black shirt tab

Harvey S. Mozolak

on the dresser
in front of the mirror
showing rumple stubble
and stain
the white clergy tab
cut of what was once
a complete round collar
lying there detached
a small clipping
snip of the sacred
finger nail
broken in the failed grasp
of the horns of holiness

Mary and Martha’s brothers

Harvey S. Mozolak

in the final bandages of illness
he was wrapped like leftovers
the kind that only unkindness
would keep uncovered

without malice
there is something of garbage
to our remains
that after exposure
to death’s silent heart
begins to smell and stink

we must be buried
deep in the earth
shovel-carved or caved
where the worm keeps its winnings
for a time uncertain

what are left are the tears
after the last care and embrace of the body
they are allowed to clean
those who cleansed
the neighbors and friends
and sisters Mary and Martha
in the home that once
held also a brother
now dead Lazarus
bound for the unwinding of years

at a distance were others
who heard late of the passing

among them
a loved one
unrelated by blood in the usual sense
as yet unscarred by the wood and stone
that would mark his mysterious end
but perfumed among them as Lord
a brother by blessing
often at table in their home
laughing in the garden
talking late by the light
and warmth of their fire

two days he let Lazarus
oversleep time
stumbling in the daylight
as if at night
his sisters searched
for ways to fold their emptiness
within the closing curtains of memory
stained with the reign of sadness

and then the follower Thomas
a twin among the dozen
felt moved to say in sympathy,
of the unseen fear
“let us also go, that we may die with him”

thus four days foul
he was found
a cold hidden fragmented loaf
damp saturated with the stench of mold

when Jesus came
at his feet they fell
as before a rock
they could not move
in the road to Bethany
on the path to the fresh-filled grave
“if you had been here
“my brother would not have died”
Martha sobbed later Mary cried

strange even rude to suggest
a look at much less beneath the lid
could he not see
blind to the battering
tears gauzing their sight?
clearly he should have seen
to have been there

but there an opening
a peek at the peak that will be raised
under the towel an awakening face
an early unwrapping
to see the edge of beyond the edge
the sight of the glory of God
unstrapped of the strife of life
and the binding strips of death

we are sisters and brothers
disciples awaiting
in the several sick and sad days
wrapped in water
the tears of God
drench our souls
buried in the believed Word
who will rise
who will live
who will never die

the rock cleaved and dragon slain
by the plague of blood
this new exodus
a parting of the earth
as if it were the sea
so aboard with him
we billow with breath

Lazarus wipes the whispered wings of eternity
from his eyes
to see again his earthbound Lord
before his departure

the dead coming out
at “God’s help”
in the lasting voice
calling “come forth”
into faith
and the following beyond
banded with the Twelve
and the faithful who followed
to the one death which will gather
our dispersion
into the children of God

“now the Passover was near”

　

woman of Samaria

Harvey S. Mozolak

mud ridges of moist clay
her footprints in the puddles
by the well
his too leaving
on a journey toward the south
hers deeper into self
and the heart she carries
heavier than the daily water skins
now emptied for others to drink
of the life he offered
bubbling beyond the noon’s thirst

the spirit and truth worshipped
neither here by Sychar’s high ground
nor on Jerusalem’s conflicting mount
but in those who believed
because of his word
saving the world

generation of God

Harvey S. Mozolak

God of Adam and his Abraham
sons Isaac and Jacob

the infinite
vesseled in a measure
that will hold
nine twists of the moon
carried like a jar from a well
whose depths cannot be plumbed
to the cupped ears of centuries
and epochal-empty hearts held
parched in waiting for a promise
hidden beyond hope
under the shadow of a tree
Mary loosens the rope
of her dress at the bulging
blessing growing within
the Most High placenta-pressed
pulled low by the gravity of our generations

