Memory

For me, Thanksgiving is a time of Memory. Thanking God for where I've been brings memories, one after another, pouring over me till I can hardly see. The more I thank Him, the more I realise I have to thank Him for. I don't know what else Thanksgiving can possibly be, but the world has some use for it, even when it has no God. ‘Thank who?’ I've sometimes dared to ask, and have gotten back a few different answers, usually variations on the theme of ‘Just feel thankful and glad you have what you have, but no need to thank anyone in particular, unless maybe yourself.’ Blindness can be so stubborn.

Having just remembered my mother who reposed this week twenty-four years ago, I want to publish two song lyrics I wrote within a year of her sleeping. Neither one is very good, but both make reference to her and are dear to me. The second one has never been published; the first has been published in my book Living in Luxury. You can download a copy by clicking HERE.

You Knew Better

Oh Mama,
how you looked at us that one last time—
resignation welling up in your eyes like tears.
You sat so calmly at the door in your wheelchair.
You knew better than to cry, you could see so clear.
You followed us with your eyes,
you could feel where
the road was leading us,
and you would meet us there.

How can I forget it—that night.
Finally I remember, your eyes were so bright.
But I didn’t know then,
no, I didn’t know
what it was that shone in them
and through them so.
I didn’t know then, no, I didn’t know.

Oh Mama,
how without a word you put to shame
consolation well-meaning but unneeded now.
You held us tightly to you, then you made us go.
You knew better than us, a door would open somehow.

You sat us down beside you
‘cause you had to share
the treasure in the field
that had come to you.

How can I forget it—that light.
Finally I remember, who gave you sight.
But I didn’t know then,
no, I didn’t know
what it was that shone in them
and through them so.
I didn’t know then, no, I didn’t know.

Oh Mama,
how the memory can make me climb,
revelation well-hidden, wisdom undefined.
You stand in an open doorway in sharp outline.
You know better than to cry, you can see the design.
You follow us with your eyes,
you can fathom when
the road will return us
to our meeting again.

How can I forget it—that night.
Finally I remember, your eyes were so bright.
But I didn’t know then,
no, I didn’t know
what it was that shone in them
and through them so.
I didn’t know then, no, I didn’t know.

1987 August 12

Between the Anvil and the Hammer Blow

Between the anvil and the hammer blow,

oh God, where can this flesh and blood go?

You've held me in the fire and in the snow,

how much I feel, but how little I know.

Hey, Master soul smith, can You hear me crying?

Does this scream that You're beating reach up to You?

Hey Master, soul smith, can You hear me crying?

Can this be dreaming

or is it dying?

Into the mirror and the window pane,

oh Mama, I cast my face and got yours back again.

From the look in your dark eyes I can see the coming rain,

and the turning of the seasons, and the weather vane.

Dear Mama, from your cloud, can you hear me crying?

Can you see what this weathering is doing to me?

Oh Mama, from your cloud, can you hear me crying?

Can this be living

or is it lying?

Camping here a moment just to see you through,

oh brother, what kind of miracle can I do?

Count how many times I've tried to carry you.

In what way, on what day, will I be welcome to you?

And say, have you been listening so long to your crying

that you can't see through to where I'm standing right next to you?

Hey brother, would you please stop now, please stop your crying.

Look what you're missing

and start prophesying.

1987 February 19