Blue Moon Blood Moon Eclipse

Wearing a shadow for a covering,
in the coolness of a morning that is not—
for night and day are but a seeming,
guiding that rarest of miracles: vision

—Over this silent music presides the moon,
calling all divine light to rise and water to lie,
and quickening every frozen seed to song
from all measures of waiting slumber.

Such mathematical and unseasonal observances,
of celestial bodies hurtling forward through space,
should swerve and realign misguided churnings
that might trouble a perfect harmonic turn.

In this here and now, wearing a shadow for a covering,
water lies in hushed witness to what eternal moment,
seemingly, is reflected on this still and tensile Bay,

unaware of any unseemly ripple over the fabric of time.

© 2018 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

With A Song in the Heart

Ubi—
            the glare of,
                        —caritas—
            yes, the sun’s benevolent glare
                                    —et amor—
            on her wedding day

birds singing in the trees;
musicians playing and singing;
a song arose in her own heart.

—congregavit nos in unum—
            “we are gathered together”
—simul ergo cum in unum congregemus—
            “as gathered into one body”

behind the glare of the sun
stood an angel aglow with fire,
bearing circlets of rose and lily.

—ne nos mente dividamur—
            “let those who are now joined”
                        —caveamus—
            “not be sundered”

the husband and his brother
deigned to the swim she offered,
according to the song of her heart.

—Exultemus—
            let us Rejoice!
                        for the vision seen
                        for the life given
                        for the love shared

—cantantibus organis—
            for while the music played
            the glare of the sun
            tore open the sky
            broke open her heart
            and the stars flocked like birds
            through its torn veil
            bringing their heavenly songs
            to every open place.

—dum aurora finem daret—
            at the last stroke,
            into the open earth
            her heart sang out,
            pure to the last
—fiat cor meum immaculatum—

—non confundar
            alleluia
            alleluia
—Deus ibi est

            alleluia
            alleluia

© 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

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Cecilia (patron saint of musicians and poets and venerated in the Roman canon of the mass) is a most unlikely saint from Roman times. No particular miracles are attributed to her, although she was able to convince two men (her new husband and his brother) that she knew an angel; she was martyred because she was a Christian (though, according to legend, was apparently difficult to dispatch); and when her remains were uncovered centuries later, they were incorrupt, to the astonishment of those who discovered them. There are a few quotes attributed to her that are probably derivative of psalms, and not much else is known.

But mythmaking, I believe, always has a basis in truth; there was a person so special that her memory could not be erased from her community, even generations following her death. The basis of truth about Cecilia is perhaps that she sang, and she wanted her song to be for Jesus, for God. Oddly, the root of the name implies blindness; this person’s perception was evidently triggered and opened by music to experience the divine.

That is most likely the miracle.

I have folded words from the hymn “Ubi Caritas,” as well as some the words attributed to Cecilia into this meditation (apologies for any over-simplifications of the Latin on my part):

Ubi caritas et amor – where benevolence and love are

Congregavit nos in unum – we are gathered into one

Simul ergo cum in unum congregemus – as we are gathered into one body
Ne nos mente dividamur, caveamus – beware, lest we be of divided mind

Exultemus – Rejoice

Cantantibus organis – instruments played
Dum aurora finem daret – while dawn was breaking into day

Fiat cor meum immaculatum – let my heart stay pure

Non confundar – not be confounded
Deus ibi est – God is there

Penance

Flotillas of birds skim the near distance, observing;
the shore being taken up by throngs of people
with buckets, bags and sticks.

I wonder, do they judge us?
Do they scorn or laugh or jeer?
They’d be within their rights.

Bottle tops, cigarette butts, candy wrappers;
Plastic straws, seven left shoes, a tarp;
Coffee lids, condoms, a mitt for catchers.

Packing peanuts, pills and partitions;
foam that will never break down into loam;
cosmetic jars, wine bottles, crushed can renditions.

We sweep and we swarm,
picking through weeds and thorn,
to get at an old tire, wheel rusted and worn.

The tide moves in, signaling our defeat,
as more bags and bottles drift, from farther out, in,
while all bag what was retrieved and retreat.

The birds take to the cleaner shore,
ready to bask and snooze in the sun;
we leave, wishing we could do more.

This is both a penance and a futility,
even done each day forever, of a utility
useless to blot the sin of our pollution.

Our penance is received, nevertheless;
one wonders if we can heal our world
by means of such feeble efforts;
napping birds make no answer, busy at rest.

© 2018 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen