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Vespers and Old Gates: poems by Lyndi Waters

gate, image by Monika Baechler, on Pixabay

Vespers and Old Sticky Gates

Praise for the moment

I pushed the right button

on the blue tooth device.

Praise for the chanting monks

that ride along to the garden

to tuck the chickens in for the night.

Praise for crooked old gates

that creak psalms

when the wind blows.

Praise to you,

Lord Jesus Christ,

for not letting me

lock myself out.


The Demolition of Enchantment

Every time we raze a cathedral,

scatter the stone and sell the carvings,

auction stained glass

to Wall Street brokers

who need it for their

summer homes in the Hamptons,

the sobs of angels

and Saint Thomas

are heard at the stroke of midnight.

But the guards with leashed hounds

and side arms,

who pace the sidewalk

behind the gates of hell

get a wage increase

and a pair of new boots.


Adoration in the Cold

It’s after Friday morning Mass

with twelve diehards

spread across the church

before the Blessed Sacrament.

January in Wyoming,

and Father is trying

to cut back

on the utility bill.

Not to be deterred,

I’m wearing mittens

and the lady in front of me

is wrapped in a blanket.

Her quiet murmurs

rise as usual to engage her love

and I can almost see Him

stroking her hair.

Please help, Lord. All I can manage

is a water fountain gush of praise

frozen in midair, and what feels like

flicks of ice blasting my cheeks.

Thaw me with your grace

like you do for Powder River in spring,

when her heart breaks wide open

and overflows her banks.


Lyndi Waters is a winner of the Frank Nelson Doubleday Memorial Writing Award, the Eugene V. Shea National Poetry Contest, and is a Pushcart Prize nominee. She

is a practicing Catholic, mother, grandmother, and the author of Butcher Shop of Wild Forgiveness: Poems. Lyndi lives in Wyoming.

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