# Some Poems in Latter Days

*Exported from [Holy-Writings.com](https://www.holy-writings.com/) on 2026-06-19 — 1 clipping.*

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> Source: Bahá'í Library Online (bahai-library.com), curated by Jonah Winters. Used by permission of the curator. Original citation: Jack McLean, Some Poems in Latter Days, bahai-library.com.
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> 
> SOME POEMS IN LATTER DAYS
> 
> J.A. McLean
> 
> 2022
> Contents
> 
> Contents .......................................................................................................................................... i
> Foreword ....................................................................................................................................... iii
> Dominick Browne Lord Mereworth ............................................................................................... 1
> After the Snowstorm 2019 ............................................................................................................. 2
> Snowstorm 2019 ............................................................................................................................ 3
> Fake Flowers .................................................................................................................................. 4
> August Stillness .............................................................................................................................. 5
> Phyllis in the Present Tense Dr. Phyllis Perrakis, d. March 10, 2018) ............................................ 7
> The World is a Remembering and Forgetting ................................................................................ 9
> The Part the Whole ...................................................................................................................... 11
> The McLeans of Duart and Elsewhere.......................................................................................... 12
> The Consolations of Aging ............................................................................................................ 14
> Life After Life ................................................................................................................................ 15
> Nine Tercets: Naw Ruz 176 (home because of illness) ............................................................... 16
> Toronto Then ............................................................................................................................... 17
> Night Sounds in Lambasa, Fiji ....................................................................................................... 19
> Meditation on Time and Grace in Latter Days ............................................................................. 21
> A Man Named John (John Rager, Miraris Amicum) ..................................................................... 23
> Udo in Signs and Tokens (1926-2019) (Scholar, lawyer, music lover) ......................................... 24
> Meditation on an Egyptian Alabaster Vase .................................................................................. 26
> Bank and Hopewell ...................................................................................................................... 27
> Hidden Treasure ........................................................................................................................... 28
> Why Now? .................................................................................................................................... 29
> They Do Not Know ....................................................................................................................... 30
> The Village Nuptials...................................................................................................................... 31
> When the Rains of September ..................................................................................................... 32
> I am a Seeker Seeking Seekers ..................................................................................................... 33
> Covid-19 Moment Easy ................................................................................................................ 34
> 
> i
> The Wedding in St. Patrick’s Church (to N.H.T.) ......................................................................... 36
> In Sleep’s Shadows ....................................................................................................................... 38
> Fragments on the Wing ................................................................................................................ 39
> Kafka Sitting on a Cloud ............................................................................................................... 41
> How We Die ................................................................................................................................. 42
> Arabica ......................................................................................................................................... 43
> Moira’s Promise ........................................................................................................................... 44
> No Bird Song This November 9th .................................................................................................. 45
> The Short of It .............................................................................................................................. 46
> The Passing of JD .......................................................................................................................... 47
> Just like a Child ............................................................................................................................. 48
> Snowflakes and Gardens .............................................................................................................. 49
> Happy New Year 2021 .................................................................................................................. 51
> A Poem is a Metaphysical Thing ................................................................................................... 52
> The Valley of Content ................................................................................................................... 54
> The Last Vestiges of Winter ......................................................................................................... 55
> Covid Dialog with Self in a Day in the Life .................................................................................... 57
> The Rescue ................................................................................................................................... 60
> Father Before the Mirror.............................................................................................................. 61
> Truth Be Told ................................................................................................................................ 62
> Brent John Duchesne (1952-2022) ............................................................................................... 63
> The Parting (for Sylvie) ................................................................................................................ 65
> Phoebe Anne Lemmon (1928-2019) ............................................................................................ 67
> Awakening .................................................................................................................................... 69
> 
> ii
> Foreword
> 
> The first poem in this collection recalls meeting Dominick Browne, Lord Mereworth, in
> London. As near as I can recall, that meeting took place in 2009. That meeting happened
> already 13 years ago, when I was 64 years old. (At this writing, I am now in my 78th
> year). These poems typically follow a pattern that appeared in my verse years ago. Here
> are descriptive poems, poems arising from incidents in everyday life, eulogies to friends
> who have passed on, and others still living, a great variety of “metaphysical” poems
> inspired by the spiritual quest, and the many faces of love—to name some of the more
> prominent themes.
> 
> Most of my poems have a reflective, often passive quality—but by no means uniformly—
> simply because my poetry is written in a state of deep reflection, when I attempt to
> capture in words the intensification of an experience that is rendered by a poem. While
> the experience itself may be singularly inspiring, capturing the experience in verse
> becomes an expression of the experience itself. This thought may sound like a truism, but
> it means, in other words, that poetry becomes, in Marshall McLuhan’s phrase, not only
> the medium but also the message. Without the poem, there can be no experience that can
> be more widely shared with others. These experiences can of course be rendered in prose,
> but the poem captures an economy of intense experience that cannot as easily be rendered
> in prose.
> 
> I have written other volumes of poetry that do not yet appear at my website www.jack-
> mclean.com. Hopefully, I can manage, despite the vicissitudes dealt to the mind and body
> in one’s senior years, to post these poems with the much appreciated help of my friend
> and electronic wizard, Jonah Winters.
> 
> J.A. McLean, Ottawa, December 8, 2022
> 
> iii
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> Dominick Browne Lord Mereworth
> (Remembering our visit in London)
> 
> Dominick is a cool dude,
> a prince of a man
> who is never rude.
> 
> He dresses for dinner,
> and wears his tie to look his best,
> Bahá’u’lláh’s man among the noblesse.
> 
> He calls the thing just as he means,
> spot on with teaching,
> but never with preaching.
> 
> Lord and commoner all at once,
> just the sort of man
> you would invite to lunch.
> 
> He and I are bosom pals,
> closest chums by association,
> one of the finest Bahá’ís in all the nation.
> 
> Dominick and I are friends for life,
> in perfect harmony sans trace of strife,
> a fountain of friendship ever flowing,
> in a heart of love that is ever glowing.
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> After the Snowstorm 2019
> 
> The squirrels, those rats with tails,
> run along the powerlines,
> among the cypress trees,
> leap from branch to snowy branch,
> as if it’s a summer’s day.
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> Snowstorm 2019
> 
> It could be a giant snowman
> resting on his side,
> or a reclining Buddha
> lying on my patio,
> the frosty hills and valleys of Switzerland.
