author’s recent and unexpected conversion
to Christianity which may or may not be in any way
intimated in this earlier book of fiction
which is now referenced
along with his other literary output
as less than what has been acclaimed
by some reviewers for excellence
the first sentence of this particular book
which seems richly historic
is made up of 198 words
going on beyond the first page itself.
this sentence half as many
and not as novel
but about as boring
in lesser phrases
mothers’ day
Harvey S. Mozolak
in spite of Eve
or
because of Eve
bitten fruit slashed open
by a sword
fallen from the heart
of a tree
fence post of failure
to know you were
with your husband
part of the downfall
of all
yet that your child
another woman
mothered a son
who is God
come down for your
and all’s fall
when you are taken
these days for a meal
to a restaurant
order fruit pie
in large slices
and break bread
after you have prayed
for one child whose mother
was blessed Mary
ever virgin in her love
unleashed
Harvey S. Mozolak
complete control
incongruous image
never seen
a shepherd with his sheep on leashes
seen
a mother and daughter on bicycles
the child wobbling wiggling
front wheel moving more side to side
than anyone with experience
would allow
the mother following on her own bike
with words of encouragement
stay the course
of course allow fear
to fall away
speeding up as they drew closer
to a street intersection
near enough to grab
the girl’s bike at the sudden
wrongly appearance of a vehicle
across they went weaving still some
learning the balance
steadiness and ease that comes
with the joy of cycling
running faster than legs allow
no leash hung from handlebars
two sprays of streamers
screamed hurray
to the mother being left behind
shaking and swaying
in her trembling heart
at the good of freedom
in the hold of love
unleashed
ars poetica
inside the whirl of words
within the writing of a poem
at the often storm of inspiration
lost from the click of keys
mark of pencil or pen
the dense world
sentenced to sense
the simply unsayable
barred by image and symbol
referenced by religion
displayed in shapes and colors of art
following some of the science of dissection
invention even taxidermistry
even pressed like a blossom
drying between pages in a book
grand gift: life
Harvey S. Mozolak
ready for church
about an hour car ride away
four adults and two children
a larger undertaking
than usual
with the noon meal’s need
to be half prepared
for an oven ham and side dishes
one of the men rehearsing
last minute his sermon
and mother brushing curls of one kid’s hair
and smoothing down the fly-aways
of the other’s all the while making sure
the grandparents were comfortable
visiting in a house
where they did not live
doors locked shut
remember the garage door!
settle down six in a fifty’s automobile
was doable if everyone
watched their elbows and squirming space
and the grand-folks were smaller people
even more so now in advanced age
half way there no fights yet
among the children
spoken Slovak part of the conversations
dad pulled to stop in strange spot
no gas station but a shop
and into it grandfather went
for a good fifteen minutes or so
emerging with white windowed boxes
orchids for the two ladies
and one for the girl
flowers for the living
on the day celebrating forever life
eternity
stops the path of time
his cross uprooted
fallen
an empty cave
corsage with Jerusalem lilies
and angels with wings
dusted with clouds
in their descent
Joseph’s field of flowers
meadowed as all creation
wears alleluias
as a grand boutonniere
blessing the child grand
of the forever Father
limited
Harvey S. Mozolak
the sky may not seem to have a ceiling
but the body has its limits
skin can only take so many years
before it becomes hide we keep hidden
organs no longer play the beat needed
Spirit of Power
Harvey S. Mozolak
on the daily walk
often it is hardly noticed
especially when it is behind
at back from beyond
turning to return
it may chill or cool the face
the breeze in summer
the spring or winter wind
unless the umbrella is overturned
or a paper observed in wild flight
the gusts or stream from the sky
going wherever it wants
is invisible and seen only
when it drives the rain
or fills the sails
in the manner in which
the church plies the as yet unknown
