From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
Early in the morning
while darkness still wraps
its cloak around you
go out
carrying the oils and spices
of your tended life
in careful vessels
searching for the place
told you by those who heard of it
from someone else
who
party to a conversation
overheard the details of direction
and generalized a map
which
holding in your hand
you see
has not the compass points
but only wavy lines
to indicate the route to take.
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
The boast brought forward
the challenge tossed
as one would hurl a hand grenade
to startle eyes that thought
pulled pin meant sudden death.
But verbal confrontation
is all the giant brings
as David and Gawain
and other folklore heroes
stand pondering
the greater good
and fathomless fear
that sticks them to the spot.
And we
the Jacobs and the Percevals
wreak havoc in the wrestling ring
with neither stone nor strap
nor any lethal means at our dispose
but only question ringing in our ears
demanding answer from
our battle-shy reserves.
We
called to combat
full well knowing
that conquest is impossible
and imminent death awaits
sudden resolve
are seized
and see ourselves step forward
an instinctual response
that knows we must
engage or never know
the essence of the giant or ourselves.
The boast brought forward
the challenge tossed
as one would hurl a hand grenade
to startle eyes that thought
pulled pin meant sudden death.
But verbal confrontation
is all the giant brings
as David and Gawain
and other folklore heroes
stand pondering
the greater good
and fathomless fear
that sticks them to the spot.
And we
the Jacobs and the Percevals
wreak havoc in the wrestling ring
with neither stone nor strap
nor any lethal means at our dispose
but only question ringing in our ears
demanding answer from
our battle-shy reserves.
We
called to combat
full well knowing
that conquest is impossible
and imminent death awaits
sudden resolve
are seized
and see ourselves step forward
an instinctual response
that knows we must
engage or never know
the essence of the giant or ourselves.
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
Dare we defy tradition
concerning the Creator
and Sustainer
and Redeemer
whom we love?
Dare we turn upside down
mores ecclesiastical?
Dare we pluck grain
when hungry bellies cry for food?
and dip a cup in some strange well
to quench authentic thirst?
or speak as messenger of Him
who many messengers recruits
to tell the truth
through insights
to be judged by all who hear
as to the source?
I say we must
since we complete our trinity
on Sabbath and/or any other day
and this flat world
more circles needs.
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
Witnesses we are
we’re told
of all things seen and hidden
of all that streams before our eyes
of all that
capturing our senses
stirs the longings of our heart
of all remembered
and in Holy Writ encased
of all the lives of saints
and martyrs
of all the creeds and dogma
and catechism’s questions
of all the politics and power plays
and petty tyrants’ tantrums
of all that cries out to be said and done
and battles for fair justice won
of all the acts of our one life
commissions’ haughty pride
but omissions’ guilt we hide
and ’neath it all
a yearn to witness
something strange and beautiful
a breaking
of the finitude of being
a splitting of mortality
a quenching of
the hunger and the thirst
a witnessing
becoming bread and wine.
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
Clinging to umbilicals of faith
I pray
asking for more
of what is needed for belief.
Tightening my hold
on something beyond hope
I deepen my resolve
to discipline as avenue to creed.
Clenching my grip
on what I have decided must be true
I wait for confirmation
and as I wait
fatigue comes over me
and causes slackness in my grip
and I drift into sleep
and dream reminds me
of the circle that some large birds make
as if to redesign the sign for God
who whispers to my soul
that I was made to soar.
I see the image of the eagle
in my mind’s sharp eye
and with the eaglets
air ready
I suddenly take flight.
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
Awake! and keep awake!
While eyelids close
to give the body rest
touch not the lashes
of the Spirit’s ever watchful orbs.
Exercise the practice
of the cloistered one
who regularly rising
through the patterned hours
commits attention to that which
beckons him beyond
the chronos of the calendar
to events foretold
in sand grit
sharp as any irritant
to mollusk or to man.
Read instructions writ small
around the edges of the mind
before the sea salt blurs the words
and the search begins again
for clues and crumbs.
Hoist lightning-quick antennae
to catch the faintest quiver
to transmit to relay stations
information for the soul.
Kairos commands:
Keep awake!
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
My sheepness
sometimes speaks
in my attempts
at good Samaritan-like deeds
and warms my heart
with knowing
I have passed on grace
and am perhaps
a vessel used by God.
My goatliness
is something else.
Omissions can be numbered every day.
Perhaps I see
the whiny and the wimpy
and overlook the need.
Perhaps I turn away annoyed
at one who
seems to want
to bleed me dry.
Perhaps I give
my version of tough love
to those who
need a listening ear.
And yet my goat
consumes my life.
My goat in independence fierce
has no desire
for goatherd to direct its path
or take its milk.
My willful goat
prefers reliance on
resources of its own.
I know not how to give up goathood
and be a sheep of God’s own fold.