> 
> The Buddha’s silent voice
> seems to whisper:
> ‘Ah rest weary traveller.
> Here is peace for the thorn
> in your side.
> Look in wonder how my Hand
> has covered the land!’
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> Fake Flowers
> 
> I’ve given in to fake flowers.
> At age 73 I’ve excused myself
> in a concession to convenience.
> 
> The form, the colour are there,
> but there is no fragrance.
> 
> They are never thirsty.
> But how can they be flowers
> if I dust them, rinse them
> every few months?
> 
> Jim Desson approached
> to inhale their perfume.
> Sorry Jim to have deceived you,
> your innocent expectation dashed.
> 
> But how can they be flowers?
> There is no fragrance….
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> August Stillness
> 
> Stillness in the soul,
> not in the shade, is outside now,
> in the dying days of August,
> before the patchwork quilt
> of Autumn’s changing colours,
> is slowly stitched upon these ancient hills.
> 
> Supreme stillness is hushed overall,
> in an even—ing, a level—ing,
> like the calm of Indian Summer
> returning in late October, hot not burning,
> when the wine-press that yields the drunken
> sweet liqueur, purple teardrops that gather
> the fruit of summer, looks back on its glory days,
> basks in its warmth.
> 
> Now all things are weighed
> in the balance, but not found wanting,
> measured out, scaled in equal proportions,
> peace dispensed despite…
> 
> Peace that will out,
> peace imposed by an unseen Hand
> or no hand, the Hand of Spirit or,
> the hand of the intrinsic condition.
> 
> The red cardinal’s song
> penetrates the air,
> my eyes solaced as he flies,
> from branch to branch
> on the honey locust tree,
> the whistle high and human-like
> in tonic tones of strident clarity.
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> Whistle like a bird to call him,
> whistle like a bird to say:
> “I can speak like you little redbird.”
> 
> This stillness in and out,
> a tiny miracle that saves
> from chaos and destruction,
> the stench of pervasive sickness and death,
> our daily bread on this sorry planet,
> erased from memory in a golden moment
> as we cup to our lips a global goblet,
> that works the bliss of forgetfulness,
> if only for this passing hour…
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> Phyllis in the Present Tense
> (Dr. Phyllis Perrakis, d. March 10, 2018)
> 
> She leads us through forests, flowers,
> by paths and streams, imagines us
> as shining leaves on one great tree,
> bound each to each,
> as is root to trunk,
> as bud to bloom.
> 
> She knows that in these forests, flowers,
> paths and streams, we find ourselves reflected,
> as in the more perfect mirror of our forms and faces,
> entranced by the glancing beauty,
> the grace, the symmetry, the majestic circle
> in this whirling, cosmic dance, danced by dancers
> in trailing robes of purple, musical arrangement,
> but not just yet la symphonie magnifique
> because we can’t quite hear the music.
> 
> We watch with her through long years of patience,
> the desire of her heart denied, when on a sudden sunrise,
> her countenance radiates again, the key turns in the lock,
> she escapes the room that held her close,
> the easy laughter bubbles up again.
> 
> We watch with her a half-a-time,
> when troubles come she works magnificent patience,
> complaining never, her soul borne up on the ascending wings
> of prayer by those who love her,
> the whispered entreaties to make her whole again.
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> And between times and before times,
> the scholar’s ink flows, scripting belles lettres,
> with sound and sense that seeks to fathom
> the obdurate mystery of a broken humanity,
> the crooked and the straight of the wily human heart.
> 
> She knows that it can be healed
> with just the power of a magic Word,
> when mankind’s shattered soul will yield to Love Herself
> and let hungry mouths be fed on cakes of mercy.
> 
> We follow close behind her,
> the weary hearts that long to follow,
> she, honoured on this pilgrimage,
> to reach the sacred precincts, the holy of holies,
> while others still tread a stony path.
> 
> These dark hours will be dispelled by the eternal sun,
> splendid in the glory of its spreading rays,
> that will light the path leading to her own,
> where she will sing a song celestial.
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> The World is a Remembering and Forgetting
> 
> The world is a remembering and forgetting,
> or, when learning the most difficult of things:
> living in the Golden of Now.
> 
> If regret marks losses, the past brings nostalgia
> in its wake, like furrowed ground that yields
> dry rocks and stinging nettles,
> under the ploughman’s cutting edge
> as he passes on his way.
> 
> Or, the world is aglow with sweet content
> to read again the silver script of bygone chapters writ,
> when we forget the plenteous pain
> that stalks us in its need to feed.
> That body we do well to starve!
> 
> Joy is man’s lot, his birthright.
> The hidden world beyond,
> the ether of the higher realms,
> bestows joy only, the Master says.
> Its happy beams come down and through,
> if our crystal glass be pure and true.
> 
> Sorrow, sadness, shadow never enter
> this hallowèd ground.
> These strangers have no right to pass,
> no watchword can they speak,
> no sentinel confuse,
> nor power to persuade,
> no more than one lone warrior penetrates
> the castle wall, frenzied swordsman
> though he be, to strike wild blows
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> at empty air; no more than the blind
> hold a flickering flame to the fiery sun.
> 
> The joy we seek lies in what we are,
> inscribed within the finest strands
> of soul and sinew, as close as blood,
> bone and beating heart within
> our breast, in our breath,
> our very being.
> 
> These laurels can be worn a crown,
> but only in odd hours of our passing days.
> 
> In ages even, in time out of time,
> when every day is Spring,
> we drink at the fountain of eternal youth.
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> The Part the Whole
> 
> We collect memories
> not mere, but many,
> necessary fragments to make
> us smile, recoil, regret, embrace,
> while the bird of time is on the wing,
> collect then recollect.
> 
> Time flies said the Romans,
> --tempus fugit--,
> but it was said so long ago.
> 
> Birds had wings as they do now,
> but no airplanes, missiles, laser beams,
> speed of light did not measure time,
> the bird not so swift as one of these.
> 
> A seigneur must recollect
> all these fragments in long, slow hours,
> both savory and sweet,
> --and the sour, the life of:
> where we’ve been, what done, left undone,
> who we’ve loved, thought we loved.
> 
> This life has almost spent the part,
> but then the whole to come,
> when awakening to the brightest dream,
> the past regrets shall be no more.
> 
> In the there of nowhere and everywhere,
> only awake to the Bliss of Forever,
> the Golden of Now,
> Glorious Reunion of all Souls,
> renounce the part, embrace the Whole.
