The Soil of Heaven

A friend asked me to post this chapbook from nearly twenty years ago.  Some of these poems were part of a submission to Poet magazine for their chapbook competition in 1994. --egh

The Soil of Heaven

© Copyright 1995

Gordon Edwards

926 Rockrimmon Road

Stamford, CT 06903

Backing up

to the earthen door

of life's common experiences

and listening

to the whispers just inside,

these were voices

of the Angels' song

   

The Body of Faith

Love's Sacrament

A glass of wine

a loaf of bread

two lovers sit

few words are said

A rush of blood

a twinge of flesh

in presence we

two souls may mesh

And this thou

and also not

love's sacrament

no element lost

                                    4 May 81

Sparks

I have seen the

face of God

in the

burning passion

of red hearts

smoking with life

as the bush

on the mountain top,

the very brush

the cradle of grace.

When we cry

out in ecstasy

to God in heaven

and die in naked truth

is when I feel

most alive,

real.

With the grace

of an artist’s

finger,

His hand reaches

cross the barrel

ceiling

and touches our oneness

in the dark.

                        15 May 94

The Seducer

She moves

like a finger

beckoning,

a glance

stirring in

my vision,

heat from

days' repast.

to the sound

of labored

breathing,

worshipping

on my knees --

caught upon

the altar web

I am no longer

free.

                                    28 Feb 94

Christmas

Christmas I

one moment of white silence lay

between the dashing and festivities

on a crisp New England morning‑eve

as the sun wakes from passivity

the old gray house is empty now

so very quiet, so very large

I in my castle and you in yours

safe from the past, feigning courage.

four authors rehearse the annual news

that God is with us:  emmanuel

when heaven landed on rocky shores

the myth of autonomy to dispel.

tonight I'll hold you in my arms

as yesterday fades dimly past

and with the best gift I can give

whisper softly: merry christmas.

                                                1981

Roots below

The book jacket said

his poems were accessible,

not the obscure words

and images that dot the fringes

of intelligence and madness.

but the common words,

the ones we might use

to tell a family story,

or what happened

in the movie we saw last night.

It's not surprising

that Emmanuel was often found

in the midst of sinners,

probably drinking a glass

of non‑vintage table wine.

no doubt this incensed

the learned folks of the day,

the guardians of the secret knowledge

that takes years of study

to travel to the outer reaches

of logic and appreciation,

finally reaching the holy of holies.

But this cup, this vessel,

stained with finger prints

sitting on the picnic table

of the local pub,

was more apt to quench

the thirst of the carpenter.

If the words of the poet

reach you in such a place,

God speaks with His arm

wrapped around your shoulder,

slaps you on the back,

and whispers a word more divine

than all the mysteries of heaven.

                                    3 Jul 93

Light Above

I was turning

the corner.

car packed to

ceiling with

my office remains,

Christmas two days

away.

Between seven

and eight,

night had already

fallen.

There, up the street

in front of the church

was a glow of light,

the detour unrelenting.

Stopping the car

with Henley playing

to the moon,

the tears clouding my eyes,

the tree lit up in

white

the year falling behind.

                                    14 Jan 94

 

Christmas II

Good News sometimes

comes on the wings

of angels,

or the musty air

of a dark stable,

But rarely does

it change a heart

all wrapped up in

sweet success,

as much it does

the fallen star,

clenched in the

fist of a

new Christmas morn.

                                    1991

God of straw

In a world

of pinstripe

warriors

ivory towers

and inner

oval offices,

the majesty

of grace

is that this

rough hewn

crib

of cattle feed

and peasant cloth

holds the one

who timid hearts

approach

and even hold

the naked

helpless

child

as their

own.

                        9 Dec 94

Christmas III

Listening to angels sing

in the fade of the skyline

hearing trumpets

on the white noise of airwaves

to the cries

of a new babe in winter

with the lovers

who kiss in the morning

for the song

that comes dressed

in the clothes of Christmas

comes to the tending

                                                1994

Lost and Found

Pilgrim

Barren woman of the west

came to worship in the depths

where old saints tombs

hung like building blocks

tossed upon an altar.

she seeks a child in her prayers

the mass is said in foreign tongue

will the old saint make it so?

she comes to take the broken host

in this dark space a world away

closer to the heavenly throne

holy place, what is withheld?

