Monday, April 6, 2026

Five Years Later Two Contemplations on Dust--National Poetry Month 2026


 Note--This blog post first appeared in 2021.

As common as dust, my Grandma Mona used to say by which she meant as ubiquitous as sun rises and death.  Despite the most diligent attempts to defeat it, it settles everywhere because it floats invisibly, save in a ray of sunshine through a window. We inhale it with every breath we take.  In my less-than-tidy study it lies thick on every surface that is not touched daily.  But other than in that Bible verse cited at funerals and Woody Guthrie ballads precious little attention has been paid to this commonplace fact of life by writers and poets.

Here are two who noticed.

                Danusha Laméris

Danusha Laméris was born in 1971 in CambridgeMassachusetts. She is the author of The Moons of August (Autumn House Press) in 2014 which was selected as the 2013 Autumn House Press Poetry Prize, and Bonfire Opera (University of Pittsburgh Press, in 2020. She teaches poetry and lives in the foothills of the Santa Cruz Mountains in coastal California.

Dust

It covers everything, fine powder,

the earth’s gold breath falling softly

on the dark wood dresser, blue ceramic bowls,

picture frames on the wall. It wafts up

from canyons, carried on the wind,

on the wings of birds, in the rough fur of animals

as they rise from the ground. Sometimes it’s copper,

sometimes dark as ink. In great storms,

it even crosses the sea. Once

when my grandmother was a girl,

a strong gale lifted red dust from Africa

and took it thousands of miles away

to the Caribbean where people swept it

from their doorsteps, kept it in small jars,

reminder of that other home.

Gandhi said, “The seeker after truth

should be humbler than the dust.”

Wherever we go, it follows.

I take a damp cloth, swipe the windowsills,

the lamp’s taut shade, run a finger

over the dining room table.

And still, it returns, settling in the gaps

between the floorboards, gilding the edges

of unread books. What could be more loyal,

more lonely, and unsung?

—Danusha Laméris

From Bonfire Opera by Danusha Laméris, © 2020.


What goes up, must come down.  Dust enveloped Manhattan after the Twin Towers collapsed on 9/11.

The Old Man has frequently inflicted his verse on the readers of this blog.  This poem is one of several he wrote over the years marking the anniversaries of the 9/11 attacks.  This one appeared nearly 25 years ago.

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

September 9, 2011, Crystal Lake, Illinois

 

The ash and dust, they say,

            rose as high as the skirts

            of the ionosphere.

Prevailing winds pushed it

            across oceans and around the world.

 

Most has sifted by now to the earth.

Some orbits still,

motes descending

            now and again.

 

My study is a cluttered mess.

Dust lays on any unattended

horizontal surface,

makes webs in corners,

balls in computer wire rats nests,

devils under bookshelves.

 

That speck, that one there,

            the one by the stapler,

            just might be what’s left

            of the Dominican cleaner

            who left her children

            with their Abuela

            and went to work

            in the sky

            only to be vaporized.

 

Hola, señora.

It is an honor to meet you.

 