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> The McLeans of Duart and Elsewhere
> (meditation on a dual-identity)
> 
> Gillean means “Servant of St. John.”
> Gillean of the Battle-Axe, ancestor of the clan,
> was borne by his máthair late in the Middle-Ages.
> He became the overman.
> 
> No royal named me Knight of the Thistle,
> but I did grow down on my cheek,
> before the beardie came; nor was I made
> Laird of the Western Isles.
> This McLean of Mull had no pull!
> 
> Colonel Sir Fitzroy Maclean,
> 26th chief of the clan,
> with the fortune he made,
> restored Duart Castle in 1912,
> for centuries long left to degrade,
> there on the rock where eagles fly,
> high in the sky, over the isle of Mull.
> 
> But I will settle for Bahá’í,
> if that title I may claim.
> One who bears the Greatest Name,
> cares not for blood or fame.
> 
> Now that the fortress is returned to the clan,
> our great chief Lachlan has called us home,
> from wherever on earth we may roam.
> 
> I’d be happy to greet and shake his hand.
> Wouldn’t it be lovely if they piped me in?
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> I’ll come the once in regalia full,
> all for the showing, robed in splendour,
> bagpipes wailing, heart with pride swelling,
> love never failing.
> 
> Shall I wear the tartan red
> or more fitting the hunting green?
> 
> On those two colours I’m very keen.
> One Persian Herald once wore the green,
> while the Persian Prince donned red,
> the colour of blood, love, sacrifice and death.
> 
> While “Virtue Mine Honour,”
> the old standby, is a noble estate,
> most honourable and high,
> I’ll stake my soul on the name BAHA’I.
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> The Consolations of Aging
> 
> Growing old is not the best,
> Many things I could do with less,
> But one thing friends I must confess,
> Mornings I do like having not to dress.
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> Life After Life
> 
> The blind priestess who doesn’t like my religion asked:
> “So what will you do in the next life?”
> “Do?” I replied.
> “Whatever the Lord of the worlds commands, I should think.”
> “But what will He command you to do?” she asked again.
> “I only know that doing it will be my joy,” said I in reply.
> 
> “Will there be doing there?” I asked the priestess.
> Doing is done in space-time here. No time-space there.
> 
> Silence spoke in empty words, eloquent testimony from a psycho-ceramic.
> 
> “Teach, learn, study, praise, pray, save souls, dance in extasy,
> walk on clouds, ascend or descend on a sliver thread or a golden ray,
> gaze on crimson flowers, created by wounds of blood,
> watch them vibrate to an inner music,
> contemplate liquid sapphire, drain the bottomless wine-cup,
> recount the pilgrimage to the Persian Prince,
> commune with loved ones once lost in Never Never Land,
> the Land of Everywhere and Nowhere,
> there where all mourning shall cease.”
> 
> “There, priestess, I will be writing no clincher lines.
> No clincher lines are there, no last words.
> Perpetual being only.”
> 
> I said to the priestess now inflamed:
> “I don’t care about your tired, old story.
> I only want to be with you if love can save your soul.”
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> Nine Tercets: Naw Ruz 176
> (home because of illness)
> 
> A little flaw is often near
> to make the day a little drear
> and mar our magic moment
> 
> Shadows with the sunlight fall
> as yellow warblers trill their call
> black crows intrude with rakish caw
> 
> A lowly worm will creep and crawl
> along the earth ‘neath soaring birds.
> A tiny man looks up in awe.
> 
> Does gentle rain from snow-white clouds
> to wash parched land descend?
> blacker billows pile high Adam’s ale to send.
> 
> What broken heart can heal again
> from its sore wound
> were nothing there to mend?
> 
> We pause to find a way to see
> why our world when we are here
> be sliding-scale from dark to clear?
> 
> Nights are tinged with soft moonglow
> days are spent with friend and foe
> to augment our joy, it must be so.
> 
> Perfection’s bliss cannot obtain
> if in this life we strive to gain
> to pilgrims all, their joy, their pain.
> 
> Days fly by. Then build the world anew.
> In that green garden, claim flowers fair
> of seeds once sown. To strive is not in vain.
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> Toronto Then
> 
> What did it mean then
> to turn that corner
> down the hill
> to the right up Saskatoon
> wheel on by suburban homes
> the tree-lined streets
> turning green and tender
> this coming spring?
> 
> I watch the spot
> here from this corner
> now a café
> where I sip my tea
> survey it all again.
> 
> It meant the eager heart
> was coming home
> to the fair haven,
> place of rest and safety
> overlooking the ravine
> the creek flowing gently below
> where love’s fond embrace
> would wrap you in its arms
> and say:
> 
> “Stay! You are home.
> Here you belong.
> You are ours. We are yours
> forever and a day.”
> 
> These places in the heart remain
> the true landscapes, skyscapes
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> seascapes, escapes,
> where you first tasted
> ease, prosperity, success
> the first great revelation,
> joy of spiritual discovery
> true joy on true joy.
> 
> It meant caring
> sharing the passion
> watching our numbers grow
> increase our communion
> in the days of our youth
> when troubles never came
> and sorrows were not nigh.
> 
> The days of our lives that followed
> burnished the callow youth
> in the baptism of fire,
> manhood burned to ashes
> all that was to leave us pensive.
> 
> Did we but know then
> the day of discovery
> was to rebuild Jerusalem
> stone on stone
> in our precious present moments
> could we but realize the weight of it all
> the chance to build the world anew.
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> Night Sounds in Lambasa, Fiji
> (For the friends in Evin Prison)
> 
> Three in the morning.
> 
> I lie awake listening to the howling dogs.
> Half-wild, they roam the side streets daylong,
> neither fearing nor threatening you, giving space,
> trotting by to find the next morsel left in the trash.
> 
> Once, on a hot afternoon, a pack watched me coming.
> Numbers made them brave. They stood their ground, menacing,
> fixed their gaze on me.
> I stooped and pick up two jagged stones, ready for a fight.
> Turning tail, they bolted with fright.
> They have known the sting of the stone on their flesh.
> 
> I turn on my mattress, wait for the barking frenzy to subside.
> The dog nearest seems to be standing below my window.
> There is a pause, a welcome momentary silence.
> Then, in the distance, another call and a bark.
> The howling starts again.
> On and on it goes for most of the night.
> Sleep comes in fits and starts.
> 
> The roosters join the fray.
> Aye karumba! It’s one flew over the cuckoo’s nest.