God of Eve and her Sarah
daughters Rebekah and Rachael

nuncio Christi

Harvey S. Mozolak

from the Lucian palette
the angel’s cadmium gold wings
are stroked next to the blessed mother
as yet unburdened
by the extra weight of heaven’s favor
in his pinioned hands
one could picture a lily
for her purity of purpose
“let it be with me’
the bulb of my belly
“according to your word”
buried
or still a sword
piercing the heart of every joy’s juice
her heartbeat comingled
in the covering by the dripping of his blood
in the embrace of new son John
or yet a shroud
to receive the loaf of cooling bread
broken and held in sarcophagal napkins
or even an empty cup for filling
to toast the throne of David the servant
of another kingdom forever lost
his robe a painter’s rag
undivided by the die
for the fortunate sponging the dripping easel

daubed with doxa his hands are brushed open in prayer
departing at the presence
not nearer but more visible
on the canvas of time
before the ceiling paint has dried
Mary sealed hurries to greet Elizabeth
with all magnificent news
that will be framed
by the high most low
his holding nails
for the hanging

Annunciation, 2009

annunciation, 2011

Harvey S. Mozolak

spring cleaning in late March
in the warming attic among tangled lights
and the broken shards of ornamentation
fallen from a forgotten box
I saw
the wing of an angel
worn by a small child in the play
that in December became the warmth
allowing time to await
the announcement of spring
and the single once
return of God
to living room and tree
in the hot noon days
of April’s merciful migration

chambered

Harvey S. Mozolak

it is usually somewhat after
a sonogram
the special sound within
made to echo seeking creation
that gram and great-gram
grand-pops aunts and uncles
cousins get the news
of the fresh expectation
that will shortly distend the belly
and the heart

hers was well…
before such possibilities
the paintings often show light
beyond simple or natural source
holy harmony and resonances
too difficult to paint
but her ear heard
chambered first the announcement
unknown to her mind or mood
in that sixth month
in a town in Galilee called Nazareth
Mary a house never entered
an address not yet known
now greeted and favored
“the Lord is with you”
The Word within
for he after your extended bearing
shall be greater
called Most High
reigning without end

a dove sits in a tree
outside her home
limbed wings casting a sheltering shadow
over the opened doorway
to new spoken possibilities
Mary in swelling dress
and smiling remembrance
carries her daily water vessels
flour for bread
clothes and cloths for washing
serving beyond the needs
now of betrothed Joseph
family and herself
thinking of her cousin Elizabeth
who should place her ancient ear
to her young belly and hear
of these unbelievable things….

seven knots in the wood

Harvey S. Mozolak

let there be
creating affixed to a tree

disobedience swallowed whole
on the violent hill's violation
a cry that the kingdom is come near
to those hopeless even afar
new love for each other
bonds beyond blood and loss
in the midst of abandonment
remembering the God who never forgets
slaking sharpness in throating death
a sponge on a spear
it is done
won
handed over to heaven
the earth
named conquered explored

in a breath narrowed to nothing
on a board

a plethora

Harvey S. Mozolak

the spaces between
spouses
and an extra
that didn’t count
did she bring them
back with her?
the woman at the well
her jar now forgotten
amid the prophet’s words
of water and life
what of those she urged
to come and see
everything that she had ever done
spilled like wet soil
about Jacob’s quenching gift
to countless generations
even of Samaritans?
they the many traces
of division among the divided
all a plethora divorced
from God’s salvation
inviting the new wedding to stay

“Rabbi, eat something”

Harvey S. Mozolak

there were times
when they gathered
gleaning grain from the field edges
on the rutted roads they walked
and others
when baskets were needed
to save the uneaten abundance
at the feeding of a multitude
filled by a few fish and loaves
an invitation recalled
to a Pharisee’s house where they ate
welcome amid others’ folded and refolded
unused napkins of purity and complaint
then in the upper chamber
for the feast of saving leaving
with unleavened bread and wine
given as broken and shed
he had said
there was food that he ate
that they knew nothing about
his appetite beyond
the occasional date and sweet bite
of pomegranate or roasted egg
bread fresh baked from the earth oven
lamb licked to the bone
his life was a fast
amid our plates and platters
his food to do the will of the one
who sent him to the last
the work of the fruit re-stemmed to the tree
his will slaughtered on a spit
basted by human spit and spite
for the reaping of our eternal harvest

