Persona Non Grata

There are parts
of Your Persona
that You
abhor.

You say that’s
much too strong
an epithet,
that You simply
hide Them in
the closet
because
They misbehave
when guests
come over.

Especially the
One that is too
lazy to fix
the toilet that
hasn’t flushed properly
in years.

Too sedentary
to walk more
than the length of
two couches,

too intent on
contemplation
to consider
pulling a few weeds
from a patch of
pale nasturtiums
that haven’t been
properly tended
in years.

Admit it:

A time or two
You even contemplated
Your non-existence
as a merciful
alternative to
feeding and clothing
those indolent
sub-parts.

May I ask You
to consider
a Path to
Joy?

Even for a moment?
Even if You must
hike this Path
again and again?
(You will.)

Send a personal
invitation
to those malingerers.
Style it like a
Valentine.

Invite Them to
a shindig of
Love and Mercy.

Where You will
celebrate Them
with so much
affection

They will embrace You
and ask if
there’s anything
They can Do
for You.

You can smile
and pull out
Your List.

(Photo by Nik Shuliahin; UnSplash)

 

Secret Society

When you daydreamed
that Spark of
desire to Create
that Beauty of a
Thing You’d offer
Us, as a
Gift wrapped in
Your flesh and bone,

when that Spark
burst into Light,
You carefully
hid it from
curious eyes,
imagining that
You alone
would labor with
Love,

to handcraft it
into Something
We would receive
with as much
fervor as You
breathed into it.

That You imagined
You were hiding
Love’s Labor
is a fountain
of mirth,

where Love has
a million
marvelling Minions,
call them
Angels or
Beings of Light,
hiding in
plain sight
as Your neighbors,

a Secret Society of
Your Fellow Creators,
with lifetimes
spent
admiring
Your Work.

(Photo by Zaur Giyasov; UnSplash)

 

The Soul of a Rose

Imagine You plucked
The Perfect Rose,
the color of
a rare
petit syrah,

to preside over
the table
presenting The Dinner
marking a Decade of
The Perfect Love.

Moments before
Your Lover arrives,
You notice
The Rose
bears the marks of
a hungry insect
on several of its
perfect leaves,
and on its
perfect petals
the scuffings of
a buzzing bee, or
a hovering hummingbird.

Aghast,
you spy the sticky
trail of a snail,
where no snail
ought to be.

Too late!
Your Lover is here,
and buries the
tip of her nose
amid the
marks and scuffings,

declaring
She loves The Rose
nearly as much as
She loves You.

Imagine
You and I
agree to see
our everlasting Souls
to be as
Perfect as that
Perfect Rose.

(Photo by Engin Akyurt; UnSplash)

 

Meditation

When it comes to
Meditation,
I’m a Neophyte of
the rankest order.

My half-lotus
is both legs
on an ottoman,
leaned back
on the couch,
covered with
my comfy comforter.

This morning
my head was a
spinning
Black Hole,

whirling thoughts
of a Life
only half-lived,
all that early promise
dwindled away in a
spiraling downdraft of
lifelong Laziness and
creeping age.

Then a Messenger appeared,
as a Thought.

“Perish the Thought,”
“Just let it go.”
Or so I’d been told.

But this Thought
carried a Torch,
a Light Beam:

“Wait!”
It said,
grinning from
ear-to-ear.

“Yes, let Us go,
but before You do,
please hold Us
for a moment,
pull Us close,
especially
The Worst of Us.
Look Us in the eyes.

Give Us a hug.
Then let Us go.”

(Photo by Ulrich Derboven; UnSplash)

 

Incandescence

To what robed
being,
to what impaneled
jury,
have You assigned
Your case?

Or, perhaps
You are accustomed
to being
Judge and Jury,

because You imagine
that Judgment and Sentence
are conditions of
Your right to
Be You.

Every action
or inaction
set for trial
by that fabled
Jury of your Peers,
real or conjured,

presided over
by the imagined
Judge of Your
peculiar choosing,

divine or
fashioned of
slippery
Universal Laws,
who or which
may choose to
ignore Your
carefully crafted
pleadings.

But what if
one day
You Awaken
to be greeted by
The Light
of a starbright
Revelation
that reveals

Your Soul
has always been
Incandescent
and
The Verdict
on You
has always been

Not Guilty.

(Photo by Korng Sok; UnSplash)