> Mad sounds everywhere—howling dogs,
> cocks crowing. All we need is the braying donkey
> to make the cacophony complete.
> I smile a little smile.
> 
> Before I slept, I listened to the mad shouts
> of the Pentecostal minister down the road,
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> reviving his congregation, and the incessant gospel choir,
> rocking on to the beat of the thumping heavy bass,
> then soothing, comforting, praising with Hallelulyahs,
> not just Sunday but every day till doomsday,
> the sound carried by double-decker speakers
> invading the neighbourhood with mega decibels,
> morning, afternoon and far into night.
> 
> Soon the tropical birds will sound the first note of morning.
> The muezzin will call the faithful to prayer at 5 a.m.
> 
> Even at this hour, cars rumble by on Ritova Street,
> kicking up dust, crunching stones, pinging tires with the tension.
> 
> I think of the Yaran in Evin prison,
> their silence, isolation, such things as I dare not contemplate.
> I fix my mind on them, join them in their prayers,
> in this world wide web of supplication,
> join my thoughts to theirs,
> to that love that no injustice can ever defeat,
> to that sustaining Spirit that will penetrate the thick walls of Evin.
> 
> In the darkness of night without sleep,
> breathing the dust, I remember them,
> sleeping here on the floor,
> bearing the strange noises in the night.
> 
> What pale discomfort can compare to their sacrifice,
> what small endurance can pay tribute to such nobility?
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> Meditation on Time and Grace in Latter Days
> 
> This suspense of time is grace.
> The momentary hush of din that hurts our ears
> we greet with a grateful heart at rest,
> despite our knowing that motion is perpetual.
> 
> The mighty machine of time breaks its silence
> lurches to life again, gigantic wheels turning
> gears grinding, cogs revolve precisely in the tick-tock
> of a mechanical clock.
> 
> The giant cyclopes wakes to its own hunger
> seeking to devour its harvest of souls.
> 
> The bell tolls, its appointed hour sounds.
> Another loved one disappears beyond the veil,
> while our failing numbers leaves us stranded
> on this rocky beach, drenched by raging waves
> awaiting the beckoning call, the hour none puts back.
> The stalking fowler casts his net, traps a blithe unwary bird,
> its singing muted by a sudden silence.
> Who will be the last of friends to outlive all the rest?
> 
> These shattered fragments of our lives
> the blissful moments framed in the picture gallery
> frozen once in time, the myriad thoughtful faces
> know not how Love Herself raised up such a throng,
> a multitude of singers singing Love’s exalted song.
> 
> Scholars, poets, music-makers, dancers, workers
> strive to leave a tiny trace of their life of days.
> Will we remember their shining faces?
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> In Kullu Shay when the many are restored to the One
> we will live again, gathered on the farthest shore
> when all earth’s thirsty droplets—creeks, streams,
> torrents, running rivers will regain the Seven Seas.
> 
> There, east of Eden, myriad names we shall be,
> pure mirrors in the sun, when being and doing are one
> and there are no tomorrows to leave our deeds undone.
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> A Man Named John
> (John Rager, Miraris Amicum)
> 
> He walked the path of sorrow,
> He’s known the path of love,
> Told the truth to sway the hearts,
> His mandate from above.
> 
> Now one more chapter’s finally writ,
> The sign posts are all clear,
> An open road is beckoning him,
> Though loving hearts are near.
> 
> Our pioneer has made a plan,
> For north of Montreal,
> With Josh and Min, the grands are in,
> He’s venturing his all.
> 
> For little ones to show the way,
> To make the world anew,
> In golden years to play his part,
> The workers are so few!
> 
> Ruefully we watch him part,
> To fulfill his noble plan,
> Knights, teachers, soldiers, heroes,
> Building Glory’s caravan.
> 
> Prayers sustain him on his way,
> For brightest days ahead,
> With sheaves aplenty, harvest in,
> The banquet table spread.
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> Udo in Signs and Tokens
> (1926-2019)
> (Scholar, lawyer, music lover)
> 
> Du lieber Doktor…
> You came to me in a dream,
> hidden nonetheless,
> but you were there,
> active sense of humour yet.
> 
> I spotted a pencil on the ground
> picked it up,
> then laughing out loud,
> held it high for all the world
> to see.
> 
> It was just a stub,
> the mere length of a thumb,
> but still as sharp
> as the very first word
> on a blank page,
> eraser still intact.
> 
> How much writing did you do
> over all your long days
> to wear that Bleistift away!
> 
> Then you handed me a bow.
> 
> You still hidden,
> behind many mysteries,
> concealed by a veil,
> just out of sight,
> until the appointed time.
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> It was an ancient wooden bow,
> well-worn, chestnut brown,
> had seen many battles.
> 
> I held it in my hands,
> that scarred, familiar bow,
> marked by wars aplenty,
> asked how many pounds of test.
> 
> You didn’t answer.
> No need for word,
> your silence eloquent.
> 
> That bow had seen jousts,
> tournaments and contests,
> been passed down
> to many hands,
> back way back to primeval time.
> 
> This life’s a roaring daylong battle,
> the fate of countless generations,
> fighting their way through the din.
> 
> Your message in signs and tokens.
> 
> Phaidon! Take thy bow!
> Waste your life in labour,
> do battle while smiling away,
> laughing away these passing days.
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> Meditation on an Egyptian Alabaster Vase
> 
> Our love is a like an Egyptian alabaster vase sitting on an end table. Beautifully
> translucent, it reflects the light in all its purity. I watch it from a distance absorb the light,
> warm, silent, lovely and still. But I am like Wilbur’s son, the child at the window pane,
> weeping as he watches the melting snowman, the child’s heart so full of love and terror. I
> fear the vase might fall and break, for I know it to be fragile. Redressing myself, I
> remember to trust. I call to mind the words of St. John, the beloved disciple, that “perfect
> love casts out fear, for fear is torment.” Anchored to her cell, Mother Julian of Norwich
> knew the human heart. She wrote that love and dread are partners. She knew…knew all
> too well that we fear the loss of that which we love, fear the terrible deprivation. To love
> is to have an open heart. To have an open heart is to be vulnerable. To be vulnerable is to
> know pain. But O Lord, to have an open heart is to wrestle with an angel. To wrestle with
> an angel will make you strong enough to conquer haunting demons, scatter lingering
> specters in the mind, finally dispel the illusion of evil, the curse that became a blessing,
> blessed to enter the magic realm of serenity and peace.