(John 4. 31-34)

beyond Sychar’s thirst

Harvey S. Mozolak

wet and cold
slaked
under sweatless sun
beating down with drying
into death

dropped down
from on high
into red raw augered earth
Jesus a deep draw

dug in virgin ground
there above the well
his branched brace is built
to bucket earth

into heaven’s reign

sponge that cleanses

Harvey S. Mozolak

brought
from their garrison quarters
by the soldier’s slave
a small man they kicked around
from some foreign capture
the sponge
an easy way from the water bucket
to wipe their faces
and clean off bloody hands
from a task that was not welcome
but just a thing
guards get commanded to do
here on the hellish hill
sometimes weekly
to shock and warn the crowds
of the Roman fist and Pilate’s power
when the one they all laughed at
and cursed called out in thirst
the officer pointed to the sea sop
in its small pink ocean
first his men squeezed out
all its tainted taste of life
then poured sour wine
into its empty craters
offering it like a chunk of a broken bitter star
returned to heaven
tearless now the dry eyes
of the condemned looked down
soaking up the suffering
on the hot acrid hill
pustule of the poison
deep in all the earth
“Father, forgiven them for they known not
what they are doing”

teacher of Israel

Harvey S. Mozolak

he sat on the wall
I on the cushions
spilled for coolness
under a moon pouting with light
and we spoke
of tender things
birth and childhood
aging
returning to the womb
fear and wisdom
and the wind
and as we did it came up
unseen with spirit
from the west we heard it
in the ancient olive grove
we talked of the signs
his questions and he listened
I spoke of the love that gave
my God his only
I from above below
until the sun began its
slow Jerusalem climb toward
the tree tops

go softly quietly friend

Harvey S. Mozolak

she cannot hear
the door thump
the creak of shoes
on a nearby floor
the bird’s chatter
a rabbit
among the leftover winter leaves
the quick slash
of an early fly
close
will catch her eye
but the dullness has begun
to slow the watch
to twitching in her sleep

