Poem to the Blessed Mother

The Blessed Mother walks the streets of the inner city
Spirit now, her body lacks substance
She moves invisibly, soundlessly
Unlike the caterwauling of the drunks leaving the bar
Shouting; screeching of tires
And the occasional siren

The Blessed Mother sees a barred doorway of a shop closed for the evening
In this doorway is a mother lying in front of her children
Hiding her young ones from the ravenous predators
Who would do them harm
The mother’s eyes are watchful and fearful
The Blessed Mother longs to gather these in her arms
As a hen gathers her chicks under her wings
But as Spirit She has no arms to gather them
Blessed Mother, make me your arms

The Blessed Mother hears a young girl
Sobbing into her pillow in the dark
The cuts and bruises on her face will heal
The hurt in her heart may not
The Blessed Mother longs to sit down and talk to the girl
To let her pour a torrent of aching words
To let her know her pain matters
And that someone loves her.
But the Blessed Mother has no way to show she is listening
Blessed Mother, make me your ears

The Blessed Mother hears from many houses
The grumbling of empty stomachs
She hears the tears of those meals were small
Or nonexistent.  She longs
To carry meals to them, to feed them with her own hands
But as Spirit she has no hands
And cannot carry food
Blessed mother, make me your hands

The Blessed Mother hears the cries of the veteran
Reliving battles, with all the fear and death and stink
Reliving the tension of being on alert
Reliving every buddy lost
Filled with guilt of coming home alive
Envying those who did not
Angry that, having served long and well
His country, having used him up, has thrown the veteran
Aside as last week’s trash
Pretending those who came home broken do not exist
The Blessed Mother would like to cry out to an ungrateful nation
To shame them for demanding that soldiers give their all
And giving nothing in return
But as Spirit, she has no voice
To cry out for those who sacrificed
At the behest of the wealthy leaders for whom war is a game
Blessed Mother, make me your voice

The Blessed Mother sees the pain
Of those who were created different
Their orientation, their color, their person, their gender
Suffering because God’s plan for their lives
Did not match the plan of the few who call themselves chosen
The ones who claim to follow her son
But ignore every word he says
Or twist it to the kind of hate
Her son did not know
The Blessed Mother would like to give them love
But has no way to show it
To care for those society distains
Blessed Mother, make me your heart

The Blessed Mother longs to work in this world
To bring love, peace and justice where it is not
Blessed Mother, live through me