Contours

You imagine
that you are
your body.

As if
you could be
contained
in a cranial
cavity
the size of a
small
muskmelon.

Then you
compound
the error
by comparing
the topography
of your skin
to other
skins,

as if
that was
anything other
than a
footnote
in the volumes
that would be
required to
comprehend
the eternity
that you contain,

as if
you can be
contained.

Consider
adopting a
meditation
practice
wherein your
intention is to
move your
awareness
outside your
muskmelon,
for just a few
moments,

and allow
your Self
to expand
along the
endless
contours of
your Soul.

(Photo by Omid Armin; Unsplash)

 

The Legal Definition of Love

I’m here to
stage a
courtroom scene.

You’ll play all
the roles.

Defendant,
Prosecuting Attorney,
(you’re a superstar
prosecutor),
Judge,
Jury.

There’s no defense
attorney.
You know damn well
you don’t
deserve one.
You’re guilty
as hell.

The Jury of
One Self
has been watching you.
You’ve seen
every move
you’ve made.

You think
you’ve hidden
every sin,
but the Jury
has already decided
there’s no
alibi.

You’ve already
sentenced your Self
to a life of
self doubt and
unending
apology.

You may even
have considered
the death penalty.

But the Director
has other plans
for you:

Some say
she’s divine.
She’s secretly
in love
with you,
and she can’t
keep quiet
about it for
another minute.

She instructs
the Jury to
pardon you.

You’re free
to go,
with one
condition:

She has a
stack of
scripts
a foot deep.

You star
in every one.
You’ll be called
The Beloved.

In every play
you’ll be asked
to show up
in courtrooms
everywhere
and drop
a beating heart
on the Scales of
Justice,
to tip them
over,
so the prisoners
go free.

(Photo by Avel Chuklanov; Unsplash)

 

Sacrament

If you consult
the arbiters of
parlance,
you will find
this
buried deep in
the layers of
meaning
assigned to
the word

Sacrament:

“Something
regarded as
possessing a
mysterious
significance.”

The arbiters
buried this
beneath
four layers
of fastidious
reverence for
“holy” and
“sacred” and
“consecrated” and
“extreme unction.”

I am hereby
putting these
officiants
on notice:

I solemnly swear
to do my
humble best
to make
my favorite
coffee cup
every bit the
sacrament
as any
white-linen-
covered
chalice.

Amen.

(Erleichda: Lighten up!
from Tom Robbins’ novel,
Jitterbug Perfume)

 

Hound of Heaven

If you knew
your Soul
was the fruit
of an immaculate
conception,
a romance
in a hideaway
in The Mystery,
where The Creator
seduces Love
on a regular basis,

would you
still open
your door
every time
Fear shows up,
uninvited and
unannounced?

If you knew the
Hounds of Heaven
have been loosed,
and are looking
for you, to
lick your face
with so much
joy and adoration
they can’t stop
wagging
their tails,

would you
sit,
stonefaced and
silent,
submerged to
your neck in
self-pity?

If you knew
your Soul
will fly
forever,

would you
act as if
your wings
are broken?

I confess
I do, and
I must beg
forgiveness.

I Am
finally prepared
to surrender
the need to
name the Voice
I hear,
every time,
saying,
“I thought
you would never
ask.”

(Photo by Celine Sayuri Tagami; UnSplash)

 

Mystery Mail

Do you receive
messages from
The Mystery?

You know,
the ones
bearing a
different kind of
Forever stamp,
delivered by a
hummingbird or
a saxophone solo
floating
your way from
an open window
three houses
down or a
bit of language
braided into a
keychain with
a dangling
participle that
opens a
secret doorway?

I’ll show you
the last one
I received,
from a poet,
Jalal ad-Din
Mohammed
Rumi:

“You are not
a drop in
the ocean,
you are the
entire ocean in
a drop.”

Which I take
to mean
there is an
ocean of you
beyond the
drop in
the bucket
you make
your Self
out to be.

(Photo by Trollinho; UnSplash)

 

Church

It’s Sunday.
Lean back in
your pew,
after you
rearrange those
couch cushions
for maximum comfort.
Give yourself
plenty of
neck support.

Our prayer
this morning
goes like this:

Creator of
All That Is
and Purveyor of
Incandescent
Adoration
for your Creation,
especially us –
God! How you
love us –

please help us,
for even a few
minutes,
to bask in
Beingness,

without the
intrusive
belligerence of
Beliefs and
Opinions and
Judgments.

Instead, we would
worship pure and
unadulterated
Awareness of
What Is,
just in This
Moment.

Now I will ask
the Musicians for
a couple of hymns.
This morning it’s
the Allman Brothers Band,
with Ramblin’ Man and
Statesboro Blues.
It’s all about
the Joy,
Brothers and Sisters.

For our homily
I’ll keep it brief,
a simple exhortation:

You think,
beloved,
that it’s too late
for you to
be all you
intended
this Go-Round.
But it’s not.

You’ve been
All of It
from The Beginning.

Everything.

(Photo by Frank McKenna; UnSplash)

 

Fingerprints

Imagine
you have been
commissioned
to create
a work of
Art,

to be displayed
in a gallery
called
Fingerprints
Left At the Scene
of An Act of
Love.

You will choose
the media and
the method and
the means.

You will have
a lifetime to
create it,
so begin as
soon as you
are aware of
your assignment,

which was,
in truth,
appended to
your birth
certificate.

A word of
caution:

There will be
Schools of Art Thought and
Religions of Replication and
Adamant Artocracies.

Consider
ignoring them.

You’re the Artist.

Imagine
you have been
commissioned
to create
a work of
Art.

I confess
I believe
that Everything Real
begins in
The Imagination.

(Photo by Raychan; UnSplash)

 

Travelogues

We love to
post videos and
travelogues of
our adventures,
sending them out
on the WorldWideWeb.

We imagine
that our
fellow travelers
will be entertained,
or edified,
and mostly
I believe
they are.

I’d like to
tell you
what else
I believe,
if I may.

I believe,
or perhaps
I imagine,
a day or
an eon
will come when
we’ll be sharing
the Documentary
of Our Life

in a Cosmic Theater,
a Celestial Cinema,

to an audience
of boisterous Beings
who didn’t need to
show proof of
being vaccinated
and who have
long forgotten
whether they
voted
Republican
or Democrat.

(Photo by Krists Luhaers; UnSplash)

 

Waiting for a Rabbit

This morning
I went on
a rabbit hunt.

It’s not what
you think.
No weapons
were involved.

I had a yen
to find
a Rabbit Hole,
to drop into
Wonderland.

As I waited
for a rabbit
to appear,
I got
curiouser and
curiouser.

The dictionary
insisted that
a rabbit hole
is “strange,
confusing,
illogical,
difficult to
escape from.”

That’s what
you get when
you are trapped
in a dictionary
looking for
definitions,

when you
should just
keep looking
for a rabbit.

Go ask Alice.

(Photo by Victor Larracuente; UnSplash)

 

Central Casting

Walking
The Dog,
having my
usual one-sided
conversation
with whoever
is producing
this piece of
cosmological
theater.

I’m desperate
for notes
from the
Director.

How am I doing?
I feel like
a fraud,
a failure,
like I’ve forgotten
all my lines.

As is often
the case . . .
nothing.

Until later,
when there’s
a whisper
and
a comforting.

“If you’re
looking for
a review,
that will come
when the show
is over.

“For now,
you should
know that
we all
agree:

“For playing
the part
of You,

“You have
been perfectly
cast.”

(Photo from Austrian National Library; UnSplash)