Free fall – 911

It has been speculated that The Falling Man, a famous photograph of a man dressed in white falling headfirst to his death on September 11, was an image of an employee at Windows on the World . Although his identity has never been conclusively established, he was believed to be Jonathan Briley, an audio technician at the restaurant. Commentary at the time asked the obscene question, “Can someone who takes their own life in those circumstances be assured of grace?”

 

 

Free fall – 911

That September morning
from Windows on the World
he fell.

Stepped, flung himself
into a roaring, tearing wind,
then still.

He flew outside
old structures, old beliefs,
propelled.

A city named twice
once watched, now watching,
breath held.

A step, a choice,
from final conflagration,
that hell.

Sweet clarity
to know that no-one falls
from grace.

A flagrant act
to fly with heaven
in terror’s face.

Sharonne Price

Old Bride

Old Bride

Stately old lady, God’s church.
She lumbers her way,
Limbs weary with pains from the old abuses
and loaded with all the good
she can’t do anymore.

Stubborn old lady, God’s church,
waiting with Havisham
for a missing groom,
while the cobwebs grow heavy
and unfed guests drift back into the night.

Lonely old lady, God’s church.
She still hopes they’ll come
like dutiful children to sip and to swallow
whilst in polite conversation
about …well…you know… .

But deep down she knows the meaning of things.
She’ll muster the strength of the past,
to watch for the flames
that flicker and grow in new hearths
and embers that fire newborn hearts.

Then she too will arise, a barefoot bride,
and skip off with her groom ’cross the moors,
soft silky veil adrift in the wind.
She’ll wade into waves on new shores
and turning, throw her bouquet to old bridesmaids –
friends left behind.

Sharonne Price

New York 2006

New York 2006

Lord have mercy.
Christ have mercy.
Christ have mercy.

They’ve brought guns into St Pat’s, for
Nuns must be safe
as they share the holy elements.

Simple things
Bread and wine
In simple hands

This is the new liturgy.
911,
Have mercy on us
Do this in remembrance of me
911,
Have mercy on us,
Body and blood given without warning
911,
Have mercy on us
Sacred and profane.

Lord, in your living, you restore our life.
Grant us your peace. Amen

Monarch

Monarch

I watched that Monarch
and could not say –
Was she wrestling her way out
of the cracking chrysalis,
or writhing her way in?

Such inexorable effort,
innate, not chosen.
Not brave, not heroic,
just obedient to life.

No swaddling ever held so tight.
The miracle of wings. Delight.

And those of us who’ve seen this a thousand times
still wring our hands
and say “God is gone. The church is doomed”.

We’ve forgotten Easter news,
left it sleeping in the pews.

As if that ever made a butterfly.

Sharonne Price 2013

Beyond

Beyond

No, this great orb will trundle through,
defy the void beyond the blue.
She’ll tread her path both grand and narrow
and spin her way through light and shadow.

Great Life relentless pushes on.
Spring’s propelled by bud and blossom.
Seeds must sprout and leaves unfurl.
Snow’s water churns the Maker’s mill.

This is sweet gift and paradise
that you and I, despite demise,
leave legacies beyond the sorrow
that turn and twirl and power tomorrow.

Sharonne Price

Last Days

Last Days

Tis your season for withholding, Lord,
and mine for golden pallor,
I steady myself for the letting go,
and relinquish foolish valour.

Low horizon, orange moon
once full, now on the wane.
Last year’s nests cast shadows now.
They’ll not hold life again.

The wind blows hard, the sap draws down
You’ve taken summer’s sheath.
They’ll see the bony fingers soon,
and all that grew beneath.

I railed against the verdict, then.
Prognosis, promise, threat.
And prayed and played against the odds
for still more life, and yet…

’Tis your season for withholding Lord,
I’ll float to mother earth,
and sink in deep on forest floor,
sweet tryst with ancient birth.

Sharonne Price

Accompany me with singing

If when I die, Death makes a splash,
and Love is torn but true,
then sing the songs of a life maxed out,
given, graced, full, ever new.
Just accompany me with singing.

If when I die I’m old and frail,
and friends and Church are too,
then make the songs so light and sweet
Jordan turns from grey to blue.
Just accompany me with singing.

Sharonne Price

Esau

Esau

There is no fiat for forgiveness.
It emerges timid as a wintry dawn
after a threadbare night
when anger’s cobbling
can hold no more.

There is no period on forgiveness.
It must keep on and on.
Esau outstretches with open embrace,
and longs for trust entwined again.

There is knowing in the touching.
Still Jacob turns away
loaded with Laban’s possessions,
limping with Bethel blessing.

So the first-born picks up the old cloak of guilt and sorrow
and measures his twin in the cloud of dust.

In this journey of grace,
forgiveness strains forward yet again
and relinquishes winning.
Embrace may be warmth enough.

Sharonne Price

Symphony

Swept down the footpath
like McDonalds’ wrappings
the Adelaide-igentsia blows in.
A bit crumpled –
it’s Friday after all.

We’ve all come tonight…

The upright and responsible,
With the week on their faces –
Old weight on Armani shoulders.

The ancient and crippled
With cane and accomplice
For Bethsaida’s plunge.

The young and aspiring,
loaded up with things to do
and someone to be.

The bored and ignored
stuck deep in the having
and having been.

We all shuffle and crank ourselves
into slots and corners
to hear honey sweet music.

And it comes.
It flows and smooths
like the great trickle that spills
until its mountain stream
slows to the plains
and delta fruitfulness.

We are composed.

Sharonne Price 2011

What if you blew me away

What if you blew me away, Lord,
On this gentle waft of a breeze,
Across the white lace petticoat
And the wide-spread skirt of the seas?

Beyond seductive aqua
To bluer, sapphire deep,
Where whales lament in baritone,
And languid dugongs weep.

There is another haunting here.
I hear a faint faint bell,
And muted moans of shipwrecks
Swaying slowly in the swell.

This is a turgid highway
Of migrants, winged and finned,
Of nomads, pranksters, pilgrims
With bearings deep within.

So when I’m blown out seaward
I’ll hear the signs and sighs
Of travellers who have been this way
Their history in their cries.

But I’ll hover in still moment
And despite the wind blast, sing,
My compass will direct my flight
To your antipodean spring.

Sharonne Price October 2011