Influences

Wind, hot and dry,
filled the lanes with dust,
intruding through every crack,
invading every door and window.

Waves of flame,
reaching as from above,
came to stay and oppress every brow,
and we were filled with a divine madness,

Such that suddenly
all different voices were one voice,
all messages one message,
all humanity, each unique, yet one.

This is how all truly is,
verily, verily, unto ages of ages:

We are one family, sharing space and time;
we belong to one another.

How else could God make the case
but to strike us with understanding,
if only in a moment of brevity,
and then charge us with handling the rest?

Such is the mystery of Divine Influence.
Each of us is intended to intervene
to maintain the sanctity of all our lives;
everyone has a role in this heavenly task.

Be fired with your divine purpose!
Of all colors, shapes, the plethora of singsong tongues
proclaims the truth that divine fire exposes:
There is but one people, one life, one purpose.

Ye have been touched, all of ye!
Gather your whits about you,
for each day’s intent is this fire,
this purpose of divine life-giving influence.

Peace be to thee and your neighbors all!
Alleluia, Alleluia, and amen,
and blessings be to ye all
unto the ageless ages.

© 2019 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Good Neighbors: 8. Eight Days, Nine Yards, at the Eleventh Hour

Standing before the empty tomb,
we see its emptiness and weep.

What happened here?
Who can say?

Loss and abandonment hang in the air.

A parent died;
a friend left;
a mentor migrated,
leaving no forwarding address;
the plane crashed,
and we cannot rest until we know why,
for how can there be closure
under the cloud of the unknown?

We all wait,
and what we await
is an eighth day,
when the emptiness can be lifted
—or filled—
by possibility,
so we can move on.

When will our eighth day come?

If we could move,
we might
attempt a full nine yards
to achieve ten,
or, who knows, even more.

The empty tomb
is meant to make us turn to one another,
for solace and for support,
to reconnect and renew.

On that day,

on the day when we break through
—the grief,
            the pain or paralysis—
when we find one another
and work together
—to be with and for one another—
                        only when,
at that eleventh hour of our collective soul
                        only then
            might we truly be known

            as Good Neighbors.

© 2015 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

This poem is the final prayer and postlude of a cycle based on the so-called Seven Penitential Psalms. The subtitle of the cycle is “Psalms from the Streets”.

Good Neighbors: 7. Sunday

Listen!
Hear what I’m saying?
Don’t judge

what you don't understand!

How can you justify
pushing me away?

I’ve been objectified,
            I’ve been abused,
I’ve been both overwhelmed
            and ignored by those who should help.

I remember better times,
when I was able to work,
and could think deep thoughts.

Now, it is all I can do to stand up
            and reach out.
I’m living through a drought,
            and thirsting for true compassion.  Hear that?

Hear me,
Now, as I stand before you,

Don’t turn away,
as if I am invisible.

Let me feel love in the morning;
            if I am to believe in the system,
teach me how it works,
            so that I can freely be in it. 

Deliver me,
help deliver us all from failure and shame;

we’ll follow you to salvation,
if you’ll let us in.

Teach us to live anew,
            for you have found the key;
if you are truly good,
            lead the rest of us to that promised land.

© 2015 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

This poem is part of a cycle based on the so-called seven Penitential Psalms. The subtitle of the cycle is “Psalms from the Streets”. This entry is based on Psalm 143, and could be subtitled, “The Abused.”

Good Neighbors: 5. Friday

My prayer went unheard, but not my crying;

in my sorrow, I am both visible and invisible.

My days drift away like smoke:
my heart is so shriveled and broken,
I cannot eat, so I grow thin;
Who knows where I have been?

Or what I have done to pass the time?

I walk alone, in a sea of people,
and no one knows my pain;
how could my life perish so,
though my body be yet alive?

In the blink of an eye,
by a shot in the dark,
my child, my life, was taken from me.

All my days since flow like shadows,
and a drought withers me to my roots;
bread is like ashes on my tongue,
water is as bitter as tears;
I go up and down,
but clouds follow me ever,
taunting me with hope
for a rain that never comes.

What did she do, my child,
to meet such a fate?
What did I do to bring it on her?
How could love fail so deeply?

Can anything be done
to loosen the bonds of time
or shorten the days of this turmoil?
When shall I be changed

from pain into dust?