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> Bank and Hopewell
> 
> I am thinking of Bank and Hopewell
> in the dead of winter.
> 
> It was summer.
> I was waiting for you
> on the corner.
> 
> You did not love me then.
> 
> It is still summer.
> It will always be summer with you.
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> Hidden Treasure
> 
> God said He was a hidden treasure
> who wanted to be known.
> 
> You were a hidden treasure
> waiting to be known.
> 
> A precious gem lies buried
> in the earth.
> 
> It ignores its own value,
> but I discovered you before the gold rush.
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> Why Now?
> 
> This love seven decades on.
> 
> One answer or many?
> 
> So little time left to us…
> 
> O but live well in the Golden of Now
> and there will be eternity.
> 
> Listen to these wedding bells
> ringing out in the belfry of love,
> over the land of heart’s desire,
> in the country of mystery,
> the silver bells that sound
> the song announcing
> the fountain of eternal youth.
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> They Do Not Know
> 
> They do not know,
> cannot know what we share.
> 
> Vaunting would be vain
> so I refrain.
> 
> A love so holy, so profane,
> all of it placed at Glory’s feet.
> 
> Friends will discover this love
> when the final words are spoken.
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> The Village Nuptials
> 
> A small band of revelers
> gathers down the village hill
> on the bank of the river.
> 
> The ancient dwellings
> nestled above, look down,
> lend a round of comfort
> to the celebration.
> 
> Prayers are said, hymns are sung,
> but no black-robed priest presides.
> 
> As young lovers exchange
> rings and solemn vows,
> a celebrant steps forward.
> 
> One lady, dignified in middle-years,
> beaming a radiant smile,
> steps near man and wife.
> 
> No need for words.
> There in the sacred silence,
> raising her right arm,
> she points to the rising sun.
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> When the Rains of September
> 
> When the rains of September beat at your door
> Indian summer still promises more.
> 
> When the winds of October begin to blow
> they herald the coming of winter snow.
> 
> While time yet remains in fields shorn of hay
> harvest the crop lest the little lambs stray.
> 
> Ere frosty November leaves you forlorn
> stay thy small grief, yes, lay it away
> and smile in the sun of the autumn morn.
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> I am a Seeker Seeking Seekers
> 
> I am a seeker seeking seekers in cafés
> while Kaffee Klatschers read cell phones
> laptop computers, tablets in the electronics
> of sublime communication.
> 
> I am in the here of now, gone moments later
> sitting among indistinct human voices
> that utter snippets of nothing.
> Yet for all my disdain I hear vox populi vox dei.
> 
> But in the land of there will that ceaseless
> burning search for other souls be there,
> there sans body and the searching mind
> that depends upon the brain?
> 
> Will there still be the hide-and-go-seek
> of seeking other souls to stay their search
> tell them they need hunger and thirst no more?
> 
> Or will seekers still be found from every land
> among every bud and flower
> with each refrain of enchanting music
> in the glance of the fair stranger’s face
> when eyes first meet in the loving look
> of the companions of the Ancient of Days?
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> Covid-19 Moment Easy
> 
> To sit in the early morning
> spinning quiet hours
> with a cup and a book
> taste on the tongue.
> 
> Reading a pretty poem
> to think on the greats—
> mighty men and wondrous women
> is to know a peace serene,
> a pleasure almost still….
> 
> Alone yet standing
> with the chosen one by your side,
> the one, the only one you’ve ever loved
> in that one and only way.
> 
> For—
> resting with a cup and book
> in the small hours of the darkened dawn
> as misty rain descends like holy revelation,
> silent at the statue of a plaster saint.
> 
> The liquid veil that drops
> from moist grey skies,
> when the idle talk of women and men
> and commerce sexual does not find me.
> 
> Neither—
> the doubts, the mind perplexed
> by the paradox of relations,
> the circles, setbacks, quarrels,
> questions, wonderments.
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> All these things set aside
> by the cup, the book,
> the taste on the tongue,
> and the falling rain
> just beyond my window pane.
> 
> Wrapt in slumber
> with the portrait and pen,
> just now, blest
> by the book, the cup,
> as the heart finds rest.
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> The Wedding in St. Patrick’s Church
> (to N.H.T.)
> 
> Niels stood up to read that day,
> the prayer in the Roman Church,
> under the broad white ceiling
> of its canopy dome,
> while in the alcoves the painted saints
> staid, ensconced, smiled their plaster smiles
> of mild beatitude.
> 
> An experience rare, not of sight
> but of sound, the tell-tale sign
> of perception transformed,
> declared by the sound of his voice.
> 
> This man courteous, self-effaced,
> almost diffident, read the holy verses
> one by one. Each line articulated spirit,
> each word a word of power.
> 
> Authority marked the inflections
> of that voice speaking from the pulpit,
> accents to awaken, to make alert,
> a very singular thing being born
> in the alchemical elixir,
> the honey that sweetens,
> balm to assuage the wound.
> 
> Niels reads and the words ring out!
> 
> The sounds are steel bullets that explode
> in your heart. Niels is the new man,
> priest beyond priest, tower of strength,
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> index of God’s humanity,
> divinity that we all are.
> 
> What I heard that day—
> the lion’s roar,
> warrior engaged in mighty battle,
> while we the timid creatures
> shied away in the thicket,
> fell silent with the thunder,
> listened with ears amazed.
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> In Sleep’s Shadows
> 
> Why am I as sad
> To turn my steps to bed,
> Instead of being glad
> To rest my weary head?
> 
> What shadows lie beneath
> The gloom I cannot see,
> Why do I halt and pause
> From labour’s tasks to flee?
> 
> Why do nocturne regrets
> Mar daylight’s happy hours,
> Wary to embrace the rest
> In Morphe’s leafy bowers?
> 
> The question beckons on
> This mystery to disclose,
> Do these shades of night
> Foretell my last repose?
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> Fragments on the Wing
> 
> Bleeding hearts last but a day.
> July has flown; they’ve had their say.
> 
> The Bobolink, its tumbling tune of glee,
> feisty Red Winged Blackbird perched on a reed,
> plump breasted Killdeer with its plaintive cry
> have all passed by.
> 
> “Kill deer! Kill deer! Kill deer!” the plover says.
> “My little ones are near. Kill me instead!”
> 
> A lad I listened then
> with heart astir, alert,
> quivering with the quiet joy
> of innocence’s naïve child.
