Sitting with Inmates
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Sitting with Inmates
In the hot, linoleum fluorescent dining hall, around
a round steel table, bolted down: doors locked
we read the chosen verses together.
Tonight, we talk of freedom:
Freedom—true liberation—that of a real
and beautiful Ghost, passing through
the walls of sin and all its harsh sentences,
transcending the Law, its iron bars,
hired guards, coils of razor wire
waiting to cut blood, the long howls
of Bloodhounds in the blue-flashing darkness
pursuing us—they’ve smelled our dirty clothes,
they know our fearful human scent.
We can not escape.
Week after week, listening to these men,
their broken stories, knowing the caged anger
the lust and craving for revenge—all hiding
in the cells of my own heart, I wonder:
Who am I? to lead these prisoners
even one faltering step
up the stumbling stony road toward Freedom
leading to the Cross—the very source,
the Fountainhead—this wild pure River
of healing love, waves of cleansing grace
raging down the dark halls,
all our private hells.
I tell them each ‘Good Night’, and walk outside
beyond the iron bars and the guarded wall
into pale radiance, the cool and silent stars.
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“I was in prison, and you visited Me.”
“Blessed are the poor in spirit. Theirs is the Kingdom of God”
–Jesus
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Observed, at a City Park
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Observed, at a City Park
The young prostitute, painted
and perfumed, a torn black dress
she drops the sultry come-on look
and pauses a few moments in deep shade,
rose petals and thorns,
tall yellow flowers bending with bees.
Cicadas are rattling, singing like snakes—
long dry tones of lust and sorrow
in the hot late-summer trees.
A brooding thunderstorm, blue
as a fresh bruise, stands sombering
over the darkening mountains.
A chilling wind blows down through town,
shaking the heavy leaves.
Torn black dress, wobbly heels
and cheap earbuds, she hurries on
down the winding, care-less street
clutching her purse, chewing gum,
trying to make a smile.
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–Quilla
August Twenty-ninth
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Past midnight, soft and yellow
the low Corn Moon of late-summer
is setting in the silhouettes
of old black oaks.
Long blue shadows fall across the lawn.
To the east, rising red and clear
over the tops of tall bamboo
Aldebaran’s fiery eye comes gleaming.
It silent beams glow like winter coals.
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–Quilla
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August Twenty-Eight
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Great white clouds pass on
beyond the blue mountain rim and sky
giving no rain
Tall trees slightly bend
whispering, thick green leaves turn white
the dry late-summer wind
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–Quilla
Images of Late August
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An August painting, by Jonas Girard
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A few more August Haiku. . .
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If April was painted
watery pastels, August
is hard bright strokes of oil
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A few months ago:
thrushes, cool new leaves.
Now, Jays shrieking in the heat
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Early, making tea.
Cool fog, a Cuckoo
mourning in the trees
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How does this old skin
still feel the hair-thin needle
of a mosquito?
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A Few August Haiku
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Gaunt old mountain pine—
the risen sun shines through
needles, glistening
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Latesummer morning:
cool cloud-shadows. Long silences.
Old trees, waiting for the Fall
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Teen-age prostitute:
her thin black dress fluttering,
hot concrete and thunder
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Another summer ends.
Why does it feel each year begins
with Autumn?
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Late August morning
crossed with cloud-shadows
silences, cicadas
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Our pain-filled prayers lift
with twilight mist, deep shadows
a small owl sings
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The young prostitute
one black silk stocking, missing. . .
hot winds scrape the street
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August Twenty-Second
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Late Summer
Tall white thunderheads
climb the steep afternoon sky.
Deep in silent forest shadows, now
only the tiny Wood Pewee
sings.
Late August, leaves already fading
like the lost colors of morning dreams.
I watch the clouds passing, swiftly
beyond the hills, like tall sails
silently.
As the strong light wanes
sweet fruits ripen: all that could be,
should be, indeed, all that can be
while time spills through our fingers
today.
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–Quilla
More Images of August
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“God is our refuge, and our strength, a very present help in time of trouble.
Therefore we will not fear, though the mountains tumble into the heart of the sea.
Be still, and know: that I am God.” –Psalm 46
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“The LORD is my light, and my salvation; whom shall I fear?
“The LORD is the defense of my life; whom shall I dread?
–Psalm 27: 1
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Images of August
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August Tenth
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The others are gone.
Now, just a large window
and long, latesummer rain
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Our daughter’s divorce—
hot wind scrapes the August leaves
down an empty street
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“No love is left”.
In the night the great sad ocean
breaks and breaks and breaks. . .
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What do you say, when
she says it’s over? Night winds
rustle the dark birches
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August Eighth
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An unexpected gift:
into deeply smoldering sorrows
it comes—settling quietly, opening softly
the cool, resilient, glistening wings
of Godly joy.
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August Fourth
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Evening Bells
On the windy hilltop, August twilight wind
ruffles the old Maples, smelling of rain.
Flocks of sparrows scatter, like blown seed
like holy syllables, thrown to the dusk shadows.
The pearlescent sun descends, swallowed whole—
whorled black cauldrons of approaching storm.
With all that night portends, we’re left to face
great wraiths of fear, old loves and hates,
and this little faith, transcending, ringing true,
like the evening chapel bells.
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–Quilla
Ruach 333, by Quilla 