Hitch-hiking--sort of

A while back I joined a small group of Quincy University friends that call themselves “the writers’ circle.” They write poetry.  

 

Poetry is not my favorite way of expressing myself, but I try.

 

I’ve been occupied for the past few weeks trying to get a version of the Catholic “Liturgy of the Hours” up and running on a separate website (friarzimm.com). So, just to keep this site moving, I am sharing a poem I wrote for the writers’ circle a couple of years ago.

 

 

Hitch-hiking—sort of

 

Ancient phrase: hitch a ride.

 

Never did it in my life. Yet . . .

          hang on,

          get pulled along,

          piggy-back,

          how I pray.

 

What is God? Where is God? Who is God?

          All question marks.

What to do?

I hitch rides.

 

Words in the driver’s seat.

Words of psalms,

          words more than 2000 years old.

 

Once, 1958, old retreat-master:

          “Love the psalms.”

          Words stuck.

 

Grad school, 1968. Didn’t know if there is a God.

          In case of emergency . . . use psalms,

                   say the words,

                   read the words,

          maybe there’s a God somewhere listening.

 

Today, 2022. Same problem.

          Same solution.

          Use the words.

 

Tradition packages the psalms;

          people read, say, sing

                   same words

                   at same time

                   on same weekday.

 

Time zones? Trust that the Lord adjusts.

          How many men,

          how many women

                   are singing, saying, reading, these words

                             right now

                             along with me?

 

I am not alone.

 

Latin.

          Latin joins me to multitudes across time,

                   beyond space.

          How many people prayed in Latin

                   across centuries?

                             Augustine, Gregory, Francis,

                             Clare (did she know Latin?)

                             Decatur hospital sisters, 6:00 am.

                                      Were they chanting Latin?

                             Then me.

 

Greek.

          Same words, different sounds.

                   70 men in Alexandria,

                   Luke, Basil, Chrysostom,

                   the Orthodox world,

                   Today, me.

 

I am not alone.

 

I hitch rides,

          get carried along.

          Best I can do.

 

Keeps the heart warm.