> 
> It was a spot sublime
> by Martin’s grove, under spreading trees,
> in expansive summer fields that had no end.
> 
> They were not mine those precincts pastoral,
> but unknowing I did walk and stop,
> watched and waited, then passed them by.
> 
> The law of compensation now applies
> to these three score years and ten.
> 
> I’m past my prime,
> but returns are not diminished:
> They are as they once were,
> stored up in treasuries on high,
> richer far to taste than
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> the doubter’s pie-in-sky
> when we die.
> 
> We travel down the road
> that has no bend.
> The sacred shrine’s in sight
> at journey’s end.
> 
> Golden days are past.
> The gold my hands once held
> is not the gold of now.
> 
> I mourn them not today.
> The future’s bright and blessed.
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> Kafka Sitting on a Cloud
> 
> A pall has settled on the land.
> Ancient voices out of time,
> whispered oracles tell of
> plague, pestilence, vengeance, visitation,
> voices speaking out of the passing wind.
> 
> When India was Vedic,
> the she-wolf suckling the twins,
> when Greece was seeding colonies,
> On the eve of destruction
> Hosea foretold the fall of Samaria:
> “Because you have sown the wind,
> you shall reap the whirlwind,” he cried.
> 
> Kafka sitting on a cloud laughs,
> then smiles gently. “I told you so.
> I showed you it would happen.”
> 
> In the 1930’s a little child warned
> of a “strangely disordered world.”
> The one we have inherited is the same one
> we have made.
> 
> As I drive by the Experimental Farm
> the land looks strong.
> Patchwork colours in fields of
> barley, corn, oats and wheat shimmer
> in the August sun.
> 
> Babes-in-arms, adolescents, children, cyclists,
> women, men, the healthy aged stroll down the lanes,
> walking freely in the open air…
> 
> MASKED!
> 
> Heaven’s gone wrong.
> Earth sings a mournful song.
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> How We Die
> 
> Some die electrocuted,
> others poisoned, still others
> shot in the back,
> or leave us by degrees.
> 
> A few walk through the Fall,
> as mellow as Autumn days.
> Their hearts have accepted
> what cannot be put back.
> 
> I think of the gentle crowd
> of witnessed gone before me,
> just beyond the veil.
> 
> I yearn for their presence,
> that joyous reunion…
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> Arabica
> 
> I saw you in a coffee cup
> on a tiny point of light,
> there on the horizon
> where the Arabica
> mellowed in milk,
> meets the fired clay.
> 
> Shining steadfast
> as the Star of Bethlehem.
> guiding the Magi
> to the Saviour’s birth.
> 
> They learned Zoroaster’s light
> visioned in the heavens,
> followed the star East to West,
> to where He lay,
> the One born King of the Jews.
> 
> My tiny point of light became
> a shining star, for where you are
> “as above so below,”
> Hermes knew it long ago.
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> Moira’s Promise
> 
> The Three Fates are weaving their tapestry now.
> Moira holds the thread of life.
> Our lot has been drawn.
> She’s all dolled up, grinning at us:
> “Here,” she says. “Take this golden goblet.
> Once you’ve drained this bitter cup,
> a gracious god will show his comely face.
> Mankind’s long return to grace
> cannot be purchased in the market place.”
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> No Bird Song This November 9th
> 
> A cardinal in a cypress tree
> blood orange as a sunset
> autumn harvest to dispel ennui.
> 
> No haunting strain
> did charm the air.
> I heard no tune,
> no song to sing.
> The bird escaped
> on the flit of a wing.
> 
> I looked again
> perhaps to find
> some Holy Presence
> lingering there.
> 
> I fixed my gaze
> but there was none,
> the cherished vision
> all undone.
> 
> The sight the sound
> did not align,
> the bird itself
> my only sign.
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> The Short of It
> 
> I seek
> no clever conversation
> quick-silver presence yes
> like liquid Chinese bronze
> or porcelain
> singularly staid
> light in the eyes
> smiles ‘n chuckles
> deep devotion
> a prayer or two
> time to while away
> sleepy hours with you.
> 
> There ain’t no more.
> But this will be enough
> my dears
> to still a querulous heart
> and calm its fears.
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> The Passing of JD
> 
> The choice is mine.
> What shall I say?
> “I’m so sad Jim
> you’re not still here.
> Your passing by was
> but a day.”
> 
> Or better yet
> to hear it said:
> “I’m so glad Jim
> you passed our way.”
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> Just like a Child
> 
> You were talking
> on the phone
> your back turned
> when I opened
> the kitchen cupboard door
> quickly unscrewed the lid
> plunged my finger into
> the almond butter (twice)
> furtively put it in my mouth
> hoping that you wouldn’t glance
> my way and catch me in the act.
> 
> Served me right
> that three oily drops splashed
> on the front
> of my hunter green sweater
> those drops my punishment
> for horrors known and unknown.
> 
> I didn’t tell. I couldn’t…
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> Snowflakes and Gardens
> 
> Once there wasn’t
> now there is
> a silent snowfall
> mystery coming down.
> 
> Tell me if you can
> how many snowflakes
> are falling
> down down down
> down from the clouds
> of heaven.
> 
> We are snowflakes too
> each a different design.
> How many are we?
> Compute the possibilities.
> 
> The multi-billions are we
> drifting along in the air
> of planet earth
> blowing where we will.
> 
> With snowflakes we can make
> snow babies, snow men, snow women
> sparkling white as light,
> snow people that will melt
> in the spring sunshine.
> 
> If we make haste
> we can build a world
> snow white, designs so bright
> reflecting light as to make
> the world aglow.
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> Snow flakes warm to touch
> resist the sun’s hot rays
> till springtime comes
> and summer births
> around our earth
> the paradise to be.
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> Happy New Year 2021
> 
> What would it be
> at the end of the year
> not to remember
> those who are dear?
> 
> A word just might reach them
> this word from afar
> to bless them and keep them
> as safe as the stars.
> 
> All through the year
> that lies just ahead
> may your hearts know the peace
> that quells fear and dread.
> 
> With a surplus of love
> and an excess of joy
> I send New Year’s greetings
> for your hearts to enjoy.
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> A Poem is a Metaphysical Thing
> 
> The squirrels are always moving
> in the trees. They are not still for long.
> The birds forage for easy food
> at my feeder, then rest in the cedar trees
> along the back fence.
> 
> The scene calls up “the emperor of ice cream.”