                                                22 Oct 94

Icons at the Gate

It offends

our sense of

decency.

the thought

stirs the

stomach,

violates

our sense of

ethics.

the alternative

life‑style

unacceptable,

believed with

quick dispatch.

But this man

this one

speaks

with simple joy

from a Sunday

pulpit

in a proper

white clapboard church,

delighted at the

grace of God

the message rides

along his words

like diamonds atop

a coal car.

So what are we

to do?

the prophet is

not one of us,

the man

is not the

man

and this issue

is not a matter

of principle,

no longer

simply cliched,

ignored,

for now it has

a face.

                                    18 Nov 93

Communion

The vestry

gathered about

the meeting table

like disciples at

the last supper,

where the food

and drink were

not the kind

that satisfied

the hunger,

but the

gristly issues

of gays,

aids,

and pulpits.

we chewed

and grimaced

on its taste,

unable to consume

the spread laid out

in its enormity,

we choked on its extremities.

for this meal

was not

the passioned beliefs

of distant matters.

this one lived

at home,

where we worshipped,

where we gathered,

where we ate,

as one;

where he served himself

to each,

and touched us

in our righteousness.

                                    5 Dec 93

Stewards

The tired

and worn

stressed forlorn,

pallor painted

in ties,

collars white

and matching

faces.

serfs

of business

captains,

leaders who

pose as God's

stewards,

they know

nothing of

the competitor's

heart,

the power of

the human spirit,

the profit

of hope,

it is an ember

in need of

inspiring,

lest it die

a shrinking coal.

                                    9 Nov 93

Looking for the Saint

We came to find St. Francis'

and gaze upon the plaster

murals of his life,

the renowned frescoes up above

in the basilica superiore.

down the steps descended

the darker work was done,

here he preached to the birds

in the basilica inferiore.

further still

down to the chapel of the tomb

hung in rock below the marble altars

a group of pilgrims sang and prayed

a mass we did not understand

but here at the roots of faith

with St. Francis now we were.

                                                22 Oct 94

Saints and Sinners

Mother Marie

Seated in a wheel chair

old woman with the trace

of golden hair,

fierce eyes --

carrying the fleece

of the Lamb

in her lap,

the finger of God

in her grip.

She held on to my sleeve

and wouldn't let go,

it kept me from

falling away 

in my embarrassment

to flee from her

impulsive, holy way.

She had to bless me

before she died

whether I sought

the balm

or just to get

the awkward moment by.

Oh, She wouldn't save me

till I let her have

the upper hand.

                                    16 Mar 94

Clyde

A colleague died

the other day.

I didn't know him well.

We served a common God

in a white New England church,

where this final scene played out.

I am told his life

was a seven hundred page novel.

I entered about page six ninety five.

I hadn't a clue about the plot

or turns his story took;

but we heard some vignettes ‑‑

sound bites in the eulogy.

That final sentence

closed the chapter,

as the words tumbled

to the paper's edge;

the period marked

where the ink had dried.

The book closed

with hushed amens,

was walked to the

shelf next door,

and slipped between

two other tomes;

its spine marked with

the years as a title we knew.

How I wished there

were more to read.

                                    24 Aug 93

 

Pearls Around Her Neck

she sat there

stiffly upright

with pearls around

her neck

as the wedding guests

flew in glee,

full of wine

and celebration,

on the dance floor

pulsing with the

music loud,

fork frozen

before her

open mouth,

eyes on the

edge of modesty

and disgust.

A good Christian Lady

did not

did not

did not

with all the

solemnity of

a funeral,

as if Lazarus' tomb

was more holy than Cana.

there truth and goodness

laughed at the

vast supply of wine

gone dry.

                                    10 Jan 94

The care of souls

She handed

out prayer

like the medicine

of the mass,

aspirin to make

the problem go away --

the care

of the soul

at arms length,

pointing at

a photograph

in an album pocket

then the next --

an open Bible

covering her nose

as if an

ailing soul

were catching,

she quickly

turned the page.

                                    11 Jun 94

Agnes

Her world was not much larger

than a ginger bread house,

a kitchen bathed in the smell

of baking chocolate cake,

the bloom of butter cream flowers.

Within these four small walls

deep breathing was understandable.

Here the breads of Christmas,

birthday cupcakes, wedding cakes,

cream puffs and petite fours

were crafted by her gentle hands.

Here was the icing of special days,

days that mattered deeply to us all.

Though none of us were ever content

with ginger bread, here we returned

to lick the batter, savor the special

moments with candles, revelry and song.

In this small cradle we were each reborn

breathing deeply the dust of heaven.

                                                17 Sep 94

Fullman

He was seen as

the gentle man

with a bow tie,

candles dancing in his eyes,

slowly reading stories from

the book on Sunday morn,

he sat with his beloved

in the old white church,

on the left, first pew back.

He is no longer here,

the seat now vacant,

the book lay open bare

without his finger on the page.

How many other tomes

did he touch

with a helping hand?

Some are gathered here

about this simple lectern,

some are scattered 'round about

like autumn leaves rustled

by his gentle breath --

listeners of his words.

You who gather sorrow,

listen to his life,

the light flickers yet

in their stories told.

                                    10 Nov 94

The Tyrant of Presence

It was five years ago

we laid Marie to rest.

I can still feel

the slip of polished wood

she rode beneath

the horizon of the earth

and view.

She still tugs

at my sleeve

holding me captive

for her blessing

and her curse.

Just one more soul,

one more,

just one.

Wanting to escape,

to be free of her,

but remembering

her most.

The frail tight cough

of breath

of the tyrant of presence

wrestled me

to stop

and listen

to the wind outside,

she runs through

my finger tips.

Hold on

grand woman

hold on.

                                    28 Jan 95

Elder Best

"we have the best church,

the best preacher

(the best faith),"

the feathered elder said,

with chest puffed

he was a spring robin

stalking subterranean prey.

the church was so white

so tall , so old,

the faithful few were lost.

when it came time to pray,

for the Spirit to descend

like tongues of fire,

he knelt a fallen man

with arms spread wide

above his head,

his eyes squeezed shut,

head bowed and trembled,

waiting for the tongues

that never came

thinking on what was only best.

                                    16 Oct 95

In the Wilderness

Waiting in line

on March the first

nineteen ninety five

people snaked out

the door

onto the street

the chain pulled in

by the gear teeth

of the church calendar.

"from ashes you came,

to ashes you return,"

said the old priest

for the thousand

and first time,

click, turn, next

(his hearing aid

turned off

to avoid his drone

in the wilderness)

click, turn, next

his thumb smudged

you out with

the charcoal X,

today's mark of

anonymity.

as you stepped fore

a notch and looked

into his silver eyes,

you could see forever

in his blank stare

back over the line

of a thousand

and two

empty faces.

                                    1 Mar 95

Guests

Hovering over

the reservations book,

two angelic maitre d's

looking for the magic

like new travelers

straining

at the airplane window

waiting

for the clouds to part.

discovering

the names upon the list

opening the gates

to the banquet table

then the smile

and the welcome

for the honored guests.

                                    9 Aug 94

Holy Places

Bells of St. Francis'

They stood along the sides

of the old Saint Francis' church

hands wrapped in white felt gloves

holding golden bells aloft.

We sat in the center pews

a parish on a stage

the choir wrapped around us

our hearts within their grasp.

They rang unto the morning

in a whisper counting beats

feet softly tapping floor boards

too old to lie asleep.

On rising notes of song

we soared to the old white roof

hands holding us high as fists

of God shaking out our souls.

Music only heard as one

from many notes and hands

the bells calling, calling

a steeple in our midst.

                                    5 May 94

Vezelay

Gabriel blew his trumpet

to the side

while the half moon

of the choir

sang the old hymn

in the narthex at Vezelay.

The French verses

without meaning,

but a tourist in this place

hearing the notes

echo from the arched ceiling

far above, still touching

the heart of the stranger.

                                    2 Oct 94

Assisi

We joined a small

group of French pilgrims

celebrating mass

in the tomb of St. Francis' Chapel

Monday morning.

Though we understood

a few words spoken,

the faith if the communion

spoke clearly.

Like the Assisi stairways

in the artist's work,

the symbols of heaven

stretch from the City of God

to the streets beneath our feet,

truly holy ground.

                                    11 Oct 94

At Grace Cathedral

(when the doors were opened)

The gray concrete majesty

of the great cathedral on the hill

dwarfed the pilgrims

who climbed the steep walkways

that lined the cable-whistled streets

climbing Ararat to see

if the Ark still rested

on its craggy moor.

The white-haired cleric

leaned forward from his perch

with voice bounding from every

arch and columned trunk

"the work of God," he said,

"is to love the hell out of us"

--a life long work no doubt.

Yet in this hallowed hall

of terrifying pomp and feared misstep

one wondered whether He was

here to scare the hell out

of us as well.

But when the trio of men

standing to my right

unabashedly embraced

with echoes in their eyes,

it was clear

the doors of grace were opened,

like the fingers of fog

reaching over the hills,

hiding and revealing

the majesty of the tabernacle,

its hand wrapped around this

single pew and touched the gray

tweed shoulder of the pilgrim,

and said to those who held

and watched,

no standing on this mount

save standing arm in arm.

                                    29 Jan 95 rev.

Listening at the Gate

October

On a New England road

at the height of Autumn,

if the traffic dies

for a few minutes

and the wind is held

you can hear each red

and yellow leaf as it falls

to the driveway

like a crispy snowflake

dancing on the asphalt.

You wouldn't hear it otherwise

and in a week or three,

it will all be gone.

But if you listen now

and crane your neck a bit

you may hear God whisper

in the quiet of the fall.

                                    18 Oct 94

Crossroads

Two men stood

beside the twisted wreckage

of what was a late model Thunderbird,

fire engine red.

One, the driver of the Ford,

the other of the semi that reduced it

to flattened metal,

wheels, and broken glass.

They were fast to the crossroads,

a right on red

and a rush on changing yellow.

Eighteen wheels spun the car around

in the howling of a twister

as the Kansas house on route to Oz.

Now both are shaken men,

one who walked away alive

and one just innocent of death.

None of us rushes to the graveyard,

few are given such a pause.

While the wrecking truck

carts away what's left

and the sheriff writes

the three part form

of time and place and cause,

one wonders what these two witnesses

of their intersection

took with them to tomorrow

and what was left behind.

                                    9 Apr 95

The Prize

Catch it

before it flies away

the tiny silver moth

that disappears

when it moves front

the printed flower wall

lost in the

busy color patterns.

waiting until

it moves again

scanning left

to right --

it was here

a moment ago!

reaching quickly

sometimes yields

an empty hand,

and then the

patience pays

the watchful eye,

it brings its

brief flutter

into the grasp.

placing the

prize on

paper white

may be a mounted

trophy held still

by careful pins

but when left to fly away

may leave the

dust of heaven.

                                    1 Feb 95

The voice in a crowd

God is silent

in the silent places,

the smooth

running streams

of days.

It is rather in

the din of

pain and tragedy

that he rings

with the bells,

breaks our ears

with his silent presence,

takes our hand

and holds us to

his breast.

Listen.

He whispers

with the thunder.

                                    24 Jul 94

Earthen vessels

The priest says

we live our lives

in earthen vessels,

and I smile

as I remember the

church school verse.

now I am fascinated

by the nuance of the wine

that fills the jug.

but it is wine I never drink

and I would guess wrong

if asked to pick

the year and grape

from a single sip.

for less frivolous pursuits

at the heart of moral matter --

how I ache to state

the simple truth.

forgetting that this

holy water is not yet wine

and this earthy glass

is dark

the light within,

so dim.

                                    20 Oct 95

Whispers

Listen closely

to your lives,

to each

voice,

each song

and the harmony

you make

together;

amid the

happiness and joy

the tragedies

and rain,

look.

there is

truth here

and goodness

and love

among the we.

                                    1 Sep 93

The Soil of Heaven

He was found

backing up

to the earthen door

of life's common experiences

and listening

to the whispers just inside,

these were voices

of the Angels' song

and he was thirsty

for the Holy sound.

                        29 May 95

Gordon Edwards

Gordon Edwards is the nom de plume for Edward G. Happ, a businessman from Stamford Connecticut. Mr. Edwards has been writing poetry for the past thirty years, and was most recently a 1994 runner up in Poet magazine's annual American Chapbook contest. A graduate of the Liberal Arts College of Drew University, he began writing poetry in the eighth grade, at the encouragement of a junior high school English teacher.

"It is the incarnation of grace in the simplicity of ordinary language and experience, the 'Word ... dwelt among us,'  that drives my writing.  A reviewer summed up my poetry as 'a kind of sophisticated simplicity.'  My intention is not to be 'sophisticated,' but to strive for two things in each piece.  On the first reading I want readers to hear something that connects with their own experience. On second reading I hope they see with me the more that is 'enclothed' beneath the common surface."