May
27
2022
By Anonymous (not verified)
Father Andy Davy, MIC, pastor of St. Mary Parish in Plano, Illinois, also writes poetry. Here, we share some of his work and his commentaries on that work in the latest installment of a weekly series.
Queen of Maytide
Each time man walks upon the earthen graces,
He must take care and approach those fair, heavenly faces,
Which will indeed flee from he
Who dominates, not willing to perceive.
But to him who comes blushed (and not from shame),
His eyes will clear, once they've been smeared
With colors from today.
The grass is greener now:
Smelling of succulent emeralds fare.
The wheat is more playful now:
As mother wind combs her hair.
And yet awakes also the sinister;
The restricted shade holes of trees long forgotten.
Would we dare our hand to reach in and tear
The glaze off our fiction.
For when we walk we can see
Both heavenly delights
And demonic ferocity.
But walk we must and this is why:
We do it for the blue bells of Maytide.
That scampered evidence beneath those trees
That speaks in the dark yet unto eternity.
For it is the child's unseen hand, that
Seeds bitter winter's grief
With spring, smelling of blue bells;
The sprinkled preparations
For that day of coronation
When our Blessed Mother's succor
Shall bring undying relief.
This poem shines forth nature and liturgical scenes that can clear our eyes to see reality in its brokenness and beauty, leading us to discover the paschal mystery through Mary's guidance. It is a poem of hope.
Queen of Maytide
Each time man walks upon the earthen graces,
He must take care and approach those fair, heavenly faces,
Which will indeed flee from he
Who dominates, not willing to perceive.
But to him who comes blushed (and not from shame),
His eyes will clear, once they've been smeared
With colors from today.
The grass is greener now:
Smelling of succulent emeralds fare.
The wheat is more playful now:
As mother wind combs her hair.
And yet awakes also the sinister;
The restricted shade holes of trees long forgotten.
Would we dare our hand to reach in and tear
The glaze off our fiction.
For when we walk we can see
Both heavenly delights
And demonic ferocity.
But walk we must and this is why:
We do it for the blue bells of Maytide.
That scampered evidence beneath those trees
That speaks in the dark yet unto eternity.
For it is the child's unseen hand, that
Seeds bitter winter's grief
With spring, smelling of blue bells;
The sprinkled preparations
For that day of coronation
When our Blessed Mother's succor
Shall bring undying relief.
This poem shines forth nature and liturgical scenes that can clear our eyes to see reality in its brokenness and beauty, leading us to discover the paschal mystery through Mary's guidance. It is a poem of hope.
CLDPF