> 
> What does it mean to be
> the emperor of ice cream?
> To have nothing really?
> To be a rich business man?
> To get the super-duper cone
> you wanted daddy to buy you
> at the country fair?
> Maybe he was at a carnival.
> 
> When language can be so ambiguous,
> there you have a poem,
> or when “seem” and “cream” rhyme,
> otherwise the lines make poetic philosophy,
> because Plato philosophized in verse.
> 
> When intellect and imagination,
> the mistress of us all, embraces the mind
> in the supreme seduction,
> words become birds: then you have a poem.
> 
> Or you have poetic metaphysics
> because your name is Wallace Stevens,
> and your poems are Zen koans,
> when the imagination betrays
> its intellectual lover, even when
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> you try with all your might
> to give her just what she wants.
> 
> A poem is a step into the infinite,
> but it is never quite there,
> never really anywhere,
> no closer than when it started,
> never just anything,
> even when it seems finished, perfect,
> and everyone applauds.
> 
> No, a poem is a metaphysical thing,
> a verbal architect that builds the Brooklyn bridge,
> or erects a building to scrape the sky,
> composes a baroque symphony,
> sculpts in stone like Rodin,
> only to see it evaporate
> when you’re no longer looking.
> 
> Then it’s gone, when the words
> dry up on the page and you stare
> at the blank white screen
> when the electronic pulse
> beats its drum no more.
> No more heart beats.
> 
> It is quite the thing,
> the line that is never finished,
> leaving us with a paradox,
> blissful but unsatisfied,
> till we keep striving again and again,
> like the carnival man who barks out loud:
> “Step right this way folks!”
> “Everybody’s a winner. Only a dollar a toss!”
> 
> Just like the emperor of ice cream.
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> The Valley of Content
> 
> Brightly coloured things that ring,
> crystal waters murmur melodies
> as they sing.
> 
> The spring in the step
> that was not there yesterday,
> silver bells pealing zeal.
> 
> The return to wonder
> and the things of youth,
> pause in the learning
> hard lessons of truth.
> 
> Lady Wisdom beckons
> in her light, veiled attire;
> she directs me to the moon.
> 
> In the silent vision
> from the time of when,
> she raises her right arm,
> points an urgent finger heavenward.
> 
> I hear her say
> --yet wordless is her mouth--
> “To the moon!”
> “I direct you to the moon!”
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> The Last Vestiges of Winter
> 
> March 25th.
> Vague rumblings in the sky
> before midnight.
> 
> Distracted, I barely notice,
> soon forgetting.
> 
> At past twelve.
> I stand at the window.
> 
> In the light
> of the outside lamp
> a gentle downpour
> casts a lustrous sheen
> on rebel patches of snow,
> remnant fingers of ice,
> clinging to the breast
> of the still frozen land.
> 
> I open the window a crack,
> lower the blind,
> draw the curtains,
> reflect in the still
> of the night
> on the din of the day.
> 
> Perhaps this falling rain
> is mercy from heaven,
> a cipher to wash away
> these icicles in the heart,
> cold slivers of resentment
> echoes of the soul’s past pain.
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> A cipher from Sancta Sophia
> to forgive, forget, begin again,
> let this copious rain melt
> the cryptic crystals that exile us
> to never-never-land.
> 
> Bountiful flood to melt
> the last vestiges
> of a discordant winter.
> 
> To bind each to each
> and so dispel
> our common grief,
> to water the lilies
> in the valley,
> that bloom again in spring.
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> Covid Dialog with Self in a Day in the Life
> 
> “It belongs to the city,” I said
> to her, but did I say it in a dream
> or in the other altered reality?
> 
> My frail blue forget-me-nots
> will soon be pushing their way up
> in my garden patch behind the patio,
> but the earth is so poor.
> I really should add some black topsoil.
> 
> Now why did she have to go and say that?
> I thought we were only friends.
> Complications…What is she thinking?
> I am almost 76 years old!
> But Covid times are desperate times!
> 
> And why doesn’t he learn to be gentler
> after all these years?
> Why does everything have to be so hard?
> Does it always have to be a confrontation,
> contradiction or a lesson? It seems
> some people cannot engage without conflict.
> 
> I’m heading for the hills!
> Covid is already hunkering us down.
> Why should I hunker myself down even more?
> 
> Old Laura Davis in Toronto
> did say it was “time to go into the picture”
> at the end of her days.
> It seems there is a movement
> toward the center as we age—
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> to the central core, the virginal point
> that is the soul.
> 
> Yes, the soul is the pure point,
> the God within. It is the supreme mystery
> where only sacred words are spoken.
> 
> My inflamed, neuropathic lobster feet!
> I never get a break except when I sleep!
> But I force myself to walk.
> 
> Those newly translated prayers of ‘Abdu’l-Baha
> are magnificent, encouraging, uplifting.
> He must have foreseen this dire affliction.
> 
> I am tired of fighting the little birdies.
> They can just make their nest
> in the rafters above the patio.
> Let nature take its course.
> Besides, I shouldn’t be climbing a step-ladder
> anymore to hang my clothes on the lines up there.
> Let them have their space and do their natural thing.
> Mother Nature has willed it so.
> I find small moments of content to see them
> flitting back-and-forth with little bits of grass
> in the beaks to build their nest.
> If they finish their task, soon the tiny birds
> will be chirping in the nest above my head,
> another generation of avian creatures
> starting on its journey.
> But then there will be the sweeping up
> and cleaning the bird droppings. Ha!
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> Fareed Zakaria is a brilliant mind.
> He has such a comprehensive grasp
> of global affairs.
> Fundamentally he’s an optimist.
> He still believes in the American Dream.
> It’s amusing that he still calls himself
> “an immigrant.” He is accepted as a 100 percent
> American by other Americans.
> But his is a nice touch of humble, self-deprecation.
> I wonder if he has any relationship with his Islamic origins?
> He says that Covid will foster human ingenuity,
> the digital economy will make some richer,
> others poorer. I think he’s right had it not been
> for Covid, the terrible injustice of police killings
> with impunity and Black Lives Matter
> would never have exploded onto the world stage,
> even though it has been simmering for years.
> 
> Oh here comes a dark-eyed Junco flying in
> to capture a white seed at my bird feeder.
> Its tiny claws grasp the mesh, then it pecks
> through the screen. It takes only moments
> and it flies off to rest in the cedar trees
> along the back fence.
> 
> Well I’m behind the time.
