Her death - and others throughout 2025 - have awakened in me a yearning to celebrate All Saints/All Souls Day more intentionally this year. Once upon a time, we would use our annual Thanksgiving Eve gig to name and perform some of the music crafted and shared with the world by musicians who had crossed over that year. We would also mark those who had joined the journey home in our church. I find that this year I am keenly missing the presence of: Bill Moyers, Sly Stone, Brian Wilson, Diane Keeton, Phyllis Tribble, Robert Redford, Jane Goodall, Graham Greene, Lou Christie, Rick Derringer, Valerie Mahaffey, Ruth Buzzi, Jesse Colin Young, June Lockhart, Danny Thompson, Roberta Flack, Jerry Butler, Marianne Faithfull, Garth Hudson, Sam Moore, and Peter Yarrow. Everyone will have their own list, of course, and this is mine, highly subjective and top-heavy with musicians to be sure.
I trust that one of the reasons I'm so focused on the fleeting holy days of All Saints' and All Souls' this year is my own mortality. There's no escaping the fact that I know I am much closer to the end than the beginning. Another concerns the current chaos in our culture, which denigrates history and depth in relationships in favor of short-term profits and selfish acquisitions. Social critic Ted Goia writes that we are now living through a time when most social institutions are run like casinos, eager to bleed us dry in a fun house we cannot escape. If you've ever been in a casino, you know what I mean: countless seemingly exciting distractions, no easy way out, the lure of winning against the odds, and a conspicuous absence of any clocks.
So, this weekend, we'll quietly slip out of Dodge for a few days and nights of quiet wandering. And reminiscing. And reconnecting with loved ones. I need a little downtime right now to feel both my loss and my gratitude. Tonight, our band, All of Us, will play some rock'n'roll Halloween favorites. Tomorrow, our Wednesday's Child band will work on this year's "Blue Christmas" gathering. This weekend, our church will present an intergenerational liturgical drama before celebrating Eucharist. And in between, there are leaves to gather, acorns to scatter, outdoor chores to be completed before the first heavy frost, and a whole lot of quiet time to take stock. The poet, Jacqueline Osherow, gets it so right for me this year with her "Autumn Psalm" poem. It's long, obviously, but well worth the time.
A full year passed (the seasons keep me honest)
since I last noticed this same commotion.
Who knew God was an abstract expressionist?
I’m asking myself—the very question
I asked last year, staring out at this array
of racing colors, then set in motion
by the chance invasion of a Steller’s jay.
Is this what people mean by speed of light?
My usually levelheaded mulberry tree
hurling arrows everywhere in sight—
its bow: the out-of-control Virginia creeper
my friends say I should do something about,
whose vermilion went at least a full shade deeper
at the provocation of the upstart blue,
the leaves (half green, half gold) suddenly hyper
in savage competition with that red and blue—
tohubohu returned, in living color.
Kandinsky: where were you when I needed you?
My attempted poem would lie fallow a year;
I was so busy focusing on the desert’s
stinginess with everything but rumor.
No place even for the spectrum’s introverts—
rose, olive, gray—no pigment at all—
and certainly no room for shameless braggarts
like the ones that barge in here every fall
and make me feel like an unredeemed failure
even more emphatically than usual.
And here they are again, their fleet allure
still more urgent this time—the desert’s gone;
I’m through with it, want something fuller—
why shouldn’t a person have a little fun,
some utterly unnecessary extravagance?
Which was—at least I think it was—God’s plan
when He set up (such things are never left to chance)
that one split-second assignation
with genuine, no-kidding-around omnipotence
what, for lack of better words, I’m calling vision.
You breathe in, and, for once, there’s something there.
Just when you thought you’d learned some resignation,
there’s real resistance in the nearby air
until the entire universe is swayed.
Even that desert of yours isn’t quite so bare
and God’s not nonexistent; He’s just been waylaid
by a host of what no one could’ve foreseen.
He’s got plans for you: this red-gold-green parade
is actually a fairly detailed outline.
David never needed one, but he’s long dead
and God could use a little recognition.
He promises. It won’t go to His head
and if you praise Him properly (an autumn psalm!
Why didn’t I think of that?) you’ll have it made.
