The Old Abbey and Other Poems

By Joan Lerman

The Old Abbey

The bells were rung so energetically by the young novice
after vespers
but I could no longer see the white-robed figures
who’d filed past the stained-glass windows
and wooden doors.
The brothers and priests prayed aloud as they stood
outside in line; I caught a glimpse of their long white flowing robes
waving slightly in the late afternoon breeze,
as we, the small group of men and women
stood reciting the last lines of prayers along with their voices
before the chant ended,
and they all entered the refectory 
for dinner together.

We stayed in the church,
standing in the smooth walnut pews
as the final peals rang softer and softer away.

The prayers and words had all been spoken;
now the sounds of voices in the conversation
echo lightly from the refectory.
The families had all gone home to eat,
driving down the hill to town.

But there remained the last few of us
in the large, rich-hued silence
of sunset there at the old abbey.

We didn’t greet one another
except a nod and a smile
as we left by the back door.

Ojai

I drove in, and there was a stark, moist serenity
flickering on the span of every tree along the highway.

There remained a soft welcome from a long, warm-time past, 
(now forgotten).

The leap of twelve sunpoints of dark-pink bougainvillea,
in places everywhere close to me,

and a fan slowly winded its way, child-wise-soft, 
over my face
and hair.

A warm, listening path, very wide, opened up
my ears.

Now something’s breathing visible to me.

Seeds of a million shades of subdued purple glaze and shine
from the body of the upcoming mountains.

In those mountains, everyone I’ve ever known is in those spaces

The trustword is:  Yes.  It can be.

Yes.  It can be.

Mini Self-Portrait

The contemplative 
who never became a contemplative

The violinist
who lets her violin get lonely now
hibernating in its sturdy brown case
with the gold velvet lining

The friendly one
who takes walks by herself

The one who remembers the old black phone
in her parents’ bedroom, a classic 1940’s model with a white dial,
sitting on the nightstand next to their double bed with the multicolored comforter,
with the very ample receiver placed over it, solid shiny black bell shapes
laying well over each side of the rounded-edged box- -
but who says no to memories!  Let’s live in the present!  

Stopping for a moment to whisper
maybe it’s not too late
maybe it’s not too late
after all?

Joan Lerman is a writer and musician living in Southern California. A retired educator, she now works as a freelance editor. She enjoys great music, long walks, and small cafe tables for good conversation. Her poetry has appeared in Emmanuel Magazine.