with the Spirit of The Three
in the breath of the one
who gave up his on the tree
to his Father who first filled
lungs with life
for singing love to the unseen
revealing the call and gathering
the light and keep
in the coming storm for the still
five-fold unfolded
Harvey S. Mozolak
in the colors of unfurled bruises
smoothed and the dye of dried blood
the warrior wears scars
five-fold
the way heroes feature crowns
in the manner beauty is adorned in jewelry
and yet though he needs none
he wears our once-wounds
that we might be forever healed
and restored like our parents
Adam and Eve
before their sad exit to sweat and tears
their loss in the war with time
they and we now being gathered
to enter the opened gates of heaven
in the triumphant procession of Christus Victor
Easter too
Harvey S. Mozolak
the earth was scarred
in the hoe-ing of hell
and the furrow dug of death
atop a mound of dirt
it left behind a dried stick
the broken stalk of suffering
nearby in a stone-lined hole
there Thomas could have found
rock solid nothing
the empty tomb of hope
unseen faith
and the lost love of friendship
hidden what had happened
when time was ripped open
like a wound to release
the pus of infection and decay
rising again the eternal
in the Son of light and life
with flesh seamed and sealed
for touching
and tasting in the twins
of bread and wine
forgiving peace forever flowing
bier bearing
Harvey S. Mozolak
an empty box
meant for moving
to another place
another city
perfectly clean
above the rush
crush and trash
the transportation
handled by several
strong hands
carrying vacant weight
to another empty place
a hole a cave
a stone-quiet home
covered and capped
many by name
and dates that will be
one day useless
references before the unending
comprehension of joy
leave the flaps open
fold the clothes
and place them within
as light feathers
morning mourners
beginning the company
to be moved
beyond
two feasts
Harvey S. Mozolak
in the stained straw
of a newborn baby’s bedding
in the colored straw
of an Easter basket
the cracking of the earth
the shedding of the shell
of death
with new life
Christ is born
Christ is risen
questions of Eden
Harvey S. Mozolak
when the Eve-mother gave the fruit
to the Adam-father and his teeth too
broke the surface of its skin of sweetness
with the color of its beauty drooling down dulling
their lips causing their cheeks to drain and pale
had it soured like a lemon on their tongues
did they belch blessings in foul curses
at the forbidden feat?
when they did this evil eating
snacking of the sacred without a thought of salvation
did God foresee the leaves fall from another tree
in a cold, coiled, drafted inhalation of the bedeviled serpent
sucking life God-given?
sprouting from the spit seeds of the dropped core
did there grow then
the bare, stark stem and naked limbs
where he saw in its shadow a dried sea sponge
a pole of hyssop and a jar of soured wine at its foot
knowing what would be done
on earth as seen in hallowed heaven?
our Father
sending his Amen!
holy holder
Harvey S. Mozolak
branches are a brace
holders that hold
like limbs that embrace
a nest of fledglings
brother bird and mother
all others
twigs twirled about a hive
honeying the forest
a perfect lamb roasting
in the noon sun gripping
the crooked with a crook
a wood frame protecting sheep
gathered together at the edge
of death’s shadow above a path
to life ever streaming
no need to climb the iron pegs
he reaches down
the held to hold and lift
into his life by dying
the loose and fallen
the unfastened and unattached
wayward and broken
all doomed underfoot
the cross of unseen roots
sprouts
amid spring’s shouts
leaves of alleluias
and its fruits
tree garments of palmarum
Harvey S. Mozolak
the clothing of trees
their sleeves and lower stalkings
broken from the trunk
ripped from small bushes
brushed by carts and chariots
their palms spread on the road
up to and nearing Jerusalem
thrown like before a David
on his way to royal crowning
anointed with oil and praise
to sit on Israel’s throne
but this his son
counted distant from him
but closest to us
his beast of burden traveled
here atop the crowd’s cloaks
leaves stems and branches
field flowers children picked and threw
stooping to gather several
from the side near the ditch
where to keep them?
