poem/Holy Ground

Holy Ground

 

Altars visited by my child's eye

held the magic of God and grace upon the sacred linens.

Tables made holy by bread and wine,

consecrated by hands and lips

that whispered lies in the dark.

 

Candles reflected the

powerful promise of redemption

offered in trade for my innocent soul.

Reminders that the failure

to attend these empty feasts

would bring the fires of hell upon our backs.

 

Holy water rationed among us,

one careful, baptismal drop at a time,

for a people dying of thirst.

Stingy, measured blessings,

when what we needed were gushing fonts of life;

overflowing springs to cool us.

 

Sacred Word spoken at me, with an angry finger

pointing out my sin.

Speech made unholy

by hisses of hate under the breath,

hidden in the sweet smiles of deception.

 

The smell of incense,

remembered even now.

Lovely, scented mysteries of smoke and ash,

rising with our prayers to the heavens.

A multitude of lips moving

in an ancient plea for mercy,

that would not come.

 

Melodies of angelic choirs

lifting a desperate Glory to God.

Music tortured by throats enslaved.

Crystal clear sopranos, the only sound allowed

within the stained glass vestries of silence.

 

Now, my altar has a simple design.

Kitchen table, or coffee table

spread with a eucharist

of chicken salad and carrot cake.

Paten and chalice, the floral dishes and cups

of a meal made holy by love.

Bread and brie and pears, divine communion

of intimacy and grace.

 

My candles of salvation are the lights of the sky.

Sun and moon and stars offered in freedom.

No payment of spirit or soul

required for their beauty.

 

Holy water sprinkled

from fingers which seek only to heal.

Mother's spit washing away

the blood and tears of hurt and fear.

Baby's bath poured on the forehead

in a sacrament of belonging.

 

And blessed incense, the dew-dropped purple

of wisteria, the sweet rising

scent of freshly cut cantaloupe.

Beaded sweat on the body of my beloved,

perfuming the air of my prayer with mercy.

 

And sacred music, the sound

of ocean wave and birdsong.

Voices of son and daughter,  soothing balm to a soul

too long  seeking solace in the empty echoes

of cathedral organs.

 

My altars are much simpler now.

Sanctuaries of sea and sky.

The sacred linen of earth  made holy by flesh and blood.

The ritual dance of life sung in a kyrie of joy and pain.

The act of consecration made manifest

in the terrible beauty of being.

Holy ground is no longer a place I enter.

It is a place which enters me.