La Habana, en versos libres: I. Dias Uno

Sharing gum on the plane,
preparing for sweetness,
drinking Fanta in the sky.

Applause erupts
as the wheels touch down;
“Thank-you for flying Sky King”,
Welcome to Habana.

The Chinese made tram,
carrying us from tarmac to terminal,
is new and smooth,
the Aeropuerto Nacional
is old and worn.

One guard only
scans the luggage
and shrink-wrapped goods,
but two guards

mind the spaniels on duty;
maybe petting is not allowed,
although they seem friendly.

At the Hotel Plaza,
mojitos await at the counter,
but the rooms are not ready
until after four o’clock.

A walking tour ensues
over La Habana vieja,
footsteps treading over footsteps
in this place bursting with sound
and with color
in the fluid heat.

Opulence interrupted,
nonetheless,
this city has been alive;
though the faces and facades are worn,
vital blood and sugar still flow,
likewise the rum,
sold through open window shops.

The staccato of the tongues
and car horns
is like the beat of ageless drums;
this old town is kept new
by the child
beating on the drum
for our pleasure,
corazón of our corazón.

Lunch at Hotel Inglettera
incurs petty robbery loss,
while the salsa plays
and the Buccanero flows;
opportunities overflow
even in the most crowded room.

Transports from other ages
race all over town;
the racket and the fumes,
with the heat and humidity,
they roll over one,
as they settle on each edifice
and make their mark.

More to see,
more to do,
more to say,
but first to sing,
in this place
of unending song.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

The Day We Were Together

It was the day we were together,
perhaps the only one,
and Holy Heaven opened above us,
a place so vast it overflowed,
pouring down flaming, music-like wind
on our eyes, our ears, our hearts,
and when we spoke,
it was as if we were one being,
speaking in all the tongues of humanity.

Together, we thought,
“Woe is me! I have gone mad!
I am among crazy people!”

But a collective thought-stream commenced:
Sad it is that I must remind you:
I have created you and blessed you;

I have given you a heart of flesh.

Hear, and now understand,
See, and now perceive,
Be healed, now,
and go to share the news!

Mistake not fulfillment
for drunkenness;
your purpose is,
and has always been,
to love one another
— in thought, word and deed,
in dreams and in reality,
to love is to serve.

Rejoice and be Glad!

It was the day we were together,
perhaps the only one.
Do you remember?
Or was it just a dream?

             *****

Prayers of the People on Pentecost

To Holy Wisdom, that came

In silence, wind and flame,

We lift our prayers, saying:

            Holy Wisdom,

            Lead us with your Spirit!

As we bring forth our different faces, colors, gifts and voices,
Please guide our vision, our work, our ministries and choices.

            Holy Wisdom,

            Lead us with your Spirit!

Strengthen your ministers, ordained and lay, all,

To heed what our minds, hearts and covenant call.

            Holy Wisdom,

            Lead us with your Spirit!

Move those who govern beyond profit, loss and liability;
Guide them to uphold freedom, truth, justice and dignity.
            Holy Wisdom,

            Lead us with your Spirit!

Guide us in the sustainable use and care
of this Earth, our planetary ecosystem so rare.

            Holy Wisdom,

            Lead us with your Spirit!

Bring comfort to those with any concern or need;

            (that you may now name, silently or aloud)

Support every earnest thought word and deed.

            Holy Wisdom,

            Lead us with your Spirit!

We offer thanks for every blessing and beauty;

            (that you may now name, silently or aloud)

May our gratitude show forth as joy in our duty.

            Holy Wisdom,

            Lead us with your Spirit!

We pray for those who have died and those who mourn;

            (that you may now name, silently or aloud)

May they be wrapped in Peace; may their spirits be upborne.

            Holy Wisdom,

            Lead them with your Spirit!

With one accord, in unity, and in all the voices of humanity,
Let us say: Amen.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

From Isaiah 6 to Acts 2, in places near and far, love has been declared the common language. 

What will you do to celebrate?