I sense division in my soul
and know not means
or cause to form reunion.
Oh God, come separate!
Unite!
Take best of both
and make me whole.
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
My sheepness
sometimes speaks
in my attempts
at good Samaritan-like deeds
and warms my heart
with knowing
I have passed on grace
and am perhaps
a vessel used by God.
My goatliness
is something else.
Omissions can be numbered every day.
Perhaps I see
the whiny and the wimpy
and overlook the need.
Perhaps I turn away annoyed
at one who
seems to want
to bleed me dry.
Perhaps I give
my version of tough love
to those who
need a listening ear.
And yet my goat
consumes my life.
My goat in independence fierce
has no desire
for goatherd to direct its path
or take its milk.
My willful goat
prefers reliance on
resources of its own.
I know not how to give up goathood
and be a sheep of God’s own fold.
I sense division in my soul
and know not means
or cause to form reunion.
Oh God, come separate!
Unite!
Take best of both
and make me whole.
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
How can the seed deep buried
in soul soil
come to be
experienced by him
whose personhood
the husk through which the proof displays?
Must plowmen come
to gash encrusted earth
and dislodge rocks?
Must fertilizer be applied
to supplement the meager means
within the seed to germinate?
Must cultivators come
to loosen ground
to stimulate a movement toward fruition?
Must harvesters come
to gouge the ground
and finding ripened tuber
pull it out?
Is flooding
as in rice production
needed
to swell the secret source?
If we knew how
to help someone
discover
selfhood’s glory
what joyful task we’d undertake.
As it is
we risk ourselves
in prayer.
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
We sing
to all the saints
who from their labors rest
to honor those
who with us form
this priesthood of believers
and pondering their steadfastness
in sorrow and adversity
wonder how our reckoning
might fare
we whose labor
sometimes seems in vain
and other times too little
and often lacking energy
succumb to guilt
inherent in the standard
for what we think life calls from us
they who rest
would free us
from our sense of shame
would for us the load make light
and road make straight
and bid us lean into
the open arms that beckon us
simply to be.
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
My mind streets wind
no measured architectural plan
designed to make my town
orderly and neat.
Musings like a messy house unkempt
with windows smudged
and chimney soot
and unswept steps
displayed for all to see
.
Public buildings unattended
stucco crumbling
floors unpolished
ceiling fixtures dangling loose
Blighted wasted space
with little probability
of restoration
to a former blueprint state
Suddenly the child runs past
with playthings tightly held
his lively chatter to himself
beckoning my spirit out of entropy
to shed the shackles of despond
Following his voice
through streets of clutter
I find his destination
Ah!
the playground!
come frolic
with the children
barefoot
uninhibited
who gravitate
to crystal pond
where wetting feet and hands
baptize each others’ heads
pronouncing laughter benediction.
Yes!
come look and listen
for God is here.
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
Why have you sent us
to this foreign land?
clothed these fragile organs
in this too thin flesh
so we wake daily
wondering if they will
keep our life?
given us great fear
of hidden things
and places we have not yet seen?
put strong minds in us
that seek control
only to unsettle our rigidity?
Are we the tourists stranded
in a Canaan desert
with camels not for hire
and oases only a mirage?
What sort of strife-torn
place like this
could make its residents content?
Or was this all planned out
so we would cry at last
“Bring me home!”?
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
In derision
critics named Monet
and others for
their daring to be
different
painting alfresco
reveling in natural light
Impressionists
and now the name
resplendent
with renown
is never
a pejorative.
And should we too
who gladly took the holy name
and breathe the air
defy the skeptics
daring to display
for all the world to see
the artist’s stamp
revealed as golden light
shining through
our eyes’ new panes of glass?
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
How could it be that
all are called
and but a few are chosen?
Are you some sort of
agent for the prosecution
culling through the ones
who
responding to
their jury summons
endure perforce
the machinations
of a tyrant terrorizer
demanding answers
to most private questions
publicly inquired?
How could you call us
children of your soul
and act as if we
are defendants
when jury duty summons
is all that we received?
Is part of you so power proud
that only judgment segregations
satisfy?
Is there not room
for all of us
within the kingdom gates?
If not
I think
I choose to be
unchosen.
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
I bristle at commands
life limitations
smothering my won and cherished
liberty.
I ignore laws
or strut around
proclaiming
obeisance to the spirit
over letter.
I wonder at myself who thinks me
quite above the law
yet wants strict punishment
for other disobedients.
Dare I play God
when even he
makes rules
that even he
obeys?
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
Passing on the street
peering down from windows
pausing at a corner
familiar faces without names
a crowd of witnesses
thronging daily
testifying public
to each other
with scarcely uttered speech
community invisible
webbed from filament
routines casually incised
within the human habits
unconsciously repeated
while a smile appears
as mind plays hopscotch
with random minute thoughts
and though a stranger
conspicuously marked
by practiced eye
the vision of ecclesia
never resonates
behind the blinking lids.
