March 8, 2022
Thought for Today
“We have only one thing to keep us sane, pity, and the
man without pity is mad.”
Edward Bond,
Lear
March 7, 2022
FUNERAL MASS
FOR JOANNE COSTELLO REICH
FEBRUARY 20, 2022
SAN ALFONSO RETREAT HOUSE
WEST END, NEW JERSEY
We finally had the funeral service for Joanne who died just after Thanksgiving - down in St. Mary's Georgia, where she lived. About 50 people showed up here in Long Branch, New Jersey - for the funeral. We are grateful for Gary Reich for getting a videographer to do the service. Thank you. Thank you everyone for helping us deal with the death of a wonderful human being: Joanne Reynolds - Costello - Reich.
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JOANNE:
A PLACE AT THE TABLE
March 7, 2022
THE NAMES
Yesterday,
I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
Then Baxter and Calabro,
Davis and Eberling, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.
In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each had a name --
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal
Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.
Names written in the air
And stitched into the cloth of the day.
A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
Monogram on a torn shirt,
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.
I say the syllables as I turn a corner --
Kelly and Lee,
Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.
When I peer into the woods,
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
As in a puzzle concocted for children.
Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,
Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,
Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.
Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.
Names silent in stone
Or cried out behind a door.
Names blown over the earth and out to sea.
In the evening -- weakening light, the last swallows.
A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,
And the names are outlined on the rose clouds --
Vanacore and Wallace,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in a green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.
*This poem is dedicated to the victims of September 11 and to their survivors.
Not mentioned by Billy Collins I'd like to mention my godfather's grandson: Sean Bowman
March 6, 2022
SEEKING THE SOURCE
a voice out of this world
calls on our souls
not to wait any more
get ready to move
to the original home
your real home
your real birth place
is up here with the heavens
let your soul take a flight
like a happy phoenix
you’ve been tied up
your feet in the mud
your body roped to a log
break loose your ties
get ready for the final flight
make your last journey
from this strange world
soar for the heights
where there is no more
separation of you and your home
God has created
your wings not to be dormant
as long as you are alive
you must try more and more
to use your wings to show you’re alive
these wings of yours
are filled with quests and hopes
if they are not used
they will wither away
they will soon decay
you may not like
what i’m going to tell you
you are stuck
now you must seek
nothing but the source
– Rumi
– Translated by Nader Khalili