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