Isaac at the tree

Harvey S. Mozolak

last night

they sat outside on the rocks

to the side of the tent

the princess of his kingdom

the night’s small lights

could be seen in her eyes

his world there

glistening like an dark wide sea

her feet plowed the sand gently

many of the grains sticking to her toes

she could laugh so

when he tickled them

but that was when they were young

before Haran and the call to leave

and tent among the temporary

inside he could hear Hagar and Sarah

struggling to manage Ishmael’s play

there between the trees

at first like the limbs themselves

strangers coming difficult to see

in the shimmering noon sun

against the ache in his arms and legs

he rose to reverence

invite the favor of their presence

bring water ordered bread

and slaughtered calf

to eat beneath an oak of Mamre

and introduce at their request

the woman at the tent flap listening

his aged

wind-wrinkled wife

who now hardly ever smiles

at God’s pleasure

now invited

to a belly full of giggling

casket of grace

Harvey S. Mozolak

a long narrow box

with high walls

a ceiling somewhat vaulted

for the chest

that no longer rises

except in the shortening sighs

of the mourners gathered

ribs poked by the pockmarks

of flesh fasteners

a wood sign of our end

flat fallen among the rocks

rotting

without destination

the church

the coffin of God

where the carpenter son of creation

begins

construction of his table

for blessing a meal

to gather and go on

secular Lent

Harvey S. Mozolak

no time to pause

means that we have gathered

all the pauses

bound them with busyness

and used them as whip

against our hours

to hurry away from home

and when the circuit

returns at darkness to something

under a roof’s shelter

we are too tired to retire

and occupied devouring our silence

with completing completions

flame consuming bush

Harvey S. Mozolak

burnt gaze

on a blazing tree

caught fire

in the noon sun’s stare

God without sandals

shorn of glory

cut by whip and bristled barb

piercing spike and spear

standing in our unholiness

blindness on the way

a small study of St. Mark’s concluding passion

Harvey S. Mozolak

sockets that held no light

twin caves of darkness

felt along the walls

stumbling over stones

the fallen house brick

a child’s stick toy

in the way

this one going down

to Jerusalem with single sight

to be laughed at in the temple

beaten in the palace

condemned in its courts

to climb its hill

and close eternal eyes

seeing only our blindness

him we met

at Bethsaida

brought by others

to cross his path

he who would be spit upon

made me see first trees

in the wet taste of his breath

and then those who walk

with unrooted sight that does not see

later closer to the city

just beyond Jericho

Bartimaeus by the road

begging mercy

healed to follow him deeper

into darkness

receiving sight and light

to see the trees

and the man hung from them

high in the sky

his broken body blotting out

the noon

in a new and sunken sun

un-ashed

Harvey S. Mozolak

Thursday

awaking from what prayers call

the little death

my morning mirror

shows some of the mark remaining

warm water on a washcloth

seems almost soothing

as it removes the seam of soot

from the burning

of a private fevered hope

erected quite publically

in a hardly seen event

which could be caught by film

only once a year

a man wore one

last night on television

he not necessarily well-liked

of a panel of three sport’s authorities

discussing games and scores

the streaks head-noted his words

asterisked his apparent thoughts

made him stand out for criticism

or revealing courage

I wondered if the makeup department

had to work around the lines

or perchance had a quantity of such dust

within the studio’s palette of powders

blushes and rouges

by which the living are made

more alive

midweek soil

Harvey S. Mozolak

chimney soot

from what is burned

to keep us warm

against the cold that slowly kills

camouflage across the face

smeared to hide who and where we are

from others

who hate us for who we are and have

leftovers from the game

of playing far too hard

and wiped work from tired eyes

dirt furrowed in the trails of sweat

the soil of the week

spent struggling to strengthen

mid-marked

drawn from the earth

singed and flamed by hate

the oil suspended leaf shading

the skin with limbs that carry all

in the filthy mark of cleansing

(from the year 2000)

fathoming before forty

Harvey S. Mozolak

so the day and deal is this

you are naked

except for the hand drawn beams

on the brow

the March of leaves among cold stones

behind which you plow

thinking there is still land

before you drown

in some sea of self
held afore the thought
by the God whose mast
would remember 

veiled preparation

Harvey S. Mozolak

the royal array

of ancient Roman wrath

drafted armed and sent

with the battle plans

of evil

to cloak amid nature’s spring return

to life

a pool of purple

spilled beneath the winter tree

like a shadow awaiting

its noonday climb

and embrace of death’s eclipse

the folds and furrows

drape the color of grape

and deep arterial flow

will seep up the stem

the sap of sin

to cover the curse and laughter

of Light from Light’s stark nakedness

dim terse Tuesday

tense with change

in its waiting

shriveled cloth for tears

what shall I dress like

in this weak weather?

Comments

Somehow I had the comments feature inactivated.... Fixed now for your remarks.... HSM

                 the desert walk of Lent with light before and beyond

refiguring

Harvey S. Mozolak

refiguring Jesus

he is not just a molded baby

put away in the tissue stuffing

of a box in the attic or basement

he is hung in the living room

in the place where we must eat to live

the rooms where we rest and play

on the wall an ugly reminder

dressed up from its nakedness

and wounded dying display

by closed eyes

stole and robe or limp limbs

and everywhere seen

like the beams of the day

and candles in the sun’s evening rest

refiguring

today the light is bright

as it kneels in fright

in the story at another mountain

between Bethlehem and Jerusalem

where his presence was a seeing

beyond sight

his hidden might

shown at its great height

as best squinted eyes and gripped hearts

can glimpse and be held

if all light were so refiguring

revealing beyond the blood

the wine of heaven

under the folds of flesh

the flash of Sonship divine

with the words

the power of change

could we be seen talking with him

hearing the voice from the brightness

alone in Jesus?

until the refiguring

of the grave’s cloudy shadows

it is difficult not to see

and yet to tell

of mountains beyond carved crèches

and the nail-hung crucifix

on nearby neutral painted walls

(for the Feast of Transfiguration)

ages of ages

Harvey S. Mozolak

it was an enormous tree

the article read

so large

several men with linked arms

could not surround its girth

for this reason

a bore was taken

an intrusion into its ringed ages

that would announce

it predated the country

in which it now grows

to towering heights

all ancients then long buried

as roots of those now living

take the cross

any one of its branches

from some wall

corridor or chancel

and drill deep within

to its core

nails have been useful

for this task

but reading of a gospel works

the same

instead of encircling years

the unending figure of eternity

is touched by drying cellulose

stained by ruin

red and cut

postdating time

and seeding long after

all trees fall

with silent heard obeisance   

in a country as yet

while named

unwalked unpathed by foot

unscarred

too sharp to swallow

Harvey S. Mozolak

“let this cup pass from”

the walk along

the window on pain

a hospital

down a long corridor

to a waiting room

a series of glass enclosed displays

of healing

of the past

photographs and instruments

the apparatus of nursing

implements of the operating room

trappings for the bedside

and medical office

kept by a doctor or two

pharmacological  paraphernalia

documents and bottles

among them

a chaplain’s abandoned tools

their blackening silver

a priest’s small chalice

and empty paten

the bowl of the cup

half filled with a score

or more of the tacks

hopefully merely forgotten

whose companions hold the pictures

and anchored objects to the display board

above

“in remembrance of”

