Imagination

What if this
mindbender of
a daydream
is meant to be
an Adventure
of cosmicomic
experiences,

played out from
the Imagination of
The Maker of
All That Is
inhabited by
a beloved
multitude of
Light Beings

formed of the
transcendent
ever-living
never-ending
tissue of that same
Imagination?

What if those
Adventures
are meant to
entertain and
illuminate and
thrill and chill and
elucidate, and
above all to
expand and beautify
The Maker’s Imagination with
Love and Light
and Laughter?

But we decided
it all must be
taken seriously.

How’s that
workin’ for us?

(Photo by Yiran Ding; UnSplash)

 

Maintenance

Your Life
has its tasks,
no doubt:
clean, fix, repair,
restore, rebuild,
re-do from scratch.

Let’s call it
Maintenance.

When You can
squeeze it in –
perhaps between
clean and rebuild –
You may Love to
Create

with brush or
carving knife,
Storyteller’s
pen or keyboard,
ballet slippers or
strings stretched taut
over frets or
keys in black and white,
velvet voice or
playwright’s
downstage dialogue.

Let’s call it
Creation.

What if You
came here
to Create
and You’ve been
sidetracked by
Maintenance?

Or, perhaps
You’ve learned to
turn Maintenance
into Art.

(Photo by Jan Kopriva; UnSplash)

 

The Mystery

Suppose You
spent years
assembling a Library,
built of Beliefs
from Advaita to
Zoroastrianism,

each volume
the apex of
Authority,
built of centuries
of careful
examination and assembly,
using only those pages
approved by
scholars and soothsayers
selected for their
Acumen of the Absolute.

What if You
had a dream
in which
an invisible hand
placed a single
Book
beneath Your pillow
as You slept,
and
in the morning,
when You
opened the Book,
it was Empty,

except for a single
instruction,
printed across
the inside cover,
which read:

“Close this book,
lay it flat in
the palm of
Your hand, and
raise it to
eye-level.

Look across it and
beyond.
Know that
Whatever You see
contains more
Mystery

than can ever be
known
by even the most
careful study
of every volume
in Your Library
of Beliefs.”

(Photo by Janko Ferlic; UnSplash)

 

Parking Lot Rhapsody

I just got back
from Church
on wheels,

where the choir
was a playlist of
Indie Rock,
“Slow Dances,” by the
beatific youngsters
who call themselves
Winnetka Bowling League,

every bit as holy as
a Tabernacle Choir
in a sanctified
House built of
polished pews and
soaring ceilings,

except now I’m
in the grocer’s,
where the aisles
teem with
glorified faces
glowing with
the image of
their Maker’s
adoring, soaring
Love of every
hair on their heads.
I try not to stare

but I’m astonished
that driving home
the only thing
in my heart is
a rhapsody that
began in the
parking lot
at Safeway.

(Photo by Renate Vanaga; UnSplash)

 

Conundrum

Does Your Cosmology
allow a Mystery,
a Conundrum
surrounding
the Origin of
All That Is?

Have You spun
a Story,
a Narrative,
with an Artisan
whose Art
is made of the same
immodest
Love
that forms
The Art of
every Artist
who daydreams
The Mystery into
What Is Real?

Consider this:

Does the Artist
imagine Her Art
to Be an Object
to invite
Judgment?

Does the Artist
conjure His Art
to Be the Subject of
Penalty?

Or does Our
Cosmic Artist
forever expand the
Eternal Affection and
Infinite Curiosity

that Loved
Their Art into
Being from
The Beginning?

(Photo by Melissa Mjoen; UnSplash)