You Keep Asking

You Keep Asking
The Creator
If You Should

Keep Trying
To Write
That Goofy
Novel

About a Loser
Who’s Spent
a Lifetime
Schlepping
Big Macs and Fries,

After Trashing His
Lawyer License
with Carelessness
and Duplicity
and
His Marriage
with The Same,

Who Tries to
End It All
with an
Overdose of
Balloon Gas,

Who is Met
on The Other Side by
His Boisterous Guides,
Who Send Him Back
to Start
The First Church of
Jeebus,

to Minister to
Other Seeming
Wastrels,

About
How Much
The Creator
Adores Them and
Celebrates Their
Being.

You Keep Asking
The Creator
If You Should

Keep trying
To Write
That Goofy
Novel.

The Creator
Keeps Giving You
The Same Answer,

The Same Answer
Given To All Offspring of
The Creator:

Do You Want To?

(Photo by Nusaseom; UnSplash)

 

Operator’s Manual

When The Maker
Carved You
out of
Its Own Light,
with Instruments
of Love,
Unadulterated by
Condition or
Whisper of Judgment,

You were Given
a Book
called
Operator’s Manual for Light Beings.

When You were
Old enough to
Read,
and Cared
a Whit
about Reading,

You Opened It
to Find
Blank Pages.

For Years Now
You’ve Waited,

Sometimes with
Quiet Patience,
Often with
Noisy Busy Impatience,

for The Maker
to Make
Magic Words Appear
on the Pages.

When will It
Dawn on You

that The Maker Shines
with Bright Eagerness
to See

What You
Will Write
On Those Pages?

(Photo by Clay Banks; UnSplash)

 

Baby’s Breath

You Rise,
hours before
the Sun,

Desperate to spend Them
Imploring
The Being that
Lit your Being,

to Rescue You
from The Black Hole
of Self-Accusing Blame
for The Shame

of Your Deficient Performance,
Playing Your Part
in this Dramacomedy
You Begged
to be Cast In.

Hours later,
still Gut-Wrenched
with the
Nausea of Narcissus,

Still Begging
The Light
for Relief,

You are Self
Medicating with
Molasses Cookie and
Coffee Shop Caffeine,

When,
two Tables away,
a Smiling Mother
Holds Her Recently
Arrived Infant
on Dada’s Shoulders,

while The Babe
weaves Fingers
through His Hair,
and leans forward
to Blow Smooches
between Her Fingers.

Your Eyes Swim,
and Every Passerby
has Divine Shine.

Your Shame Is
No Match for
The Flame of
Adoration.

 

Anger Management

I Find My Self
Infuriated
by the Old
Familiar Preachment,

That I Must
Fear
God

Who can not only
Kill My Body
but Cast It and
My Soul
into Hell.

That’s The Gospel.

According to Matthew.

My Infuriation
Arises from
A Knowing

That My Beneficent
Maker
Is The Light of
a Trillion Suns

Made of
The Love of
a Mother
Cuddling and Coddling
a Toddler

Pulled In Close and
Smothered With
Bubbly Kisses,

The Adoration of
a Father
Forgiving
a Wayward Son

With a Lavish Feast and
a Replacement Check
for the Inheritance
He Wasted.

I Am Infuriated
By The Lie
That My Maker’s
Cherishing

Is Rotted by
Condition or Judgment.

But I Have Signed Up for
a Divine
Anger Management Course.

The Maker Smiles
and Reminds Me
that I Can
Love That Preacher
Anyway.