(actual object of the poem in a first floor display case at St. Margret’s Hospital, Pittsburgh PA)

food of spring

Harvey S. Mozolak

early from the smallest dark dots

that end the winter’s sentence

dropped from cold hands

that attempt to separate them
into paragraphs of green

they vanish

tumbling into black and brown blending soil

seed of tenderness

gathering the moisture

of teared flakes and sun

awaiting oil and soured wine

and tongues that taste

of growth again

temptation before a dry font

Harvey S. Mozolak

you probably don’t recognize me

beardless I am obviously not the character

playing Jesus

I will leave that role to you to fill

with weakened memories

and easily excused forgetfulness

but I am hardly a prop

like a cactus or a Negev lizard

warming myself in the early morning sun

I am temptation

not quite yours

somewhat removed from

well you know the furtive figure

behind the forty days

who parades as a touch of coolness

the only and proper shade

in this arid deserted place

I am the gleam on the fruit

polished by waving leaves

as a serpent

subtle sweet swirling

makes his way

still yet with limbs

through the branches

to be closer to an ear

here there are no green trees

the hot breath of earth’s volcanic hate

for deserted and doomed

decades have stripped them

left them coat racks

on which to hang human nakedness

I am the suggestion

in the sand that shifts

of firmer footing elsewhere

there must be a hidden garden

you can grow

flowers you can form

of plastics that never fade or falter

bouquet yourself with nature

retouched with necessary

corrections and completions

that the divine omitted or forgot

I am the IF

in a mirage of words

the clause that causes doubt

in what you see and trust

hungry you can chew

stones if necessary

or don’t you trust miracles

from your all-powerful God?

take a chance

with your balance in the high lofts

where heaven is stuffed with angels

and safety belted with belief

everything here is yours

add a bit of your sweat to the sand

and castles can be created

that will scrape the sky

to speak in divine ways

among enlightened minds

and talented beings

that need to beg no mercy

for they sit at pinnacles and great promontories 

if but you acknowledge

invite me to sit among you

introduce me to a friend as a friend

make me an acquaintance

of your hours

the places where your feet go

and where your hands build

of time

forget the forty days

this is no wilderness but a bakery

the smell not carrion and scorpions’ prey

but of the perfume of your lasting beauty

a temple where you are seen in a mirror

as you really are

the imagination of God incarnate

at a high mountain

of achievement and success

potential and power

(looking at the baptismal font and into the font)

what is this?

this wet kingdom

a puddle of pity?

does it bear a name?

in the midst of my…

pleasantly dry prompting—

a watery word?

the welling of grace

begins in the hole of hate

the pit of death itself

parched and dying breathless

at the heartless emptiness

he speaks

 “I thirst.”

he yields to no temptation

in this his greatest test

the wood table for the loaf of his love

broken shared and sopped

the tree-temple for his lamb’s blood splattered

the kingdom forever

is for you

for you who have yielded

he has yielded up himself

not to temptation

but to nakedness

hanged as fruit replaced

on the gory garden’s tree

now he hungers

beyond the days of fast

to hold us fast

until the last

lest we fall

he is lifted up

to die on the bare branches

unrecognized

“there is no beauty to behold him”

struck and stuck

hit and hated

what is seen is no illusion

nor fantasy of hapless hope

but in the flooring of God

is earth’s true foundation

at this angels too attend

learning lessons they never envisioned

in eternity

songs they will sing

when the silent closed gates of Eden

are flung open

again before Joseph’s borrowed

furrowing of forever

this is no puddle of pity

but the basin of blessing

an ocean of mercy

the thirst of God

in the mouth of Christ

drink deeply

of the water and the blood

eat of his flesh

and inwardly digest

the Word blessed

“worship the Lord your God

“and serve only him”

                  

                     appropriate for Lent 1