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12/24/2016 when i was a boy ~ ron starbuckST. JOHN'S LUTHERAN CHURCH ~ EASTON, KANSAS when i was a boy it was easy for me to imagine living the cowboy life, like John Wayne somewhere in Kansas which is where i was born and mostly raised or even further out west among the mesas and cactus southwest of home by only a few hundred miles my imagination ran rowdy in those days we lived in the far suburbs of Kansas City but on the close edge of a cultivated countryside where small farms and ranches were stretched and scattered between subdivisions creeks and stream beds were our favorite play fellows they were the wild companions and places of our childhood and of my heart i believe still there was a small field i once walked by on occasion where two horses grazed, and where i would often stop to say hello, they weren’t shy at all about galloping up to the fence, anxious for me to pet their broad foreheads and dive deeply into the the black pools of their pupils where sunlight and stars floated forever speaking out loud with a neigh and a nod whispering horse sense to my ear my maternal grandfather and grandmother were farm folk all their life, wedded to the land and the changing seasons the rhythm of their lives guided by the movement of earth and moon and Sunday morning church at St. John’s Lutheran where relatives and neighbors gathered weekly, some still do i can still see my grandmother’s face and her secret smile like Mona Lisa’s, knowing more than any child may imagine and her soft loving eyes, wise with wonder for the world her hands bent with arthritis, but never a complaint as she snapped snap beans for dinner or kneaded dough for bread i can still taste the delight of those farm days especially the strawberries and shortcake in summer vine ripe juicy tomatoes exploding with flavor into the back of your mouth and throat and i can still see my grandfather too, so clearly even now his hands especially, so strong and so sure calloused from years of work on the farm, but so very gentle i can remember as a small child, crawling up on his lap as he sat in his rocking chair by a pot bellied stove, truly and how he held each of us in turn, all his grandchildren, joyfully patient eyes twinkling like some dime store Santa even though he was bald and beardless wearing blue jean overalls with brass buttons and snaps we’d play with there was no safer place in the entire world you know Wheels Turning Inward by Ron Starbuck Hardcover: 136 pages Publisher: FriesenPress (August 26, 2010) Language: English ISBN-10: 1770671129 ISBN-13: 978-1770671126 12/24/2016 in the bleak midwinter ~ Christina Rossetti IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER ~ CHRISTINA ROSSETTI In the bleak mid-winter Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak mid-winter Long ago. Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him Nor earth sustain; Heaven and earth shall flee away When He comes to reign: In the bleak mid-winter A stable-place sufficed The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ. Enough for Him, whom cherubim Worship night and day, A breastful of milk, And a mangerful of hay; Enough for Him, whom angels Fall down before, The ox and ass and camel Which adore. Angels and archangels May have gathered there, Cherubim and seraphim Thronged the air - But only His mother In her maiden bliss Worshipped the Beloved With a kiss. What can I give Him, Poor as I am? If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb; If I were a wise man I would do my part; Yet what I can, I give Him - Give my heart. 12/24/2016 MARY ~ BERTOLT BRECHT Mary
The night when she first gave birth Had been cold. But in later years She quite forgot The frost in the dingy beams and the smoking stove And the spasms of the afterbirth towards morning. But above all she forgot the bitter shame Common among the poor Of having no privacy. That was the main reason Why in later years it became a holiday for all To take part in. The shepherds’ coarse chatter fell silent. Later they turned into the Kings of the story. The wind, which was very cold Turned into the singing of angels. Of the hole in the roof that let in the frost nothing remained But the star that peered through it. All this was due to the vision of her son, who was easy Fond of singing Surrounded himself with poor folk And was in the habit of mixing with kings And of seeing a star above his head at night-time. — Bertolt Brecht |
Publisher's BlogRON STARBUCK is the Publisher/CEO/Executive Editor of Saint Julian Press, Inc., in Houston, Texas; a poet and writer, an Episcopalian, and author of There Is Something About Being An Episcopalian, When Angels Are Born, Wheels Turning Inward, and most recently A Pilgrimage of Churches, four rich collections of poetry, following a poet’s mythic and spiritual journey that crosses easily onto the paths of many contemplative traditions. Archives
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