Patrick Murfin


Sunday, April 5, 2026

Easter and the Rites of Spring Verse--National Poetry Month 2026


The Resurrection--the central miracle of Christian faith.
It is Easter, the holiest day of the year for traditional Christians, celebrating the resurrection of Jesus, the conformation of him as the Christ, and the promise of eternal life for those who believe.  It’s powerful stuff that brings comfort and hope to millions.
It also gives some folks the willies, the hives, or both.  And a lot of those folks end up in Unitarian Universalist congregations.  That’s gotta make it tough for our preachers—ahem ministers since we tend to cringe at the sound of that old fashion word and all it connotes.  We are non-creedal and pride ourselves on being open and accepting to a wide variety of spiritual beliefs and practices united by covenant in communities that pledge mutual respect and support in the quest for meaning.  But on Easter, the stresses sometimes show.
There are congregations where half the members stay home lest they endure the obligatory “annual Christian” sermon or even communion.  In the heyday of humanists in the '50s and '60s when they dominated many congregations, Easter was even the occasion of more of a debunking lecture than a sermon.  You don’t see that so much anymore both because the humanists, who still make up the largest philosophic segment of UU membership, have lost a little of that particular chip on the shoulderand because of general rise in spirituality in our communities including various stripes of theism and pantheism.
That includes self-identified Christians and many others who identify themselves as “followers of the religion of Jesus not about Jesus,” meaning the rabbi of the Sermon on the Mount, and not necessarily who may have rolled the stone away to unseal his own tomb.
Since the World Parliament of Religions during the World Columbian Exposition in Chicago in 1893 Unitarians and Universalists have become ever more aware of non-Abrahamic and traditional world religions.  Seeking and finding the underlying, uniting universal principles among them has become our hobbyhorse.  Among the probably not terribly surprising discoveries is the idea that spiritual practice as expressed in ritual is closely linked to the repeating cycles of the seasons.
Many of our Easter services make this a central theme.  It is in our wheelhouse.  It is sometimes done with embarrassing shallowness as a pared down metaphor that the minister can’t quite get his or her heart into.  But in the right hands powerful truths are explored and unexpected depths plumbed.
Stripped down some sermons may follow these lines—
Easter’s date is tied to a Jewish calendar based on the cycles of the moon.  Thus, Easter’s date slowly changes relative to our current solar-based Gregorian calendar and slowly creeps forward such that it would ultimately slip out of spring entirely—except  the “reset” from the Julian to Gregorian solar calendars in the 18th Century keeps the holiday in the spring.
Easter is tied to the Jewish calendar because Jesus and his disciples chose to travel to Jerusalem to observe Passover.  Jesus and his disciples were religious Jews and the Last Supper was a Seder
Passover celebrates the Moses-led miracle that saved the tribes of Abraham from bondage in Egypt—a virtual rebirth as a people and nation.  For centuries the Yahweh-worshiping tribes who came to be known as Jews commemorated that miracle in lambing season, perhaps because it was blood of sacrificial lambs that was smeared on Jewish lintels that signaled to the killing Angels to “pass-over” Jewish homes—when the eldest sons from all other Egyptian homes were killed—the  final catastrophe that convinced Pharaoh at last to free his slaves.
Whether or not Passover as a historic event actually fell in the spring, the commemoration is firmly placed in that season of rebirth.

Unitarian Universalists often cast Easter as just one of many festivals celebrating Spring and the rebirth of nature.
This annual explosion of new life just getting under way.  And in a way that is good.  The crocuses and daffodils remind us that in some ways the central Christian story—the death, resurrection, and ascension into heaven of Jesus—commemorates also the resurrection of nature we see around us every spring.  
Celebrating the annual rebirth of nature cuts across and unites huge sectors of all cultures and religions. 
While the Jews were celebrating Passover, their cousin tribes who worshiped Baal and the ancient fertility goddess Astarte (who some paleontologists find represented in the tiny pregnant female torsos found in Paleolithic sites) also held rituals that celebrated the season.  The Seleucid Greeks who  once conquered Judea, as well as those Romans who occupied the country in the time of Jesus, both had spring festivals associated with fertility goddesses.

Paleolithic mother goddess figurines found across much of Europe and the Near East representing fertility and often associated with the later Semitic goddess Astarte.
In Northern Europe long before Christianity was born, tribes celebrated the return of spring with a grand festival to commemorate their goddess of fertility and springtime.  Among some of the Germanic tribes that goddess was named Ēostre or Ostara
Like many traditional gods and goddesses associated with nature, Ēostre was often represented by the rabbit, that most fertile and prolific of all warm-blooded creatures. 

Oestra was often associated with hares--the most fertile of all animals.
During the 2nd Century of the Christian era, when missionaries found that the rebirth holiday of those Ēostre-celebrating Germanic tribes coincided with the Christian observance of the resurrection of Christ, what could be more fitting than to join these two together into one holy day.
Today, our spring ceremony mostly still celebrates an Easter with chocolate bunnies and eggs side by side with a Risen Christ religious observance—joining together several traditions, like many other Christian customs do—the Yule log, hanging of greens, and erection of an evergreen tree alongside the Crèche at Christmas time.  
One way or another, Passover, Ēostre, and Easter, all celebrate rebirth and renewal.
Here are some poems that touch on all of these themes.

