Ode to the Hill: An Appreciation

Ode to the Hill: An Appreciation

There buried within the brown-red bricks lies stories of old,

Boys sojourning to the light with youthful bravado bold,

Ne’er to be forgotten with haste most go,

Nestling within their pencil’d minds whilst they sow.

Inside these storied halls rooted upon hallowed grounds,

Lies a simple truth that mystic time resounds,

That as boys grow to become men,

The plight whose soul revolves over and again.

Always shall the kiln'd clay stand to test,

What most young fear when pressed:

That knowledge boasts an eternal bliss,

Rightly favored by fortune’s sweetly kiss.

Mid-Winter's Blue

She paints across the evening sky,

with stretched wings freely mocking colder climbs

as the somber'd earth below echoes the graying hope of Spring.

Alone in the mist,

she flies in search of the promised feast,

availing hunger.

Nothing. 

No scratch of life to be found as distant stars brighten her hasty search; azure'd bleak dusking the cause.

And down, spiraling down she goes,

falling into the numbed life.

There she rests under the pillowed banks of snow,

buried with her unrequited dreams,

a promised peace to come,

melting beneath the mid-winter stars. 

Still, She Rings

My latest creation for Hampden-Sydney College.  I wrote the script which was narrated by Lt. Gen. Samuel V. Wilson (US Army-Ret), the 23rd President of Hampden-Sydney.  Shaun Irving '97 of Orrio in Richmond did the filming, editing, and production.



Still, She Rings
by Chad M. Krouse '02

Bounding pass these gates,
generations of boys have entered;
Hailing from the world over
to learn the secrets in store.
To the pride of Garnet and Gray,
legions of men have left,
off to change the world.

Upon these hallowed grounds, the bell rings
bouncing from the greats of old:
Cushing,
Venable,
Cabell,
Morton,
Atkinson,
Bagby.

All roads lead to her,
guarded by the benefactors of past and present.
Her voice carries over the slate rooftops:
“To class, to class!”
To her loyal sons she bids warmly:
“Come home, come home.”

Through every season tolling,
rain or snow you can bet,
Her pledge is true,
set the professor’s standard and the bane of other’s alarms--
Ne’er to be missed,
in haste most go.
Her song is simple,
Her cry is heeded.
And still,
she rings.

Singing Yes

Mary said "yes."

She sings the nature of this upside-down Kingdom:  

casting down the mighty from their thrones 
as the lowest of society is lifted high.  Yes. 

The hungry are filled with good things, 

but those who are rich will be sent away empty-handed.  Yes.

Those on the margins of the world will now be brought in 

to celebrate at the great banquet of the Lamb.  Yes.

The cycles of poverty, social injustice, 

and hatred will be destroyed forever.  Yes.

The peaceable Kingdom will triumph 

for eternity as Christ fulfills all in all.  Yes.

Today I say, let it be so.  
Amen.  

Here, I Cry

I stood proudly once,
twenty odd feet towering above
where the wind pushed me higher.

Towers of steel forged by experience
could withstand the idle assaults
that came.

Nearby glances were thought
empowering, nay
sweetly on my heart.

And the fall came.
All at once.

Those memories seem vain nowadays;
twisting the ego tightly round a
hellish nail.

Chill'd nights,
sleepless nights,
cast the daze upon my face.

Nothing escapes.
Nothing holds.

And my cries go unheard.

The Barb of the Nazarene

Hooks of love caught the world (i am)

from the heights above (breaks barriers of hate),

while feeding the fishy souls (and men);

catches and releases (drawn to his wounds)

from the barb of the Nazarene (live again).

Poem: A Travel Advisory for Pilgrims

A Travel Advisory for Pilgrims of Love in a Time of Terror
By Heather Murray Elkins

Pack only what you need and are willing to share.

Leave every weapon except Truth at the border.

When it comes to currency be wise.

Avoid gold

Carry copper instead

The guard dogs of Ceasar can't track its trace until it's too late.

Any penny is a common wealth, and two cents builds trust.

Every true sense of liberty (hammered by wisdom and wired with the Gospel)

Conducts electric vision

With malice toward none, charity toward all...

The hidden assets of the widow's might.

Dew Dreams

'tis the soul's August,
whose roots are tightly compact'd--
water stagnates and rots the soil.
Nothing seems to pass through it.

In dreamy night air does
it imagine,
a haze of soft rain,
to refresh the hell
of the hot day.

Autumnal glimpses
are found deep within,
deadening the murmuring
below.

And nothing sticks to it,
vanishing up like
morning dew.

Dirty Faith

Faith without dirty hands is meaningless.
Dig just a little and feel the creed of life,
buried in the sand.
Rub it between your fingers,
play with it some,
smell its sweet rawness.
There's life there,
for sure.
Burrow down.
Persevere till you find the roots.
Harvest the bounty, it's there for a reason.
Fear not,
water will wash your hands clean.

