Near Idolatry

Conjure
in Your Mindful Eye
a Mother,

Lifting Her Infant,
Face-to-Face,
to Brush Her Lips
across His Cheek,
Inhale His Aura,
Exhale Her Adoration,
a Near Idolatry
of Every Breath.

Conjure a Father,
Grasping Tiny Fingers,
as His Joy Brims
at the Corners of
His Eyelids,
When His Astonishing
Gift of a Daughter
Tries to Put
One Foot
In Front of Another,
but Collapses
in Giggles.

Now Conjure
Your Creator,

Who Idolizes

You,

Waiting for You
To Awaken

To That Brush
across Your Cheek,
That Hand
That Grasps
Your Fingers.

(Photo by Nathan Dumlao; UnSplash)

 

Art and Soul

You may have been Told
You Were Born a Sinner,
Your Soul
Besmirched and Broken,

Only Redeemable
by the Death
of Another.

Or perhaps Your Soul is
a Blank Slate –
Take Care
What’s Written There,
Lest You,
or Another –
If You Permit It –
Write a Tragedy,
or a Farce,
or Some Bore of a Story.

But What If
What You Are Is
a Beam of Light,

Aimed from a Flame
Made of Undiluted Love,
Forever Pure and Deathless,
Twined,
even at a Cosmic Distance,
With Every Other Light,
as if There Is
No Distance at All.

And, What If
Your Soul Is
The One-of-a-Kind
Shine
that Radiates from
The Beam That Is You,

and You –
and Only You –
Are Meant To Be
a Sculptor of Your Shine.

That’s Why You Are.

To Make Art
of Your Soul,
as Your Part of
The Glimmer.

Take as Many Orbits
as You Need.
The Cosmos Is
Your Gallery.

 

Religion

There is Reason
to Believe
The Wordsmiths
Who Built the Word

Religion

Hammered It Together
Using Nails
Made of

Ligare,

the Latin Word for

Binding.

The Question came:
Bind with What?

It turned out
there was
a Reliable Surplus of

Fear,

Renowned for Its
Captivating Powers,
Especially the Fear
that came,
still Molten,
from the Furnaces of
an Imagined

Hell.

Some have Tried
to Overlay
The Fire with

Love,

but Love
Will Not Bind
with Fear.

(Photo by Mathieu Odin; UnSplash)

 

The Play

Act 1

You Decide The Task
You Swore an Oath
to Finish
Will Be Set Aside
in Favor of Coffee
and Buttered Toast
while Contemplating
The Next Scene
In That Novel
You’re Not Writing,

Because It’s Easier to
Contemplate and
Make More Toast,
This Time with Jam.

Act 2

Your Beloved Asks of You
The Smallest of Departures
from The Script You’ve Written
for Your Comfort,
and You Weasel an Escape.

Act 3

You Spend the Afternoon
Writing Your Indictment,
to Which You Plead Guilty,
Prepared for The Judgment
You Know Awaits You
When The Curtain Drops.

The Cast Party

But It’s Just a Play.

You’re a Light Being,
Formed of Love,
Adored by The Playwright,
Cherished by The Director.

Your Fellow Players
Applaud Your Decision
To Attend Drama School.

You’re a Theater Kid.

Sure, You Have Much
To Learn,
The Director has
Notes for You.

You’ll Love
The Next Show.

(Photo by Andrej Lisakov; UnSplash)