Issue 15, January/February 1998
Chuck deVarennes - Poem

My Sunday school lessons linger
beneath my surface thinking.
Like the way I do things
because my mother said so.  Long ago.
Deep below my walking mind
these words are truths,
which filter my views
through purple and green.

Christmas is coming.  I miss
the high drama, always joy
and danger at a deVarennes Christmas.
The booze flowed.
Some years our blood ran wild.

Scenes from deep childhood.
Everything was joy, gifts, feasting and
baby Jesus.  There was a moment
when I was old enough to learn
the "true meaning,"
a couple years before
the exhausting drunken rages.
Before the "wise" cynical knowledge
of self-centered adolescence
changed all the colors
to red, blue, gold and black.

That holy time passed quickly.
It's memory wrings hope and loss.
We resent growing up
when the truth is given,
then quickly snatched away.

A lifetime to learn it all over again,
and some never do,  too many
layers of lies to strip away.
The painful process asks all our courage.
We are not by nature brave.
Comfort is our holy grail.

My Sunday school lessons linger
underneath tortures of vainglory.
Adult desires drive far up blind alleys.

I would like to find
nubs of wings, buried deep.
I'd like to peel
away this worldly hide
which protects me from my soul.

God grant me courage!