Wise Guys

Some spiritual
Wise Guys,
the same religious
Mafiosi who
insisted on
calling the
Burning Love
that blew Itself
into All That Is

“God”

as if such
Incandescence
is of the same
rank and order as
Thor and Zeus and
Aphrodite and
Hades,

those same
Wise Guys
insist
that to be
afraid of
“God”
is the birthplace
of what they call
Wisdom.

If they were within
a heavenly mile of
Wisdom
they would know that

It begins with
Love
that wants to
pull You close and
kiss Your
face

until You breathe
enough of It
that You know

the very idea
there is a
“God”
who wants to
keep You frightened

is the only
Hell
that ever
existed.

(Photo by Ariful Rahman; UnSplash)

 

Asking for a Friend

Who is braver,
that squirrel
tightroping
across Your
clothesline,
or
that spider
dangling by
a filament
the size of
a baby’s hair?

What is more beautiful,
a rosebud
sprinkled by pollen
the color of moondust
or
a string of bubbles
filled with a
breath
blown by Your
first grandchild?

What sounds more heavenly,
the cry of
the Great Grey Owl
or
the melody
floating through
Your neighborhood
from the bell
of a tenor sax
being blown
by the white-haired
sole survivor
of a trio
that used to play
in Paris,
who now lives
next door?

Speaking of heaven,
is is said that
St. Peter guards
the gate.

Who gets in,
You
or
St. Francis of Assisi?

Photo by Maryna Nikolaieva; UnSplash

 

Pebbles and Dust

Hats off to the
Poets and Painters
Who help us see
the Beauty

in even the
small,
ordinary
pebble
lodged
between the
soles of
Your foot and
Your sandal.

It’s a gift
to know how
to find
beauty
even there.

But what of
the dust
beneath
Your sandal?

From which,
an ancient penman
wrote,
The Creator
formed
Your frame
and blew
Life
into it.

The Truth
in this bit
of fancy
is this:

Even dust
beneath
Your feet
bears more
than Beauty.

All That Is
touched by
the Breath of
The Divine

must also be
called
Beloved.

(Photo by Andre Alexander; UnSplash)

 

Be The Moon

You Love
The Light.

It’s the Sun,
it’s the blue waters
of Oahu,
or Jamaica,

the delight of
bare skin
on sand, or
on a beach towel,
with a book.

You Fear
The Dark.

It’s a pair of
orange eyes,
staring at You
from the end
of the beam of
Your flashlight,
when You’re
walking with
Your dog.

But don’t You Love
The Mystery of
The Moon?

When Light
spills over
The Dark
in Ways and
Hues that
Poets and Musicians
can’t get
enough of?

Be The Moon.

(Photo by Aron Visuals; UnSplash)

 

A Gnat’s Shadow

Sometimes
You behave as if
You’re serving
a life sentence
for the crime of
being You.

No possibility of
parole, and
You’ve made
the rest of us
Your probation officers,

especially
the ones who
imagine
they are
assigned, or
deserve to be,
the assayers
of Your guilt
or innocence,

beginning with
Your parents,
then Your
teachers and
preachers and
bosses and
spouses,

as if they were
appointed by
some celestial
court of
last resort,

when, in fact,

Your Being
is made of
Light,

a Flame
that scorns
the Shame
that wrote Your
sentence

like a
butterfly
scorns
a gnat’s
shadow.

(Photo by Calvin Mano; UnSplash)