"Swift, Lord, You Are Not"

At the young age of seventy-five, Benedictine monk Kilian McDonnell began writing poetry.  His published work entitled, Swift, Lord, You Are Not, published by St. John's University Press (Collegeville, MN) in 2003 is a collection of his poetry.  I like McDonnell's style, it feels both raw and insightful.  At his age, the wisdom of the years have instilled a sense of the genuine, authentic, and true self.  The art of crafting poetry, so it seems to McDonnell, is truly incarnational.  Take, for example, this one poem that spoke to me.  I wondered what fires are best unremembered for this monk.    

Don't Look Too Carefully

"O search me God and know my heart" Psalm 39:23

by Kilian McDonnell, OSB

What sudden senile arrogance

provoked this bid to despair?

If you knock, God, be prepared

to see what stands behind the door:

unswept floors, unmade

beds, unwashed dishes

in sink, a lone Giotto

unhung against the wall.

(I, too, have been to the Uffizi,

read Dostoevski, Yeats.)

If you turn over a stone

on my beach, what creatures scurry.

Dig in my ruins, you sift

buried rags of intent.

Uproot my elm, you pulled up

forgotten teen-age tinsel.

Poke my cinders, you stir

fires best unremembered.

Search me not, test

no more.  Take me as I am.

Platefuls: A Poem

I like eggs on top of pancakes.  I know it's weird, but it is a choice.

I learned that from my Pappaw, he liked them that way.

I remember as a child watching him at breakfast,

and then I thought that I should try it too. 

If only life could be that straight forward, to the naïveté of most,

it is.  But those that know differently can see through it.

I'm sorry that you won't know my choices in life;

most are mistakes, and some even seem funny to me now. 

But there's just two that I am most proud of, to say the least.

My point is simply this: try and be. 

Try life out for what it is, and don't stop trying.  In fact,

don't give up.  Quitting only leaves open room for regret.

Be and be large.  You get many choices in life, platefuls

so it seems.  No matter what, integrity guides you, so be
who you were created to be.  Again, regrets. 

My choices are not yours.  Some aren't choices at all.  

Learn from me but know that you don't have to like my tastes.

If you ever want to know what goes with spaghetti,

well, just ask your mother.  

Poem: Water-logged

Help!  I'm soaked to the bone.
There's no sun, nothing to dry my body,
nor heat to warm my soul.
It just keeps pouring, and flooding,
and driving me away.
I can't even clear my eyes to see!
Help me Lord!
Give me something, some dry land,
some foothold in this world.
Subdue the waters and give me your
Daystar.
Please help me!  I fear I can't tread
the waters much longer.

Prosperous Blessings

“Prosper them with your blessing…”
From the CR’s Office of Compline

What is a blessing?

Is it always packaged nicely?

Does it sing sweetly?

Or can it sting?

I’ve discovered that prosperous blessings

are all that and more.

Abundant? Perhaps.

Graceful? Sometimes.

Painful? Most always.

They can feel as gentle as a late Spring rain,

or smell as a sweet as a Yorkshire rose.

Always, they reveal truth and always imparting

God’s healing grace.

So I’ll take mine with a smile and a tear.

The Kingdom Prism: A May Day Poem

The Kingdom Prism:  A May Day Poem

by Chad M. Krouse

Red, the color of love, the color of blood, the color of revolution.  

The blood of the martyrs, shed for Him.

The blood of our Lord, shed for us.

Red, the longest wavelength discernible to the human eye.

Who are these?  These are those who passed through the great ordeal

and have been washed white in the blood of the Lamb.

Red refracted through the Kingdom prism begets pure white.

You, God, have made of one blood all the peoples of the earth.

"This is my blood which is shed for you, so that every sin may be forgiven."  Red on earth makes white in heaven; 

so fight for the poor,

the widow,

the hungry,

the naked,

and the marginalized.

Truly, let justice roll down like a torrent of red transformed into heavenly white, for God's Divine Commonwealth is among us. 

-------------

This poem has been published on the Anglo-Catholic Socialism website.  Click on this link to view the poem there.

A Published Poet

I received word today from the editors at Anglican Digest that a poem of mine is to be published in their next edition.  Funny thing, I submitted it over a year ago and completely forgot about it!  I wrote this in February 2008 as I was preparing a sermon on the Feast of the Transfiguration.  I liked the idea of us--we, the Body of Christ--being bread to the world.  Admittedly, though, it is not my favorite poem or even my best work.  It's always interesting to see what others think of your work.  Nonetheless, after several various submissions, I can now claim to be a published poet!  

These Transfigured Loaves

by Chad M. Krouse

O Jesus,

your body for us:

taken, blessed, broken, and given. 

