I Know You

Who do You
Think You Are?

I Know You
as Well as
You Know
Your Self.

You’re The One
in The Group –
The Only One –

Who Would Rather
Stay in that
Motel Six
than Sleep In a Tent on
the pine-needled floor of
Hotel Habitat dû Nature,

Who Would Rather
Read Your Cosmicomic Novel
at a Two-Seat-Table in
Delilah’s Diner, or
Hand-Write
Your Own Novel There,
Than Fly To
Paris or Florence to
Do the Same.

I Know You
as Well as
You Know Your Self.

You’re The One
In The Group –
The Only One-

Who Uses To-Do Lists
Like Christmas Wish Lists.
Santa Will Make It Happen.

Who Prefers the Relative Solitude
of a Doctor’s Appointment to
The Neighborhood Potluck Picnic.

I Know You.

You Think There’s Something
Wrong With You,

a Design or Construction Flaw.

But I’m Learning
The Truth About You.
And Me.

We’re Perfect Beams of
The Perfect Love
That Shines as Light
with a Trillion
Perfect Fractals.

And We Are
Free To Choose.

(Photo By 26pigeons; UnSplash)

 

Random Seeds

If I Was a
Gardener –

I’m Not, but
I’ll Show You
my Wrinkled
Poetic License –

Perhaps You’ll
Let Me In.

If I Was a
Gardener
and I Found
an Envelope
with a
Palmful of
Random
Seeds,

Perhaps I’d
Strew Them in
a Hidden Corner of
My Rose Garden.

I’d Feed Them,
Water Them,
Watch Them

with Curious Eyes.

But I Wouldn’t
Weed Them, or
Otherwise Judge Them.

I’d Love to
Paint Them –

I’m Not a Painter,
But Here’s That Wrinkled
Poet’s License.

Perhaps You’ll Love
the Random Beauty of
Roses
Twined with
Carrot Tops
Adorned by
Ferns
Being Climbed by
Dandelions
Being Embraced by
Whatever Those Are.

I’m Hearing That
The Creator
Adores

Our Wild Painting.

And It’s Not Even
Finished Yet.

(Photo by Dimmis Vart; UnSplash)

 

The Risen Ones

I don’t Mean to
Rain on Your
Easter Parade,

I just Want to
Join It for
Reasons Other
than Believing
Jesus Rose
Beyond the Reach
of the Death
Dealers of Religion

In Order to
Somehow
Atone for Your
Sin of Being
Born Human.

They Pierced Him
Because He
Insisted that He,
Our Elder Brother,

Arrived On the Planet
to Demonstrate
That Being
Human
Is a Work of
Divine Art,

An Expression
of The Maker
of All That Is,

Proof that
We Are Beloved
Beyond the Reach
of The Fear
that Drove
The Terrified Ones to
Crucify Him.

He Rose
to Show Us
That We Are,
and Always Will Be,

The Risen Ones
Standing Beside Him.

 

The Sentencing

I Like to Imagine
The Most Reverend
Jonathan Edwards,
Gone Home
to Stand before
His Maker,

Who has Prepared for Him
a Theater,
Formed from The Reverend’s
Own Imagination,
a Courtroom with
a White Throne Called
Judgment.

Our Maker Sits
On The Throne,
Scowling,
then Speaks:

“Sir, on July 14, 1741,
in Enfield, Connecticut,
You Preached that
I Am an Angry God,
and Hold All Mankind
In My Hands,
Prepared to Drop Them
into a Hell of Burning Demons.

Forever.

Unless an Innocent
is Sacrificed and
Blood Is Shed.

Sir, Nothing Could Be
Further from
The Truth.

Stand,
To Be Judged
and Sentenced.”

As He Stands,
The Courtroom Vanishes.

Angels Clad In Light

Lift and Carry Him
To Stand Before
The Maker,

Who Smiles,
Then Pulls Him Close,
an Embrace
Firm In Its
Gentleness,
Spilling Adoration
Into His Every Pore.

“I Forgive Your
Childish Judgments.
There Is No Sentencing.

Only My Love.

Now Go,
and Sin No More.”