Paolo Veronese, “Portrait of Count Giuseppe da Porto with his Son Adriano” (1720)

It was the end of a day.

I’d say “long day” but that would be melodramatic.

It was the end of a day. A day, like most, occupied with the busyness of life.

I was in the kitchen and I made a quick motion with my arm. I smelt something.

It is my father.

I’m back in my parents’ orange-wallpapered kitchen in suburban Long Island. I’m about 5 or 6 years old. My father came home from work a few minutes ago. He’s sitting at the head of the kitchen table, getting ready to eat or smoke a cigarette. I stand by his side, leaning against him, one half of my small buttocks on the edge of his chair, my side against his side, my face just under his outstretched arm.

I am my father’s son.

—Howard Hain

by Howard Hain

Years ago when I was living in San Francisco, a group of us used to go hiking out in Marin County, just across the giant red expanse of the Golden Gate Bridge. We went often. A group of both men and women, mostly single, mostly without a care in the world. I think every one of us was under thirty, or thereabouts.

My favorite part was running down. Don’t get me wrong, the hike upward was terrific too, that’s when we discussed ideas and dreams and laughed almost all the while, breaking up into smaller groups of two or three or maybe even four, and then drifting back together—like a herd of elk, for they too have not a care in the world—only to once again drift apart, this time usually paired up with a different companion or combination thereof. None of it was planned or had any real intention of course, it just…

El Greco, “The Holy Family with Saint Mary Magdalen”, (1590-1595), detail of face of Virgin Mary

You know what I desire, Lord.

An unspeakable desire.

An indescribable desire.

An unknowable desire.

I desire You.

Yet, You I can not speak of, can not describe, can not know.

Your great gift to me is my desire for You, for what I can not speak of, can not describe, can not know, can not even desire without the grace you deliver.

I desire Your desire.

I desire You.

Have Your way.

Fill me with desire for You.

Burn me with Your desire for Yourself.

Turn me inside out.

Let Christ be seen.

—Howard Hain

(Feb/16)

by Howard Hain

Murillo, “Christ on the Cross”, (1660-70) (detail)

some were stones

others rocks

the difference

i’m not quite sure

though both are heavy

so many distinctions

almost all

humanly made

yet not even

a single

grain of sand

is created by man

perhaps then

stones are former rocks

those chosen to enforce

worldly power

perhaps they’re earthly kingdoms

established by men

men possessing

such domain

perhaps they’re the ones

reigning down

upon those brought low

upon those dragged

outside the walls

hauled off to a yard

to be stoned

yet both

both stone, and rock

seem to get along

as long as they’re simply left alone

call to mind

that famous pile

that most famous pile of stone

the one upon which

we crucified our Rock

to some it’s golgotha

to others it’s calvary

to too many

it’s a giant farce

but oh those stones

oh they don’t…