a fresh one untrampled
I thrust it at home
behind the swelled wood
of the red-stained door frame
there it will shrivel and dry
of its green and sheen
toward departure
beyond years
Harvey S. Mozolak
Christ is not held
not:
Bethlehem straw
Galilean roses
Jerusalem alley weeds
picked field fresh wheat
and a handful of wild grapes
not his nation’s thorns
nor Roman nails
but in a loaf and cup
lifted to and blessed by
his and our Father
the departure from heaven
departs into us
peace
olive oil
Harvey S. Mozolak
olives drained of oil
ground in a farm vat
within the sight of Jerusalem
baskets of oval green
and black brought by cart
from the garden inside the city
their trees grown for shade
amid the baking stone
walls and dried clay of houses
stores and stalls
below the Temple mount
a glistening thick liquid
urn-ed from the churning
for soaping feet and fingers of soil
adding a pickled spice at any meal
to cook vegetables
toast matzos and anoint
the skin of babies and priests
vessel-sprinkled and poured over heads
as mercy overflows
every once in a great moment
the flesh-crown of king or queen
with ceremony rubbed on sacred vessels
and used to consecrate
by polish holy appointments
said to be the salve of gladness
sweet perfume after bath
for love of beauty
and the healing of ugliness
following bruising battles
wise maidens fill lamps
for the wedding watch’s night light
first and last ointment of the sick and dying
like the story of the dispersal
of a despised Samaritan
with a cleansing wine
for the fallen in the streets of sorrow
the Spirit-oiled Son
carries his bloodied body
through the world’s soil
on the pitted path to death
carving out the fruit of God’s anointing
x-rated years
Harvey S. Mozolak
in the aging process
there comes a time
when questions multiply
about memory
why are names so difficult to remember
dates and events hard to place
yet assurances come
that it is part of elderhood for many
and then there is this remembrance
back in early elementary school
the grade I cannot recall
but almost the classroom
and certainly the school
named “Miles Elementary”
where the lesson was the times tables
tested often on vertical cards
about three by five in size
3x5=15 one of the easy ones
learning first the basic ones
like zero times anything is nothing
and the ones equally simple stuff
twos threes fours fives
especially fives were a breeze
sixes most sevens
but then the eights and nines
I do know some report was sent
home about the later failures
7x8 7x9 8x6 8x7 8x9 9x6 9x7 9x8
8x8 somehow surely embedded itself in 64
and 9x9 was 81 I know that almost in my sleep
but at age 81 years the others are lost causes
as pure memorized high single digit answers
for all the decades since
parents tried to drill them
teacher too
and I learned mental work-arounds
7x8 is what
like 7x7 was known as 49 and add another 7
and it yielded 56
since addition and subtraction
were more usable methods most of the time
even though I once mastered basic algebra some trig
a bit of solid geometry and the use of a slide rule
it is called advanced elementary dementia
it will be suffered into the upper 10’s of years
numbered by eights and nines
walk above water
Harvey S. Mozolak
flowed first as ink
by pen on paper
into the carefully drawn village plan
the aquatic patch
nestled up
against the seams of learning and living
sporting and worship
the arts and sciences
a palette-shape of wetness the lake
was the Fort’s rain caught in a basin
simple like a morning washing sink
awakening awareness
even a brief splashed laudamus
at the ship’s calling bell
for a bowl on the meal’s table
a vase for flowers to fragrant
and trees to shade
conversations
introductions hello and good bye
even later…
adorning evening
like the lake’s small laps at land
(the lake at Concordia Senior College Ft. Wayne IN 1957-1977)
sharpness of death
Harvey S. Mozolak
“when you have overcome…”
by bits of soldiers’ recent meals
in their spittle sliding down from your face
in metal fragments and chunks of bone
tied to the ends of leather lesions
the snake tongues of a flogging whip
biting you amid poisoned curses
the briar-ed bare comb of thorn tips
rasping your bruised and bludgeoned
forehead pressing prayer
through divine unused omniscience
as if to sieve away the sacred in red droplets
as the pole-end of a spear
thrust first to a starving stomach
then thrashed across soft kidney sides
taking breath away
which you first bequeathed to the dust
that became us
your knees and chest
back and nose broken dragged
across the pavement stones
of judgement against innocence
smell the soil