Gathering Wool

Anytime, when the wind dies down,
or even when the moon is full,
when music flows from simple sound,
it’s time to gather wool.

Following pools of brighter light,
from one to another and on,
all for the improvement of sight,
and listening for snippets of song,

When flow has turned off-aligned,
people will talk, unraveling day and way;
all is valuable wool, left behind,
knowledge for plucking, as you may.

Life’s bushes, brambles and thickets catch
this knowing, framed in time and set,
just waiting for a mind whose match
is equal in need for it to be met,

Thence to be combed, carded and spun
into threads to be warp/weft woven
into tapestry mantles, to be won
—not bought—by the fittingly behoven.

Opening the senses to signs and sound,
even gooseflesh may be destined to pull;
tuned to low band, treasure may be found
by simply gathering wool.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Birdsong

The bird sang,
singing to the beauty of day and light,
from the afternoon through the night,
and this sweet music was the very last,
the most utterly sweetest collection of sounds of all,
and why Jesus wept.

Hearing the sweet song,
he remembered the time before time,
he remembered the Artist forming time
and all being, and being formed within and from it all
—and though he knew that the bird could not know this,
he and the bird and the song would meet in Paradise.

And thus it was that,
on the third day,
the sun rose,
and the bird sang for joy,
and the bird’s song was heard
both in this world and all the others.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

The Day That Got Away

A festival:

a day of joy,
of laughter and song,
and girls strewing flowers
before an endless procession
of light and laughter
mixing with gentle breezes
to fill the air with community.

Suddenly,
the noonday sun clouded over,
and the day started to get away;
tensions flared,
fights broke out,
blame was laid,
a friend accused falsely.

The procession,
now hostile,
led by police,
marched the prisoner
from one place to another;
tried by officials,
tried by the public,
the prisoner soon convicted
by opinion,
then summarily executed
for the public good. 

Can an idea
(of compassionate community)
really be so wrong?

Gentle breezes
continue to fill the air
of our public square,
empty now and quiet;
that day of joy
has now become
a day of mourning.

Even so,
flowers continue to bloom
under the watchful eye
of a blameless sun.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Ubi Caritas Et Amor

What could be more Divine

than Loving Community,

where we are gathered

to be for one another?

Let us be joined,

braided in love,

filled with, and renewed by

joy,

kindness,

patience,

purpose, 

calm

and thanksgiving.

If indeed it is Holy

that we are gathered as one,

let us not be given to quarrel;

may no unkind thought enter

to divide us from the dignity

to which each of us 
is equally due,

in the name all that is Holy.

Within the due completion

of every compassionate act

of love and understanding

is the reminder

of The Artist’s 
exultation:

It is all Good!


Since we are together,

may we ever be joined

and braided in that union,

renewed and fulfilled,

thankful,

calm,

purposeful,
patient,

joyful,

and kind.


To be for one another

is the reason that we were made,

that we might, that we must 

gather in Loving Community,

now and eternally;

Therefore, let us always be found here,

in celebration, in service, in joy!

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Justice

Guarded
by my lady, Python,
it was a sacred bridge
over a toxic chasm;
those rising vapors,
that did not dull or kill,
spoke
to the adept.

Then, someone said:
if such knowledge is power,
they should not have it;
it should belong to us.

First came one hero,
who slew Python
and kept her skin
as a trophy.

Then came another,
who stole Tripod
and kept it
as a trophy.

Then they made copies of it,
to give away
at the games
—(the rude joke:
it should be ours, anyway;
it has three legs!)—
as a trophy.

In sum,
the tool was taken
by those who had no use for it,
to become a symbol
atrophied.

The mistake,
in all of this,

was taking the tool
to be equal
to the act
of opening
to the holy granting
of knowledge,

was taking the sacrifice
to be a formula
that could be repeated
and reenacted,
written, embellished,
—even redacted
and gutted,
like the snake—
as if the ritual
would always result
in the holy grace.

Deafness and blindness
are the modern trophies
of such hubris;
beyond this truth,
Oracle continues to hear,
but will not speak.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen