Verse
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Pilgrimage
There is a path that leads
away from where my home is
long and winding
steep in places
and wide in others.
Yes and comes a place
that it looks not
like a path at all.
I have walked this trail
on dusty ground
where only hungry people dwell
and found its way again
in green hills where
crystal waters flow
then lost its track until
at last
in city streets I found a trace
of grace and suffering and love
that surely said that here once more
did wind the way that
long ago you trod.
And though not home
this path is better yet than
house or hearth to keep the soul
in time with the step
of pilgrimage
to the holy place
from whence you call.
Visiting Naomi in her mid-nineties
Standing in Chicago,
I remember your smile last night
As we sang hymns in three part harmony
My voice reflecting the melody
Because I cannot carry harmony
In a front end loader.
Standing in Chicago
I remember your soft voice
Worn but happy saying
"I am so blessed...I am so blessed."
Standing in Chicago as
The hordes pass by
Anxious people not sure
When they'll get there
I remember you and I recall these words
Early in the morning.
"I'm tired of living, yes
But it's no use to be that way--
Better to be open to what the
Lord will yet make known."
You said this as well--
"It seemed as though the night would never end,
It seemed forever until the morning came."
For Real
In the morning
I wake up
Expecting that the world might
Have gone back to normal
Colors faded just a little.
To my amazement
Things remain utterly changed
Despite their pitiful effort
To mask the drama of the shift.
And I in some bewilderment
Am asking
Whether these are the colors of
Insanity
Or grace,
And how the hell I missed them
For a lifetime before.
March 2004
For Paul Williams: Some Madness Is Holy
Words: September 27, 2010; recorded to guitar December 2012
We were, to echo Dylan, so much older then,
When we were twenty.
Lofty ideals, great ideas and not a clue,
We decided to live in community.
Vague on many details, of one thing we were sure:
We needed to take turns cooking, and
Eat Together.
Some madness is holy.
Memory not to be trusted,
this is what I remember.
It was the night that Jim and I
Cooked up that soup--
Honey and barley, water
and an awful measure of celery--
That was the night I remember.
All afternoon we labored,
and something kept going wrong.
First too much honey then too much barley and then
Something burned to the bottom.
At supper that night, there in our little community
All of us at the table,
Abiding by unwritten covenant
Ate one modest bowl apiece of that soup
Without complaint.
And still
So much
Was left.
We looked at the large pot.
It was Paul Williams rose then,
With the dignity befitting an elder
In a Quaker meeting house,
Rose with a certain presence and simplicity.
The rest of the company stood too in unthinking unity,
And Paul led the way
Through the kitchen door
Soup pot borne aloft
At the head of the swift and solemn procession.
Someone at Paul’s instruction grabbed a shovel.
We stood in a mystical circle
In the back yard of 710 College Avenue.
Paul Williams presided, as at the center a deep hole was dug.
It took two, it seems to me,
Took two strong people to pour the awful remains into the hole.
It was Paul, face serious, eyes strangely joyful,
Who was our priestly presence that night.
Some madness is holy.
Our paths drifted apart not long thereafter,
And for more than a generation not much contact,
Until a couple of years ago we swapped notes.
Then I got this letter from our friend Max that
Paul had died.
Max later told me he had gone to see Paul in the hospital,
That Paul had written long notes to him
When he could no longer speak aloud.
In turn Max had sung Paul’s own songs to him
In his hospital bed,
Until the nurses were convinced that Max was mad.
Some madness is holy.
I didn’t write the note soon enough to send it to you, Paul Williams,
So in lieu of that I send it to our friends,
To thank you for what you taught us
When we were twenty.
You taught us how to say good bye to burned soup,
The stuff that is too often our common lot.
You did it with solemnity and forgiveness and with that
Gleam in your eyes.
You taught us too:
Some madness is holy.
In the morning
I wake up
Expecting that the world might
Have gone back to normal
Colors faded just a little.