The Morning of the Resurrection by Sir Edward Coley Burner-Jones, a member of the Pre-Raphaelite circle.
Christina Rossetti was a leading 19th Century British poet who was a member of the Pre-Raphaelite artistic movement led by her brothers.  Identified as a romantic poet, she was also a proto-feminist and a High Church Anglo-Catholic mystic.  This poem is one of the finest explorations of the personal meaning Christians find in the Resurrection that I have ever read. 

A Better Resurrection

I have no wit, no words, no tears; 
      My heart within me like a stone 
Is numb’d too much for hopes or fears; 
      Look right, look left, I dwell alone; 
I lift mine eyes, but dimm’d with grief 
      No everlasting hills I see; 
My life is in the falling leaf: 
      O Jesus, quicken me. 

My life is like a faded leaf, 
      My harvest dwindled to a husk: 
Truly my life is void and brief 
      And tedious in the barren dusk; 
My life is like a frozen thing, 
      No bud nor greenness can I see: 
Yet rise it shall—the sap of Spring; 
      O Jesus, rise in me.

My life is like a broken bowl, 
      A broken bowl that cannot hold 
One drop of water for my soul 
      Or cordial in the searching cold; 
Cast in the fire the perish’d thing; 
      Melt and remould it, till it be
            A royal cup for Him, my King: 
                  O Jesus, drink of me.

—Christina Rossetti




Easter Lillies, the traditional symbol of spring rebirth.
Teresinka Pereira is a contemporary Brazilian-American poet who saw the connection in this poem posted on the web site of the International Forum for the Literature and Culture of Peace (IFLAC).

Spring/Passover/Easter

The bridge between death
and return to life
is full of spring sights.
From the unexpected lightning
to the wind that comes back
with swallows and colorful sky
giving flowers to the gardens
there is a dream flowing
waiting for a chance
to stay forever.
Hope roars and echoes
in joy and happiness.
The lily of Easter and Passover
becomes Spring incarnation
in the eyes of the one who
dares to love.
—Teresinka Pereira


Oestre rises at dawn.
Lady Caer Morganna is the identity of a Solitary Eclectic Wiccan Priestess who blogs at The Wicca Life .   Wicca is a modern religion—sometimes claimed to be the fastest growing faith in the U.S—which draws mainly from Celtic traditions but is also respectful of other so-called pagan traditions including the Germanic and Norse.  Its pantheistic, earth-centered spirituality is shared by many UUs and indeed many practice both faiths. 

Oestre

The snow has all melted
And winter has gone,
Now Nature is singing
Springs’ most beautiful song;
As we honor the Goddess -
The Devine Eostre,
While she breathes her life
Into the birds and the bees;
She's fertile and loving
Ancient Mother is she
From the youngest child
To the oldest tree

Lady Caer Morganna


Rev. Theresa Novak.
Finally, let’s hear from a UU minister who forthrightly connects with the powerful resurrection story of the Bible.  The Rev. Theresa Novak is now retired and blogs at Sermons, Poetry, and Other Musings .

Easter

What an effort it must have been
To climb down from that cross
So many centuries ago
They thought you were dead forever
It certainly looked like that
You’d prayed you last prayer
Healed your last leper
Driven out your last demon.
They even buried you.
t must have felt so good
To lay your head down
The funeral cloths were soft.
The darkness was comforting
So weary you were
Tired, hurt, bleeding.
You’d seen so much
Suffered so much
Done so much
What harm could it do
To give into rest
For a few days
It must have been hard
To hear the weeping
Of those who had loved you
Of those who had betrayed you
The stone was heavy
But you had to push it aside
Rolling away defeat
Banishing hopelessness
Overcoming fear.
What an effort it must have taken
To come back not knowing
What people would think
How they would respond
Would they think the miracle
Was only about you?
Thank you for letting us know
That we each have the chance
The opportunity, the responsibility 
To be reborn
Resurrected.

—Theresa Novak 

Saturday, April 4, 2026

Two for Dr. King on April 4——National Poetry Month 2026

 

Martin Luther King lays on the balcony of Memphis's Lorraine Motel moments after he was shot as aids point to where they believe the shot that killed him was fired.

Except for the month of April, this blog is generally in the business of history. But in this month dedicated to poetry, things that matter can get short shrift. Take today. It is the 58th anniversary of a gut-wrenching occasion that left a scar on the nation and on many of our hearts. It was on April 4, 1968 that the RevMartin Luther KingJr. was gunned down as he stood on the balcony of a Memphis motel. He was in the city to complete some unfinished business—a march in support of striking garbage collectors, a follow up to an earlier march where violence had broken out as younger marchers began smashing shop windows.  He returned against the unanimous advice of his closest associates. But he felt he had a duty to complete the march in peace. 

