Pokemon Satori

Walking from
the car to the
Marine Science Center,
with the
grandsons,
eight and five.

Who have insisted
they must be
allowed to bring
Psyduck and Scorbunny,
their Pokemon
comfort creatures,
which they
clutch
with determined
ferocity.

I concede,
not wishing
to have my
grandparenting
license
revoked.
But
knowing
full well

I will soon be
the designated
carrier,
as the boys
scamper
in a dozen
directions
to view the
octopus and
other denizens of
briny tanks and
tidepools.

I lose sight
of them and
hope
grandma is on
tracking duty.

Now there are
looks askance
and
side-eyed
glances

at the old dude
who apparently
carries
stuffed animals
for security
purposes.

My heart throbs
with joy
as I realize
that being seen
as a man
who would
saunter about
brazenly hugging
toy creatures,
for mysterious
reasons,
and wallowing
in delight
about the
furtive attention,
probably means
I have attained

Pokemon Satori.

(Photo by Sue Gillard)

 

Luminescent Fish

I could be
mistaken,
I am not a
doctor of the
mind.

But I have
observed
that when
I am
sunk deep
in the dark
ocean of
dread,

that if I
drift lazily,
but eyes wide
open,
in a minute,
or a morning,

from the far
corner of
an eye,
I will spot

a luminscent
fish of
thought.

If I swim
for that light,

before long
I am floating
in a school
of thoughts,

just off an
island in
the Isles of
Mystery.

Now there’s
a sunlit
adventure
to be
daydreamed.

Would you
do something
for me?

If and when
this happens
to you,

paint a picture
of it,
make a movie or
a dance or
a song
of it,
or write a story or
a poem, and
let us ones
who sometimes
sink deep
in the dark ocean

see your light.

Photo by David Clode, UnSplash

 

Fractured Mirrors

If the you
that is aging
skin and
calcifying
boneworks
insists on
comparing
itself to
other
skin and bones,

do so with
a laugh,
preferably
at your own
expense.

Any other
comparing
is likely to
end in
a walk
down
a dark path
lined with
fractured
mirrors.

Comparing
is the
unimaginative
detritus

of the temporary
blindness
that strikes
you
when

you
get out of bed
without
remembering
to wake up

your
ageless
and
ravishing
incomparable
Soul.

Photo by Grace Madeline, UnSplash

 

The Light Is Coming On

How much of
what we do,
or worse,
“should do,”
is deemed
to be
in payment of
a debt,

by the Arbiters
of Holy Books or
The Keepers of
Accounts,
or worse,
deemed so by
ourselves?

We walk about
as debtors,
always
in the red,
feeling
overdrawn and
preyed upon
by the
debt collectors
of the
Soul.

Or maybe it’s
just me.

In any case
the light is
coming on,
as late in life
as it may be.

The only debt
we ever owed
was paid,
in full,

that first
moment
we gasped
a breath and
wriggled free,

that first
moment
we agreed
to be.

Photo by Isaac Quesada, UnSplash

 

Storyteller’s Art

I love what
you’re doing
with your
character.

A little
conflict
for redemption
later in your
story,

a little
failure,
or maybe
a lot,
something
to get
teary about
now,

then laugh
about later,
through those
tears of
jubilation

when your
storyteller’s
art
writes hot
romance
for your
part.

You’re so
good at this,
so real,
I’ll bet you
forget you’re
an artist,

and nearly
lose
yourself
in the beauty
of your
craft.

But that’s why
we love what
you’re doing
with your
character.

Photo by Sam Moqadam, UnSplash

 

Crème de la Crème

After years of
research and
practice,
I have for you
an exercise.

The Crème
de la Crème
of exercises.

It’s quite
strenuous,
so be well
rested
before
attempting it.

Sit in your
favorite
chair or couch.
(Couches work
best.)

Have your
favorite
beverage
at hand.

(Actually,
I hate the word
“beverage.”
For some
reason
it reminds me
of the
slag from
smelting
iron ore.)

Have your
favorite
libation
at hand.

Make yourself
as comfortable
as possible.

Take a sweet
swig of
your libation.

That’s it!
You’re
doing It!

I call this
exercise

Be You.

Photo by Jacob Rank, UnSplash

 

An Open Secret

There are
sonograms and
MRI’s,
mammograms and
X-rays.

Photographs and
autographs,
sound
recordings and
videotapes.

A thousand ways
to measure and
describe.

You have a
fingerprint, a
footprint, a
hat size, a
girth.

A certificate
to mark your
birth
and one
to note your
death.

But it’s an
open
secret

that the
measurement
you crave,

the one you
want all
eyes
to see,
especially
your own,

is
that Thing
that opens
every necessary
door.

That Thing
that charts the
contours
of your
precious,
genius
Soul.

Photo by Kobby Mendez, UnSplash

 

What I Know

I don’t care
what
you call
that First
Beingness.

God,
All That Is,
Allah That Is,
Buddha,
Boo,
Duh,
Phil, or
Chlorophyll.

What I
know
Is that
when
He, She, It
looked
around,

They
smiled
and
said,
thought,
sensed to
Themself:

All of
this
Beingness
means
Nothingness

without an
Otherness.

And here
I, You, We,
She, He, They,
Her, Him, Them
and It

Are.

(Photo by Benji Aird, UnSplash)

 

Gatekeepers of Creativity

When the
Gatekeepers
of Creativity
want to check
your passport,

to make sure
you belong,

smile and
whip it out.

Show ‘em
that
The Mystery
is your
birthplace,

and you’re
free to
come and go
as you please,

Mystery being
the only
government
recognized by
Creativity.

It’s right
there, on
your passport.

Occupation:
Creator

Your birth
certificate is
your license.

Now,
ask those
Gatekeepers of
Creativity
to show
their badges.

Watch ‘em
slink away,
emptyhanded.

They probably
stole those
uniforms
from a
thrift store
donation bin.

 

On Your Knees, Sinner

It is reported
that Jesus said
we should
consider the
Lily of the Field,

who does not
toil or
spin a single
thread,

yet blinds
the astonished
eye with
splendorifousness.

On your knees,
Sinner!
Ask forgiveness.

In your tender
heart
you’ve been
secretly
measuring

your luscious
beauty,
your effortless
magnificence,
by the length
of your
To Do List.

I think
I hear him
laughing,
but it’s
with you,
not at you.

After all,
you’re only
human,
still learning
from
the flowers.