But while it’s true that my Virginia creeper praises Him,
its palms and fingers crimson with applause,
that the local breeze is weaving Him a diadem,
inspecting my tree’s uncut gold for flaws,
I came to talk about the way that violet-blue
sprang the greens and reds and yellows
into action: actual motion. I swear it’s true
though I’m not sure I ever took it in.
Now I’d be prepared, if some magician flew
into my field of vision, to realign
that dazzle out my window yet again.
It’s not likely, but I’m keeping my eyes open
though I still wouldn’t be able to explain
precisely what happened to these vines, these trees.
It isn’t available in my tradition.
For this, I would have to be Chinese,
Wang Wei, to be precise, on a mountain,
autumn rain converging on the trees,
a cassia flower nearby, a cloud, a pine,
washerwomen heading home for the day,
my senses and the mountain so entirely in tune
that when my stroke of blue arrives, I’m ready.
Though there is no rain here: the air’s shot through
with gold on golden leaves. Wang Wei’s so giddy
he’s calling back the dead: Li Bai! Du Fu!
Guys! You’ve got to see this—autumn sun!
They’re suddenly hell-bent on learning Hebrew
in order to get inside the celebration,
which explains how they wound up where they are
in my university library’s squashed domain.
Poor guys, it was Hebrew they were looking for,
but they ended up across the aisle from Yiddish—
some Library of Congress cataloger’s sense of humor:
the world’s calmest characters and its most skittish
squinting at each other, head to head,
all silently intoning some version of kaddish
for their nonexistent readers, one side’s dead
(the twentieth century’s lasting contribution)
and the other’s insufficiently learned
to understand a fraction of what they mean.
The writings in the world’s most spoken language
across from one that can barely get a minyan.
Sick of lanzmen, the yidden are trying to engage
the guys across the aisle in some conversation:
How, for example, do you squeeze an image
into so few words, respectfully asks Glatstein.
Wang Wei, at first, doesn’t understand the problem
but then he shrugs his shoulders, mumbles Zen
… but, please, I, myself, overheard a poem,
in the autumn rain, once, on a mountain.
How do you do it? I believe it’s called a psalm?
Glatstein’s cronies all crack up in unison.
Okay, groise macher, give him an answer.
But Glatstein dons his yarmulke (who knew he had one?)
and starts the introduction to the morning prayer,
Pisukei di zimrah, psalm by psalm.
Wang Wei is spellbound, the stacks’ stale air
suddenly a veritable balm
and I’m so touched by these amazing goings-on
that I’ve forgotten all about the autumn
staring straight at me: still alive, still golden.
What’s gold, anyway, compared to poetry?
a trick of chlorophyll, a trick of sun.
True. It was something, my changing tree
with its perfect complement: a crimson vine,
both thrown into panic by a Steller’s jay,
but it’s hard to shake the habit of digression.
Wandering has always been my people’s way
whether we’re in a desert or narration.
It’s too late to emulate Wang Wei
and his solitary years on that one mountain
though I’d love to say what I set out to say
just once. Next autumn, maybe. What’s the occasion?
Glatstein will shout over to me from the bookcase
(that is, if he’s paying any attention)
and, finally, I’ll look him in the face.
Quick. Out the window, Yankev. It’s here again.
A full year passed (the seasons keep me honest)
since I last noticed this same commotion.
Who knew God was an abstract expressionist?
I’m asking myself—the very question
I asked last year, staring out at this array
of racing colors, then set in motion
by the chance invasion of a Steller’s jay.
Is this what people mean by speed of light?
My usually levelheaded mulberry tree
hurling arrows everywhere in sight—
its bow: the out-of-control Virginia creeper
my friends say I should do something about,
whose vermilion went at least a full shade deeper
at the provocation of the upstart blue,
the leaves (half green, half gold) suddenly hyper
in savage competition with that red and blue—
tohubohu returned, in living color.
Kandinsky: where were you when I needed you?
My attempted poem would lie fallow a year;
I was so busy focusing on the desert’s
stinginess with everything but rumor.
No place even for the spectrum’s introverts—
rose, olive, gray—no pigment at all—
and certainly no room for shameless braggarts
like the ones that barge in here every fall
and make me feel like an unredeemed failure
even more emphatically than usual.