 

On the eve of his assassination Dr. King delivered his eerily prescient final speech to a packed church.

The rainy night before, Dr. King went to a local church that was packed to the rafters to hear him. It was there that to a strangely hushed crowd he delivered his own elegy: 

… I don’t know what will happen now. We’ve got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn’t matter with me now. Because I’ve been to the mountaintop. And I don’t mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s will. And He’s allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I’ve looked over. And I’ve seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land. And I’m happy, tonight. I’m not worried about anything. I’m not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord. 

The night of the killing riots erupted around the nation. Black rage boiled on to the streets. In Chicago the West Side burned. White America cowered in front of their television sets in fear and horror. At tiny Shimer College, I locked myself in a closet and cried for what seemed like hours. 

We’ll leave it to the pathetic conspiracy theorists to argue about who to pin the rap on. It really doesn’t matter if we know the name attached to the finger on the trigger, or the names of who may have paid or abetted, or even of those who just winked. A festering boil of racism killed Dr. King in the forlorn hope that they could kill his dream and the march to justice. Traumatic events like this are often processed through poetry. Think of Walt Whitmans elegies to fallen LincolnO Captain, My Captain and When Lilacs Last in the Door Yard Bloomed

Today, let’s remember through the eyes of two Black women. Nordette Adams grew up in New Orleans. After a varied career as a journalist, government public relations person, ghost writer, technical writer, and writer and producer of documentaries, she is concentrating on her creative writing and poetry. 

 

Nordette Adams.

 Remembering A Life 

I remember him in the misted vision of toddler years 

and again in girlhood, the booming voice on TV, 

someone grown-ups talked about, eyelids flapped wide. 

Elders huddled ’round the screen enraptured, 

in fear for him, in awe. 

 

I remember him. His words swept the land, singing our passion. 

Dogs growled in streets. Men in sheets. 

Police battering my people. (Water, a weapon.) 

Yet my people would rejoice ... And mourn. 

 

I remember him, a fearsome warrior crying peace, 

a man—blemished by clay, the stain of sin as 

any other, calling on the Rock— 

Death's sickle on his coat tails, 

yet he spied glory. 

 

Shall we walk again and remember him, 

not as the Madison Aveners do, 

but in solitude and hope 

with acts of courage and compassion, 

with lives of greater scope 

carving fresh paths of righteousness? 

 

I remember. 

Nordette Adams © Copyright January 2004, Nordette Adams 

 

June Jordan.

June Jordan was born in Harlem in 1936 and grew up in Brooklyn’s Bedford-Stuyvesant, Poet, activist, teacher, and essayist, she was a prolific, passionate, and influential voice for liberation. Jordan died in 2002 but lived and wrote on the front lines of American poetry with political vision and moral clarity. 

In Memorium: Martin Luther King Jr. 

honey people murder mercy U.S.A. 

the milkland turn to monsters teach 

to kill to violate pull down destroy 

the weakly freedom growing fruit from

being born 

 

America 

tomorrow yesterday rip rape 

exacerbate despoil disfigure 

crazy running threat the 

deadly thrall 

appall belief dispel 

the wildlife burn the breast 

the onward tongue 

the outward hand 

deform the normal rainy 

riot sunshine shelter wreck 

of darkness derogate 

delimit blank 

explode deprive 

assassinate and batten up 

like bullets fatten up 

the raving greed 

reactivate a springtime terrorizing 

death by men by more 

than you or I can 

 

STOP 

II 

They sleep who know a regulated place

or pulse or tide or changing sky 

according to some universal 

stage direction obvious 

like shorewashed shells 

 

we share an afternoon of mourning 

in between no next predictable

except for wild reversal hearse rehearsal 

bleach the blacklong lunging 

ritual of fright insanity and more 

deplorable abortion

 more and 

more 

June Jordon From Directed By Desire: The Collected Poems of June Jordan (Port Townsend, WA: Copper Canyon Press, 2005) © 2005 by The June M. Jordan Literary Trust.