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
The holiness of life
demands attendance
to a water purifying
for the outer
and a dietary purging
for the inner
cleansing
to make straight
the way through
wilderness and wasteland
on swift burning feet
while tears
seem helpless to relieve
the agony of white hot heat
eventually which sears
the soiled soul covering
revealing sacro-sanctuary.
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
A cup of water is
mirage to one who
desert sweltering
wonders if his thirst
will lead to death
or will be quenched
by what he knows
will mean his life.
And we who run
our faucets heedlessly
to water needlessly
a prestige lawn
do we consider how
daily it must be
to thirst for what
the rains give down
in purest form
to all the earth?
to quite imagine
how we might provide
for him who suffers
body drought?
and further
how provide
the wellspring
to quench the thirst
of dry parched souls?
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
In white smocked dress
with entre deux and reembroidered
lace on cuffs and hem
and heirloom petticoat beneath
made of great-great-granddame’s
wedding gown
and fresh new bonnet
fashioned in the latest neo-classic
hand sewn French couture design
by the young mother
having bought the sewing lessons
just for the occasion
without a thought to
knowing that the ritual required
the bare head of the child.
As streamers fell away
and cap removed
by him whose hand dipped in the font
epiphany tears blurred vision
in the mother’s eyes.
The infant passed from one to one
and blinking under water
dripping in its eyes
will have no recollection of this day
but secretly she vowed that
if cataract comes crashing
she will tell the story
of the special sprinkling
that was precursor
of a later time
when womb waters break
to midwife life anew.
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
When were we blessed?
we ask the ones who
now and then remind us
to be blessing as we
walk among the multitudes
who need a sacred gift.
When were we blessed?
we ask again in order
to be certain of the time and day
to mark it down to be
remembered in a book.
When were we blessed?
we ask because we are not sure
that we can say with certainty
a blessing has become
so intertwined with who we are
that holy we experience ourselves.
When were we blessed?
we ask with ripening hope
that blessing fresh and warm
might be bestowed in
tokened reminiscence
of a once forgotten one.
When were you blessed?
asks the One to whom all blessing
owes its origin.
I blessed you in
the blessing of the world
as good.
I blessed you in
the ancient ones
who multiplied the
sperm seed placed in them.
I blessed you as
I gave the essence
of myself that you might be.
Now kneel and be reformed
in warm wet clay
and feel my hot breath
on and in you
then go to lay
my hand
on those who feel unblessed.
Be my blessing.
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
Dancing into light
she could not understand
why others silent stood
in shadows at the fringe.
Asking some to join her
they shook their heads’ reply
and she
contented not
presented query one on one.
They had no life they said
No life fulfilled enough to
spill into a rhythm moved to music
No life to know a joy that
could not be contained
within their flesh and frame
No life to fling wide portals
of their personality
and shun that shame
that inhibitions shape
No life that knows such
verve and drive
that energy must burst forth
in explosion
if not channeled
in some festive rite
No life to feel a spirit
they themselves
could not create
if ever there could be
Almost no life
to even wish
for what had not
by them allowed
the possibility
of shopping for some
dancing shoes.
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
Riding as a king
triumphal in my victory
o’er all I call
the enemies who thwart
my willful nature’s best intention
triumphal such that
others see my good resolve
and cheer me on
to greater goals of goodness
my mind has undertaken.
I hear the cheer—“Hurray for you!”
as friends and kinfolk recognize
assistance they have given
and cheering for themselves as well
participate in “Job well done!”
And we all name ourselves
good and faithful servants.
The greening branches move
as green confetti showers down
and all experience
the kingdom of righteous tasks complete.
Little do we sense
that we must be
betrayed by some Iscariot
the one most close
the one whose presence
seems to be the primal motivation
spurring us to holy tasks
that one within we know as friend
is friend indeed and
of him say ‘the blessed one
who comes from God’
for who can bless us more
who orchestrates
the death of good
to empty and then sanctify?
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
I seek wheat within myself
among the heaping piles of chaff
I seek righteousness
amidst my bounding wantonness
I seek self-trust
beneath my inability to be
true to anyone including Thee
I seek goodness in my heart
even in the selfish evidence I’ve found
I seek ability to praise
displace my envy and my pride
I seek justice
in place of all the power
I hold so dear and can’t release
I seek solace
from the grinding guilt
that wears away all images
of wholeness in my soul.
Where have I heard
that seekers find?
Or is the seeking
as some say of journey
all there is
and I need entertain no more
an image of discovery
of something wonderful
at end of search?
My heart tells me “no!”