And here they are again, their fleet allure
still more urgent this time—the desert’s gone;
I’m through with it, want something fuller—
why shouldn’t a person have a little fun,
some utterly unnecessary extravagance?
Which was—at least I think it was—God’s plan
when He set up (such things are never left to chance)
that one split-second assignation
with genuine, no-kidding-around omnipotence
what, for lack of better words, I’m calling vision.
You breathe in, and, for once, there’s something there.
Just when you thought you’d learned some resignation,
there’s real resistance in the nearby air
until the entire universe is swayed.
Even that desert of yours isn’t quite so bare
and God’s not nonexistent; He’s just been waylaid
by a host of what no one could’ve foreseen.
He’s got plans for you: this red-gold-green parade
is actually a fairly detailed outline.
David never needed one, but he’s long dead
and God could use a little recognition.
He promises. It won’t go to His head
and if you praise Him properly (an autumn psalm!
Why didn’t I think of that?) you’ll have it made.
But while it’s true that my Virginia creeper praises Him,
its palms and fingers crimson with applause,
that the local breeze is weaving Him a diadem,
inspecting my tree’s uncut gold for flaws,
I came to talk about the way that violet-blue
sprang the greens and reds and yellows
into action: actual motion. I swear it’s true
though I’m not sure I ever took it in.
Now I’d be prepared, if some magician flew
into my field of vision, to realign
that dazzle out my window yet again.
It’s not likely, but I’m keeping my eyes open
though I still wouldn’t be able to explain
precisely what happened to these vines, these trees.
It isn’t available in my tradition.
For this, I would have to be Chinese,
Wang Wei, to be precise, on a mountain,
autumn rain converging on the trees,
a cassia flower nearby, a cloud, a pine,
washerwomen heading home for the day,
my senses and the mountain so entirely in tune
that when my stroke of blue arrives, I’m ready.
Though there is no rain here: the air’s shot through
with gold on golden leaves. Wang Wei’s so giddy
he’s calling back the dead: Li Bai! Du Fu!
Guys! You’ve got to see this—autumn sun!
They’re suddenly hell-bent on learning Hebrew
in order to get inside the celebration,
which explains how they wound up where they are
in my university library’s squashed domain.
Poor guys, it was Hebrew they were looking for,
but they ended up across the aisle from Yiddish—
some Library of Congress cataloger’s sense of humor:
the world’s calmest characters and its most skittish
squinting at each other, head to head,
all silently intoning some version of kaddish
for their nonexistent readers, one side’s dead
(the twentieth century’s lasting contribution)
and the other’s insufficiently learned
to understand a fraction of what they mean.
The writings in the world’s most spoken language
across from one that can barely get a minyan.
Sick of lanzmen, the yidden are trying to engage
the guys across the aisle in some conversation:
How, for example, do you squeeze an image
into so few words, respectfully asks Glatstein.
Wang Wei, at first, doesn’t understand the problem
but then he shrugs his shoulders, mumbles Zen
… but, please, I, myself, overheard a poem,
in the autumn rain, once, on a mountain.
How do you do it? I believe it’s called a psalm?
Glatstein’s cronies all crack up in unison.
Okay, groise macher, give him an answer.
But Glatstein dons his yarmulke (who knew he had one?)
and starts the introduction to the morning prayer,
Pisukei di zimrah, psalm by psalm.
Wang Wei is spellbound, the stacks’ stale air
suddenly a veritable balm
and I’m so touched by these amazing goings-on
that I’ve forgotten all about the autumn
staring straight at me: still alive, still golden.
What’s gold, anyway, compared to poetry?
a trick of chlorophyll, a trick of sun.
True. It was something, my changing tree
with its perfect complement: a crimson vine,
both thrown into panic by a Steller’s jay,
but it’s hard to shake the habit of digression.
Wandering has always been my people’s way
whether we’re in a desert or narration.
It’s too late to emulate Wang Wei
and his solitary years on that one mountain
though I’d love to say what I set out to say
just once. Next autumn, maybe. What’s the occasion?
Glatstein will shout over to me from the bookcase
(that is, if he’s paying any attention)
and, finally, I’ll look him in the face.
Quick. Out the window, Yankev. It’s here again.
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