Thanksgiving

As The Holiday
Loomed,
with Its requisite
Burdens of
plucked and roasted
Birds and
candied yams,

a Friend
Inquired:

What are You
Thankful for?

I struggled to
assemble some
Smartass Quippery
but, Failing,
shrugged out
some
nod to
the Blessedness of
Family.

Which is True.
I Am
So Blessed,
as Likely are
You.

But, this
pre-dawn Morning,
I Know What
I Am
Truly and Incorrigibly
Thankful for,

on Behalf of
My Self,
My Family,
Your Blessed Self, and
Your Family, and
All That Is:

We Are
Forever
Sparks of The Divine,

Fractals of
The Light That Is
Nothing but Love
Without Condition or
Whisper of Judgment.

Holy Beings
Who need only
Awaken to
Our Sacred Selves.

For All
of That
I Am
Forever Thankful.

 

Before You Call for the Shovel

Do You Know
The Feeling?

The One
Where You
Imagine
The Best Use
for You
would Be to
Scrape You Up
and Toss You in a
Compost Pile
to Be Spread
on Someone’s
Vegetable Garden?

Wait!

Before You Call for
The Shovel …

Imagine Instead …

You Are
a Master of
Creative Imagery.

It’s a Thing
You Just Decide
To Be.

When You See
That Hairy Dude
With Tattoos
on Every Square Inch,
You Say:

“Sir, You Remind Me
of That Afternoon
I spent in Paris,
In The Louvre.”

When You See
That Sweet Mama
with a Couple of
Little Holy Ones
Pretending To Be
Noisy Brats,
You Say:

“Ma’am, You Remind Me
of Mother Teresa and
a Guardian Angel,
Rolled Into One.”

Now, Get Your
Ass off that
Compost Pile and
Take It From Here,

Beautiful One.

(Photo By Jordan Gonzalez; UnSplash)

 

Sunday School

It’s Sunday
and You’re
Driving,
but not to
Church,

Where a
Child-Like You
was once
Instructed
to Turn Off
The Radio,

Lest the Beatles,
or the Stones,
or, God Forbid,
the Doors,

Should
Lead You into
Dancehalls or
Theaters or
Worse.

It’s Sunday,
and You’re
Driving,
but not to
Church,

Your Ears
plugged in to
Slow Dances by
Winnetka Bowling League.

Feeling
a bit Guilty.

Perhaps, instead,
You Should Be
Praying or Meditating,
Contemplating
The Divine,

Not the Likes of
Walk the Moon doing
Anna Sun.

Then Your Angel,
Your Guide,
The One You call
Elizabeth,

Appears in the
Dancehall of
Your Mind,
Grinning and Swaying,
and Flinging Love,

Reminding You,

Thus Sayeth
The Lord:

Let There Be
Dance.

 

Show Time

Were You Taught,
as was I,
that our Maker,
aka God,
started a
Fan Club,
membership mandatory
for You and Me,
in Order to
have a
Mailing Address
to Receive
all those
Fan Letters
Proclaiming
Worship and Obedience?

Some of the Fan Clubs
Insist that
The Penalties for
Failure to Be
a Fan
include Death.

What if
We have It
Backwards?

I’m not Sure
Why –
You’ll have to
Ask the Ones
Who Started
the Fan Clubs.

What If
The Maker
Built a Theater,
with a Cosmos
Filled with
Characters,
Including
You.

What If
The Maker Is
in the Front Row,
Giving You and
The Rest of Us
a Standing Ovation?

Our Biggest Fan.

Perhaps It’s Time
to Put On
a Better Show.

(Photo by Getty Images; UnSplash+)

 

Commission

You Arrive Here
with a
Commission.

A Light Being
with an
Artist’s Smock
of a Body,
Loaded with
a Heartful of
Brushes and Canvas,
Pens and Paper,
Dancing Shoes, and
an Orchestra’s Worth of
Instruments.

You Came
to Create
Your Soul,

with Which
to Entertain
Your Fellow Artists
in This
Theater
Built of
an Elements Chart of
a Rainbow’s Worth of
Love.

But,
My Dears,
We’ve Let
Our Fears
Sneak In
Through
a Backstage Door,

Where They
Insist
They Be Given
a Part.

But Fear
has No Place
Near
The Heart of
Your Art.

Just Smile and
Embrace It,
Let It Stay for
The Show,
but Insist on
Its Silence
or
You’ll Show It
The Door.

(Photo by Getty Images; UnSplash)