We came today across this poem-song I wrote, dated 30 years ago, Song for Proud Men.  The photo “Where will you be…” is from the same era.  Both pierce me still today…

Man blasts his trumpet proud,
Boldly loud the crowd crows one to another,
Grabbing, brass-cold clutching, only such as they know….
Nowhere brother’s love’s there to break their great pretending.
Oh! To bask in song, to belong, (crying),
To embrace and kiss those faces, (dying),
Horizontal set, stiff-necked yet
Against the One above!

Christ comes calm, morning mist among quiet houses.
They are not dead: pulsing breasts rise and fall,
Spouses close, skins touching, dreaming each
A million miles apart.  Startles not, none arouses, none yet
Weeping, quiet sleeping corpses to His call.

Hush He comes as high white clouds,
enfolding One in bright among blue.
But quiet too as early mist moving unknown, closer
still.  Gray with old hates,
where are you going, oh crowing boldly?
Listen.  Listen.