To my amazement
Things remain utterly changed
Despite their pitiful effort
To mask the drama of the shift.
And I in some bewilderment
Am asking
Whether these are the colors of
Insanity
Or grace,
And how the hell I missed them
For a lifetime before.
March 2004
For Paul Williams: Some Madness Is Holy
Words: September 27, 2010; recorded to guitar December 2012
We were, to echo Dylan, so much older then,
When we were twenty.
Lofty ideals, great ideas and not a clue,
We decided to live in community.
Vague on many details, of one thing we were sure:
We needed to take turns cooking, and
Eat Together.
Some madness is holy.
Memory not to be trusted,
this is what I remember.
It was the night that Jim and I
Cooked up that soup--
Honey and barley, water
and an awful measure of celery--
That was the night I remember.
All afternoon we labored,
and something kept going wrong.
First too much honey then too much barley and then
Something burned to the bottom.
At supper that night, there in our little community
All of us at the table,
Abiding by unwritten covenant
Ate one modest bowl apiece of that soup
Without complaint.
And still
So much
Was left.
We looked at the large pot.
It was Paul Williams rose then,
With the dignity befitting an elder
In a Quaker meeting house,
Rose with a certain presence and simplicity.
The rest of the company stood too in unthinking unity,
And Paul led the way
Through the kitchen door
Soup pot borne aloft
At the head of the swift and solemn procession.
Someone at Paul’s instruction grabbed a shovel.
We stood in a mystical circle
In the back yard of 710 College Avenue.
Paul Williams presided, as at the center a deep hole was dug.
It took two, it seems to me,
Took two strong people to pour the awful remains into the hole.
It was Paul, face serious, eyes strangely joyful,
Who was our priestly presence that night.
Some madness is holy.
Our paths drifted apart not long thereafter,
And for more than a generation not much contact,
Until a couple of years ago we swapped notes.
Then I got this letter from our friend Max that
Paul had died.
Max later told me he had gone to see Paul in the hospital,
That Paul had written long notes to him
When he could no longer speak aloud.
In turn Max had sung Paul’s own songs to him
In his hospital bed,
Until the nurses were convinced that Max was mad.
Some madness is holy.
I didn’t write the note soon enough to send it to you, Paul Williams,
So in lieu of that I send it to our friends,
To thank you for what you taught us
When we were twenty.
You taught us how to say good bye to burned soup,
The stuff that is too often our common lot.
You did it with solemnity and forgiveness and with that
Gleam in your eyes.
You taught us too:
Some madness is holy.
How can I keep from singing?
Late in the night
Three nights in a row
We sang
Songs primitive and eloquent
Harmonies sweet and rugged
Our smiles grew nightly as we
Recalled tunes once relegated
To distant memory
Some just looked on in wonder
Others sang every time
And I swayed
Stamped
Blew
A borrowed harp
Strummed a dark guitar
And could not keep from singing
The songs were not so sacred
I suppose
As to prevent their
Being honest prayer to
A God who also sways and
Stamps
Whistles and howls aloud
A melody that runs like a
Deep sweet river
Beneath the surface of our pretending
How glad I am that You
Like me
Caught in the moment
And we together
Could not keep from singing
July 2002
Late in the night
Three nights in a row
We sang
Songs primitive and eloquent
Harmonies sweet and rugged
Our smiles grew nightly as we
Recalled tunes once relegated
To distant memory
Some just looked on in wonder
Others sang every time
And I swayed
Stamped
Blew
A borrowed harp
Strummed a dark guitar
And could not keep from singing
The songs were not so sacred
I suppose
As to prevent their
Being honest prayer to
A God who also sways and
Stamps
Whistles and howls aloud
A melody that runs like a
Deep sweet river
Beneath the surface of our pretending
How glad I am that You
Like me
Caught in the moment
And we together
Could not keep from singing
July 2002