We, O Lord, are yours.

Come, O Come we sing:

The light that transfigures us

turns us into bread for your world. 

It returns to you not empty, but 

fills hungry mouths with insatiable

strength.

We too, O Lord, are loaves taken, blessed,

broken, and given to the world. 

We lay our sacrifice upon your altar

and all creation rejoices with you.

For we are bread.       

Morning Prayer Reflection: Christ of the Pow-Wow

Friday, March 27, 2009  

Daily Office Year 1, Romans 8: 29-39

Chapel of the Apostles  

'Christ of the Pow-Wow'  

Dancing with the sun in the azure sky,  

Dancing in the dark nights where no moon or stars shine,  

Dancing amid the pain and exhaustion of suffering our history,  

Dancing the red path that God calls our people to walk,   

Dancing on the prairie grass as the Spirit blows in the hot, dry wind,  

Dancing our way of life into freedom and peace,   

Dancing in death,  

Dancing in life.  


Nothing can separate us—no arrows, no bullets, no land, no water, no treaty, no  

reservation, no nothing.  

Nothing has ever separated us.  

The nations are bound together in love, Christ’s love—Cheyenne and Mandan,  

Lakota and Shoshone, Arapahoe and Blackfoot.  


In the Great Circle of the Spirit   

every nation, every tongue, every people  

gather to keep our traditions breathing and balm our wounds.
In the circle we dance, we laugh, we cry, and we rejoice in life.  

The beat of the drum, the heart beat of mother earth,   

the calling of the Chief of Peace unites us.  The sage smoke  

lifts up our prayer of praise, our hopes and our dreams for our children,
and blesses us in His presence.


The drum bids us to let go of our loss,   

to let go of our anger,   

to let go of ourselves and be united   

as one in love, inside the circle…dancing.    

Join with me and my great family,  

today shall be our dancing day!  

Come into the circle and dance.  

Come into the circle and know the Christ of the Pow‐wow. 

___________

N.B.  This is an American Indian exegesis of the famous Romans text. 

Morning Prayer Reflection: The Mirror of Christ

Monday, March 9, 2009, Feast of Gregory of Nyssa 

Daily Office Year 1

Chapel of the Apostles

The Mirror of Christ

Each night I sit in silence, in darkness, waiting. . .  

Each night I pray: ‘Lord Jesus, may I share in my body the pain 
you suffered on the cross; but even more may I know in my heart 
the love that brought you there.’

Never did I dream that this yearning would happen.    

Lent has always been too painful for me;   

everyday seems like Ash Wednesday.  

I don’t need the ashes to remind me that my twilight is harrowing.


But on this night, I woke to find myself stripped and barren,   

laden in the wasteland of exile.  

For what seemed like one long, never‐ending night   

would be driven into my soul for forty interminable days.


Pain, yes, pain was there.  He became my friend, my shackle,   

and my constant companion—  

never letting me forget him.  

Tears became like sandpaper to me.  

Never mind the cross whose splinters stick through me.  

Water was the mirage that kept me moving,   

yet that image could never quench my deepening thirst.  

The dark sky kept me warm and safe, but always alert.  


Here, in the desert of my mind, I admit my failures,  

my sin, my temptation, my human‐ness.  

I failed to live up to that which I thought I should be;  

the image in the mirror looked so beautiful, so perfect, so happy.
And now, that image fades away each day.  

I feel the pain, but where is your love?  


Why have you abandon me?  Save me!  

Give me a rope, pull me up please!  

Where are you?  

Was this whole thing a ruse?    

A cruel prank at my own expense?  


Where were you when my heart broke?  

Where were you when my life split wide open,   

and left me vulnerable to the world?  

Where were you when my burdens crushed me?


And silence. . . and darkness. . . and shadows moving.  

Somehow, through my numbness, I could feel the wind   

beginning to blow and voice whispered from the East:  


‘Before I formed you in the womb I knew you.  

In the darkness of your advent I called you by name.  

You are mine, and you are loved!   

I have never abandoned you.  

I send you your daily bread!  

You think suffering and pain is darkness,   

but I say it is also light.  

'Can’t you see it?    

In your darkness you’ve regained your vision.  

In your darkness, I can turn your embers into bright flames of holiness,
flames that the daylight cannot reveal.  

Darkness is indeed light.  I am in the darkness too!  

In the shadows you learn your truth, my truth, and ours together.  

There you learn to walk with integrity,   

there you can soar over mountain tops into the clouds of the unknown.
But those scars will never go away,   

see mine and know their healing power!  

'The desert is a by‐way to your salvation.    

I am there.  I am there in the mirror.  

I have always been there.  

So come, come down now from the cross.  

A new day is rising.  

The dawn from on high is upon you.  

The best is still to come.’