heaven left
for all earth’s sweat and toil
even this
the greatest debasing
God man-handled
imagine God contained
as a beating bag
confined a dungeon dummy
into which sharp
swords spears nails are pointed
for soldiers to practice
pain and plan perfection’s demise
you as a temple lamb
the priests for the crowd
tie hands and feet
to carry on a spit to the open fire
of the sky’s noon sun’s strokes
a dark view of heaven’s holiness
as a man in kin dressed for death
where you are completely naked
God-in-kin and kindness
we praise you
te deum laudamus
longing for his appearing
2 Timothy 4.8
Harvey S. Mozolak
seen first among
colorful reflecting things
hung balls coils sparkle
silver slivers of icy metal
and bright lights
since I was an early December
delivery myself
he was a cardboard baby
in yellow hay and brown wood box
propped up in picture fashion
like others of the family in frames
a manger set
in the living room
surrounding a Christmas tree
then in music with words
that were rarely known as yet
but sung each week
led by a bellowing beast
hung on the wall of the church
with a long “Amen’” concluding
whatever was said in hymns
to him and songs of stories
stories told by a teacher
while we sat in small seats in a circle
near the kneeling and singing place
he came again as a figure
with a felted back stuck on a board
of mostly green some blue
and a bit of brown similar cloth
and others all dressed in dresses
no matter whether moms or dads
or kids like I and the others in class
sometimes a boat or a field
a person in a bed or a crowd
and a city with walls and towers
then later in a question
as to why
some could eat and sip some from a cup
while younger ones could not
while told to wait in the pews
and to pray quietly
but not about what was happening
since we knew little
but guessed it was as heard
he was here
he was another
addressed in saying prayers of thanks
before meals
and at bedtime with folded fingers
hidden somewhere in the darkness
after the light was turned out
hearing maybe thinking about what was said
and asked for while giving thanks
again concluding in an Amen
that has been so
growing along with the years
as a longing
grave of hatred
Harvey S. Mozolak
hatred a grave
into which memories are shoveled
spilled and piled
with or without the thought
of the possiblity
that flowers might grow
from the soil
no filth dusting their faces
they lowered him down
in some kind of sheets
from bedding or seaside ships
for unawakening sleep
and windless drowning depths
into Mary’s trembling hands and arms
undertaking a procession
to a grave engraved in a hillside
of rock and solid stone
his body there covering earth and ground
that nothing of foul and filth
might grow or live
in this dying and death
until he is opened
the flower rising from a wood stem
the light of life
love-conquered hate
out of the dust of earth
an eighth day
seated contemplation on nature
Harvey S. Mozolak
before the spot
where death took place
surrounded now by nature
said to be mostly in the ordinary sense
comforting and meditative
calming compared
to the mangled metal
scream of tires and brakes
and the bodily carnage
now buried in some police
computer or coroner’s thumb drive
here a seat more a large chair
placed there to think of what…
where last moments
of pain and terror took place
and the cessation of breath and brain
caused by an animal darting in the dark
sleep that swept over in the lateness of hour
some diversion of attention
to music choice or cell phone selection
the dimming use of drugs or alcohol
or just a mistake in judgement
with the steering wheel and fumbling hands
in the curve of the road
what older headlights lenses
with their yellowed plastic cataracts could illuminate
the eyes of the seated
see none of this
the thoughts have filed it somehow
and emotions scabbed where they were raw
the last location of the living
the steel ribs of the furniture
hold the seated
where the crash was not contained
by ribs and bones and the helmet of the skull
where nature claimed
one of its own
with no notice much less contemplation
five-fold unfolded
in the colors of unfurled bruises
smoothed and the dye of dried blood
the warrior wears scars
five-fold
the way heroes feature crowns
in the manner beauty is adorned in jewelry
and yet though he needs none
he wears our once-wounds
that we might be forever healed
and restored like our parents
Adam and Eve
before their sad exit to sweat and tears
their loss in the war with time
they and we now being gathered
to enter the opened gates of heaven
in the triumphant procession of Christus Victor