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
The Buddha teaches
wisdom to be found
in nothingness–a space
within that moves
into the world beyond the cave
and back again to feed itself
from inner calm
so that detachment from
the trappings traipsing round us
denies imprisonment to things
and liberates the soul
to glide and swim
through multiple experiences
without the need to own
or justify the lack
of action or production
but unencumbered flies
through space and time
constant consorts
abundancing its life.
Would that monotheists all
might free the soul
from dogma
and the need to do.
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
Gathered at the riverside
we question
mandatory participation
in penance preparation
as a voice tells us to turn
and face the dry and lifeless land.
With no ranting
on the wrath of God
we hear reiteration
of continued invitation
and silently assent
to a journey to the new unknown.
Then we turn slow
to see the water surface
undulating ever slightly
and sense a beckoning
by unseen finger
to respond.
Water wading moves
from shallows to the deeps
and though we have
no swimming skills
the transport to the womb occurs
as if we had stood still.
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
There are those who choose
to visit desert places
who revel in the solitude as
seeking for some unpredicted beauty
find blossoms there
and color
and enchantment in the arid wastes.
But we avoid the barren lands
needing
so we think
oases of variety
and fecund warmth of kindred souls.
We have seen the wilderness
and heard the mournful howl of brazen beasts
whose names unspoken
strike a paralyzing fear.
And we have been alone
in deserts desolate of all
except the gritty sand
that wears our feet
and lodges long within our mouths
that stings our tears
that burns our skin
and sings the solemn unpitched note
that seeks to deafen us.
We know a wilderness
where nothing blooms
where sorrow’s sobs can sprinkle nought to life.
Is there a hand to give us hope?
Is there a voice to tell us this will pass?
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
Is there truth so palpable that
once known
effects a freedom heretofore
unknown
unknowable
and further
unimagined?
So what
and where
and why
is truth?
Is there an entity
as powerful
as Holy Writ describes?
What motivates
gigantic games of searching
all possiblities
for ambrosia for the mind?
Great minds and small
have followed
rocky
tangled
paths of question
often coming round
to the beginning place
with question asking multiplied
and still no closer closure comes.
Might our preoccupation
with this noun
if substantive it is
be labeled imbecile attempts
at rank omnipotence
because we
after all
seek ranking with the gods?
Is this a foreordained
conundrum
maddening maze
of constant fruitless questing?
Or is there somewhere
a reality that
we were born to know?
To know in such a way
that moving us
to joy abundant
truth becomes a verb?
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
A strange phenomenon
memory
that without which life
would not be worth
the trouble to sustain
say some.
Puzzling
how together
some can witness
an event
retaining bits and pieces
perceptions and reflections
so different in recall.
The remembering almost makes
an individual
as multi-faceted as all
whose lives with that one intersected
and each left wondering
how recollection
so differing came to be.
Perhaps the psyche soul
unique to each
magnetically attracts
the details mandatory
for spirit evolution
beatifying each and all.
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
Dim foreshadowings afford us
early glimpses of what later
might be called good character
the strength of which was hewn
from hard fine granite
chipped away in slow
painstaken labor
certainly
not self- designed
nor requested
nor desired.
No
this surgeon artist scalpel
reconfiguring as prisoner
one who would if breaking
chains invisible were possible
bolt and leave a fiery trail
as hastily escaping such ordeal.
How daring the Designer
who mined the blocks
then saw unique form buried there
waiting to be born
and as the Master Sculptor
took full advantage of
his expertise without
apprentices employed
but in his own worn practiced hands
the ancient tools
began their sacred work.
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
I listen with my ear
my mind
my heart.
I strain to hear
I know not what
but something from beyond
the dailyness of dull routine
where unpredictability
no audience desires
The catechesis memorized
as well as hymns and creeds
parade despite my plaintive plea.
I meditate on verb and phrase
and hope for some
resounding redolent reconfirmation
of oral apparition rare
enough to scar my brain
or stigmatize my hands and feet
to prove whatever words
some holy voice might tell me.
Perhaps if I but see or hear
or have imprinted as tattoo
a sacredness no need to prove
I would not need the sermonette
“be doers…”
for the doing
would already be.
From Ann Glover O’Dell’s Midwifing the Soul:
Who heard God say
“let us make man”?
Can we be sure
that “in our image”
was not addendum
for enjoyment of
imagination of an ego
eager for some status
in the face of fearful
existential angst?
Who learned of angels
and the guarantee that
we can almost match
them in God’s hierarchy?
Is this a fable poised
like all such stories
to smudge
the universal question marks
and make us rank ourselves
more highly than we ought?
Or set a standard of perfection
dangling always right above our reach?
There must be some fast truth
imbedded in the tale told throughout
the rounds of galaxies
and baby weaning days.
There must be more than make-believe
to stir the heart’s awakening
to a melody mysteriously
making sure we don’t
forget the humming tune
and lyrics long repeating
“fearfully…wonderfully.”
MIRACLES EACH DAY 