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the priest's diary                                  Peter Schwartz & Kim Goransson

I
my chapel is where I am weakest
struck by the congregation
I stood so grievous to welcome,
a small wooden cross for every member
loosely pierced, barefooted
and bleeding

- Or was it a blessing!
the wine-soaked wound
opening sunday by sunday
to catechize my brothers
until their spiritual backbones
rest

I pray they see Your face
as You have graciously allowed me
in incense and candlelight,
in the hours of rosary
spent rising and falling from their knees
like children,
Father.
Like bluebirds flapping in circles
over the church ground,
Father.
patiently awaiting Your appearance
 

II
mission supplies

-bottled water
-1 gross of white candles
-small can of paint (repairs)
-new razors
-sugar (Lord forgive me)
-bread
-eggs
 

III
I stand alone with God's bucket
overwhelmed by the isle's condensed atmosphere
the collective's restless begging
like a virgin in wool
sweating petals out her pores
with fragrant magic
(clove, cinnamon, periwinkle)
to pick one up
would be fire

her nervous chant of baby doves
beyond all posture
her tattooed native necklace
her toes,
1. a pearl
2. coconut milk
3. her father's
4. july
5. the dipping in of guavas
6. a jellyfish (or rather the idea of a jellyfish)
7. a whale bone
8. a revolver
9.
10. a sand dollar

O such colored innocence
the ivory-tipped quill of an until
floating; spurious, angled, mingled
these windmills of time
bring swiftlets, spoonbills, yellow crowned night herons
snowy egret, white ibis, olive-winged bulbul,
mangrove whistlers, crimson sunbirds, blackburnian warblers
and yes the wisdom of brown owls
O sabbatical rings
O forthright vestiges
O birds of paradise
     I am forgiven!!

IV
"Therefore shall they eat of the fruit of their own way,
and be filled with their own devices."

littered w/ starless structures
grass huts of not
the island breathes yet asphyxiates
without Christ
but the Word is stronger than an island
and shall tear asunder
their savage idols mercilessly
THE LAMB SHALL MOUNT THE SERPENT
HELL HATH NO WINGS (?)
till thorns bloom.

Being without speaking
Lost judgements:

labor the alpha and omega
labor for the bread of life
labor the calf and the olive branch
labor for the hidden manna

labor the ripe
labor the cistern of cries
labor as the ox tied to his cart yet
labor like a fish swallowing its shadows

labor for the fig
labor the sun's infancies
labor thy herbs and petals again
labor thy praises

labor thy hummingbirds
labor thy crickets
labor thy sober disciples
labor thy vessels and gospels
labor here on our Isle of Patmos