Apologetics

I apologize in advance
for my errant theology,
but I must come clean.

I must confess
that when
Easter morning dawns,
I will not be lit up
with what I now
believe to be
misplaced gratitude
that God
was somehow placated
and decided not to
execute me for my
unoriginal sins,
because his firstborn
was executed instead.

No! God forbid
that unwitting
twisted tale, or
so it seems to me.

Instead,
I will be awash
in joy, laughing at
the ungodly notion
that death’s sting
could survive an
avalanche of love
that buried an empty,
useless tomb in
endless victory.

 

My Epiphany

I realize
I have my holy days
mixed up,
but I’m going with
my “Epiphany” today
anyway.

I realize
the “born with
sinful nature”
appended to my
birth certificate
was a type o’
graphic error.
It was supposed to read
“is in full nature
a creature formed
by adoring love, just
like every creature.”

I realize
the error of
my ways
and want to
spend my days remaining
laughing about
that typo
and doing a complete
rewrite
that will make
the Creator
open Her mouth
and say
“Now we’re talkin’!”

 

Con Man

Smacking my Self
on the forehead,
but with the grin
of a prisoner
just released from
a life sentence,
while I still have a life.

Whatever possessed me
(Whoever possessed me?)
to believe that
Whoever is going about
stamping “HOLY”
on only a certain few
of the Creator’s
infinite collection of
objets d’art

is anyone other than
a con man
armed with
a counterfeit stamp
hoping to turn
some sort of
illicit profit.

 

Sanctum

If you sit
and wait,
the Door to
The Mystery
will open to you.

It’s your private entrance, so
The Doorkeeper
will have lit
a Path
meant only
for you.

If I were you,
I wouldn’t be
cranking up the presses
to print maps
to your doorway,
or offering
guided tours of
your path,
from an auditorium
in some
Mystery Visitor & Conference Center.

But Doorkeepers
love it
when you are moved to
come out of
your Sanctum,
especially you introverts,
to get close enough to
people, even
the annoying ones,
to whisper,
just in passing:

“Find a place to
sit for awhile.
There’s a Doorkeeper
who would love
to show you
the Door.”

 

I’m Working On It

There is a parallel universe
you can enter
where your
Protestant Work Ethic
is treated
by a team of
skilled caregivers:

Children,
perhaps your own,
or your grandchildren.
The same ones Jesus said
would show you how to
get into the Kingdom.

Unless you’re
too busy.
Or easily offended
when they laugh
about your disbelief
in imaginary friends,
or your ignorance
of Magic,
or your failure
to work on
a play ethic.

 

Go Forth

If you get past
the bouncer
at the door
to The Mystery –

he’s actually pretty
affable,
just needs to check
your ID
to see if you’re old enough
to have outgrown
the need to
deny the existence of
Magic –

if he lets you
inside,
you will be asked to
swear an oath,
in the name of
your favorite
Enchanter,

that you will
go forth and cast
beneficent
spells.

 

Weirdos Like You

The entrance is
a portal to
a Mystery
wrapped in a fog cape.

But it’s a
Real Place.

Someone got in and
found
the first riffs to
that song you love.

Another daydreamed
their way in,
made some notes, and
wrote that book you’re reading
for the seventh time.

Someone else went in
empty-handed
and came out with
The Best Movie
You’ve Ever Seen.

Do you think
only a handful of
Chosen Ones
can find
The Secret Portal?

Weirdos like you
get in
all the time.
It’s possible to
live in there
for days.

But there’s this guy
near the entrance
wearing a nametag
that says:
“Get Real.”
He’s handing out
free maps.

Ignore him.

 

Foolishness

Why do we submit
to the tyranny
of Doing Something?

“It’s such a
luscious day,
I should be:
__________________”

You know how you
SHOULD
fill in that
empty space.

What if,
instead,
you challenge that
SHOULD
to a duel at twenty paces.

Then you turn,
stride off,
count to twenty
and . . .
just keep going.

 

Give It a Rest

So God sits down
on the Seventh Day
to rest,
(though Time is of no Essence.)
Cup of coffee and
cinnamon roll in hand,
surveying the
Extravaganza.

Over yonder
a tower of giraffes
loping the savanna,
beyond that
the North Rim of the Canyon,
just before you get to
soon-to-be
Waikiki,
on the way to Mount Fuji.

Circle back to
Jimi at Monterrey Pop,
hop over to the Globe where
Will is doing a dress rehearsal
of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Down there Socrates is
handing out programs,
over here Dr. J
is slammin’
from the free-throw line.

Speaking of which
God slams down her
cup so hard it cracks.

Who in Hell
are these fools
going around with
a spray can painting
“Sacred” or “Profane,”
“Holy” or “Worldly”
all over
everything?

 

We Must Insist

Why on earth
would you settle
for “reality?”

At the very least,
upon arising,
insist that your reality
clothe itself in
garments of Mystery,

so the atmosphere
around you is thick
with
spirits and sprites,
angels and the
soulfulness of creatures,
the furry ones and
the green leafy ones.

And, while we’re on it,
Beloved Ones,

why on earth
would you settle
for only nature and “natural,”
when “artifice”
doesn’t only beget “artificial,”
but gives birth to
artisans and artists

who weave
those garments
of Mystery
we must insist upon.

(Photo Credit: Christina Spiliotopoulou)