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