These days endure;
and I am but a worn rag,
but nothing changes,
all remains the same,
for years that have no end,
while I watch children not my own
grow to carry life forward.

© 2015 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

This poem is part of a cycle based on the so-called seven Penitential Psalms. The subtitle of the cycle is “Psalms from the Streets”. This entry is based on Psalm 102, and could be subtitled, “The Bereaved.”

Good Neighbors: 3. Wednesday

You can criticize my lifestyle, 

but you can’t embarrass me.

I see the way you look at me;
I get it: Addiction shows on my face and frame;
I feel it on my skin, it burns in my joints.

I’m in over my head; I can’t get free.

Maybe I’m not beyond rehab, but it hasn’t worked yet.

My sores get infected, but still I can’t stop;
my whole being is a like festering pustule.
All I can do is pick at myself
and feed the monster inside.

I’m a prisoner who wants to be free,
but I don’t have the strength
or will.

My family and friends have disowned me
—they either shun me
or talk about me behind my back;
they wish I would disappear.

I try not to hear their voices in my head;
I try not to shout the curses
that fill my withered heart.

I know I need help,
and I think I want help;
someone’s got to have the key
to unlock my iron cell.

The way things are now,
people seem happy at my failures;
I admit my weakness, and ask for help,
but they revel in their strength,
and revile me for my vices.

People who want nothing better for me
can only be my enemies,
can only do me harm.

Deep within, I want to find goodness;
I want to know what is good
and to be good,
to know a good life.

Please, don’t leave!
Please, don’t abandon me, like all the others!
Help free me from this cycle of pain!
Don’t let me go!

© 2015 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

This poem is part of a cycle based on the so-called seven Penitential Psalms. The subtitle of the cycle is “Psalms from the Streets”. This entry is based on Psalm 38, and could be subtitled, “The Addict.”

Good Neighbors: 2. Tuesday

They say you’re blessed when forgiven,
but I gotta say it:
Though I done my time,

            it seems like none forgave me.

I see other people who think they are better,
that they are outside of the rules
that hold me,
but they aren’t that upstanding;
it’s a bad joke.

When I was a young fool,
I struggled and I raged and I stole;
like I said: I’m not proud of what I done,
but I done the time for my crime.

What I seen in there,
it changed me:
it made me old,
it made me quiet;

Like an invisible hand on my shoulder,
it scared all the piss and bile right out of me.

You hear that?

I come out and I’m not afraid to tell what I done,
I am a different person, now,
and I want to be recognized,
to be known as new.

Do you hear that?

In the eyes of the law,
I know I am good, now—
they called it even and sprung me
—but no person will hire me.

That Power that changed me,
show Yourself, and give me hope;
that hope is where I hide my heart.
—protect me,
keep me out of trouble;
I don’t want to go back
to that other place, no more.

Hear me!
Hear me and preserve me!
Tell me, teach me, guide me
to a goal, a job, home;
help me to be useful,
and heal my soul
with true forgiveness!

© 2015 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

This poem is part of a cycle based on the so-called seven Penitential Psalms. The subtitle of the cycle is “Psalms from the Streets”. This entry is based on Psalm 32, and could be subtitled, “The Ex-Convict.”

Good Neighbors: 1. Monday

All you who pass by,
don’t judge what you don’t understand.

Please, don’t walk away;

        Any small amount would help
            a homeless,

        hungry

and sick-to-my-very-bones me.

My soul suffers, and has for a long time;
how much longer can I hold on?

You could stop, you could help;
you could save me, for Humanity’s sake!

Instead, you just walk on by;
you show me your back.

           Words of gratitude are not spoken by the dead,
but I might sing your praises

           if you’d relieved my dread;
any small change could help.

Riddled by sleeplessness,
           I drench my tattered coat in tears
that could flood the very streets
           with a river of my shame.

My eyes are weary,

because I fear for my safety.

You’ll ignore me and move on,
            but what goes around comes around;
your indifference will bring the shame on you.

© 2015 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

This poem is part of a cycle based on the seven Penitential Psalms. The subtitle of the cycle is "Psalms from the Streets." This first entry is based on Psalm 6 and an all too familiar passage from Lamentations; it could be subtitled "The Homeless."