Papa Francesco I The first POPE Francis surprises & amazes many, beginning with Catholics. If you hope he's not assasinated, don't be
surprised how the curia
plays hard-ball bocci. (19 DEC 14, V V Santa Clara CA)v5
BUCCANEER I drop Fiona at the edge of school, joyful and humming with Sudafed and ibuprofen, wearing parts of a kindergarten costume which still fit: eye patch and vest, bandana and floppy hat, cobbled together for this event she’s awaited three years now, nearly a third of her life: fifth graders celebrating Talk like a Pirate Day. She dashes to join friends swirling in homage to lives filled with derring-do and scurvy, pillage and brutal early death, though don’t we all dance likewise against fears, taming the horror with humors, and this on the heels of lessons about kachinas and sacred clowns – a sideswipe of memory: her sister, Kirsten, enthralled with all celebration, public or private, how she would have danced at that final drum circle, her hair lifting in riverwind, all of us smiling through tears while my little pirate skips off toward that implacable shore: bon voyage, me beauty, bon voyage. ~ George M. Perreault, Reno NV email@example.com
WINTER RAIN Miles and seasons ago: backwoods Maine, the Northeast Kingdom, up into Quebec, Lac Memphrémagog, the summer thickened with noseeums, tiny explosions on any exposed skin, but today’s pinpricks are unexpected ice instead: crystals lost in gray above and around, the sky pressing wetly upon the womb of the valley, while across the inland empire farmers and ranchers no better than frogs pinging back and forth: jubilee oh merciful god jubilee - George M. Perreault, Reno NV 04 DEC 14
Rain in the Desert, Year Zero It was the star, of course, which first drew us west, away from our studies, a brilliant wondering in the night: curiosity or hope, the little sisters of despair. Yet, when stars are now beyond the reach of my eyes, the mountains vague and even the near trees mere rumors, another memory intrudes, sustains me on this shore: Clouds swelling into the evening, the path lost in mist, we found shelter under a rocky overhang; no need for tents that night, even the camels edging in among us while down it came, steady, pebbling the sand then working deep to where the roots of everything sang with relief, and the air was filled with the sweetness of each blessed plant. It was, we learned, the same night the Child was born, outside a little town nearly a fortnight off in the distance, and we’ve heard it said that the sky filled with angels, but what are angels except light and water, brushing over the skin of this earth, easing ever downward, filling reservoirs deep within us, blessings we too often forget we share? And the story is told that we brought gifts as if for a king, but in truth they were baubles, and we were given everything, for the eyes of the Child were the color of desert rain.