> Enough musing.
> Rushing off now to another task.
> 
> I hear Carl Sandburg’s voice
> in The People, Yes:
> “Where to? What next?”
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> The Rescue
> 
> Hope fades fast
> within her breast,
> the long slow hours
> of anxious waiting,
> heart still pounding,
> breath abating.
> 
> The ladder’s raised,
> the man above
> extends his arms,
> her loss turns into gain,
> a look, a leap, a gentle cry
> and kitty’s home again!
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> Father Before the Mirror
> 
> Today father I am remembering
> the way you combed your hair.
> Not that you had much hair on top;
> a thin brown slick of it on your crown.
> 
> You stood before the mirror,
> after taking a determined stance,
> facing yourself squarely,
> planting your feet,
> as if performing a ritual.
> 
> You cleared your throat.
> Then you passed your small
> black pocket comb through your hair
> a few times, and it was done.
> 
> And I, your adoring child,
> stood below, gazing up at you,
> the tall, strong man in front of
> the medicine cabinet.
> 
> So late on in my years now,
> I am wondering why today
> I am remembering you, father,
> combing your hair…
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> Truth Be Told
> 
> I do not cling to passing life,
> It rather clings to me.
> No praise of this life do I give,
> As long as I’m not free.
> 
> The Supreme Servant clearly said,
> This body’s just a cage,
> And the soul a little bird,
> I will never disavow Abha’s holy sage.
> 
> Yes, it’s true I still regale,
> In a social game or two,
> Especially chatting face-to-face,
> With Jim, Heather and Lou.
> 
> At this golden glow in time,
> I yield all woe and sin,
> These sorrows soon forgotten,
> When we become as kin.
> 
> Although you may be weary,
> By long, slow hours tried,
> As the creeping years wear on,
> Life offers still this prize.
> 
> Kiss the joy when you may find it,
> In large crowds or apart,
> The bliss that warms your cockles,
> Is found from heart-to-heart.
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> Brent John Duchesne
> (1952-2022)
> 
> From an early age,
> such a love of cars—
> anything mechanical
> to see the work of gear on gear,
> how cog fits into cog,
> to make classic cars
> shine again,
> like the body of a bathing beauty.
> 
> The love of one
> whose beating heart
> has a passion
> for the joy of living,
> despite the heavy losses
> that could not hold him back.
> 
> Speed and thrills:
> hot rods, classic cars,
> drag-racing down the street
> with buddy Dennis Gagnon.
> 
> Later on the discovery of cycling
> and fat-biking on winter trails.
> 
> But even cars he sometimes
> left behind to track the beauties
> of Larose Forest with Roland and Sue.
> 
> His height the measure of his heart,
> a giant of a man who spread
> joy and laughter to children,
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> babes-in-arms, adults in shopping malls,
> grocery line-ups, to colleagues,
> friends and family.
> 
> The essence of love to Sylvie,
> so tender and fun-loving,
> with the odd raunchy joke
> to make her smile.
> 
> But some of us knew somehow
> that Brent was more than
> these oh-so-human-things.
> 
> For in that bear-like chest,
> those sheltering arms
> that hugged her close,
> like the limbs of a stately tree,
> a nobility of soul,
> kindness that could not refuse
> service to a friend
> even at the cost of life.
> 
> And perhaps a hidden longing
> to travel in a beauty classic car
> at the speed of light.
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> The Parting
> (for Sylvie)
> 
> The tears on your cheeks
> Were as liquid jewels,
> diamonds melted
> on the weeping face
> made holy now by grief,
> a face as pure and snowy white
> as camphor.
> 
> My arms reached out
> to comfort you,
> arms among many.
> 
> But we stood alone,
> quite alone,
> in the gathering crowd,
> alone, though legions
> were assembled there.
> 
> Time ceased,
> empty words gone mute
> in such a scared space.
> 
> We remained two souls
> united as one heart,
> dissolved in the searing flame
> of a loss unlike all others.
> 
> Silent you were,
> as it should be.
> Others spoke for you
> that day.
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> But at the graveside,
> above the hollowed earth,
> you stood and spoke
> with dignity and grace,
> words simple, strong and true,
> to say the gift of love still means
> love, despite the Mighty Hand
> that spirited him away.
> 
> And on your lips,
> a Magic Name was heard,
> to plant a seed,
> and let it bloom,
> in other hearts,
> that life may live
> and vanquish death.
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> Phoebe Anne Lemmon
> (1928-2019)
> 
> Let it be said
> she loved soapy water,
> yes, doing dishes after lunch or supper.
> 
> Standing at the sink,
> she would wash and ponder,
> if not engaged in conversation.
> 
> And in one room, a quiet corner,
> a shrine where she might pray
> mornings, find strength
> for the coming day.
> 
> Crowned Queen of the Harvest,
> every Fall, sharing the throne
> with her King William, the stately two,
> sitting near the great black cauldrons
> of boiling corn.
> 
> She loved and served in a house
> on the hill, where a welcome guest
> might wander back to the roaring stream
> that fell below and feel the dashing spray.
> 
> She was for us a strong pillar,
> a safe haven for wandering barks
> the voyageurs who went astray.
> 
> She knew the way.
> 
> Jack McLean
> 
> It was the way of love and reason,
> the path long tried and true,
> conforming to the wisdom of the Law.
> 
> Loving wife and mother, teacher,
> she had known losses,
> but patience was her name,
> her home a lighthouse for one neighbor
> across the way who found illumination
> in the brightly beams she cast.
> 
> Slowly she walked with dignity and grace,
> her piety still showed a laughing face,
> a merry heart, a warm embrace.
> 
> Transmuted now by the divine Elixir
> to become her soul’s most golden aspiration,
> every heart’s desire won at last.
> 
> Some Poems in Latter Days
> 
> Awakening
> 
> Vapors trailing visions
> from nocturnal worlds
> dispel the stygian gloom.
> 
> The upraised Flag of Peace
> waves high above
> green acres of the mind,
> stills discordant voices
> once heard at McLean house;
> now an Appomattox of carols
> upraised, hosannas, anthems of praise.
> 
> The sun signals break-of-day.
> Spirit guides flesh and blood
> the weary soul in molded clay.
> 
> Palettes of light splash colors
> reflect ‘the bright glass of the heart,’
> while peace pervades all round
> echoes silently, bereft of sound.
>
> — *Some Poems in Latter Days (Used by permission of the curator)*