Daydreaming

I have a Daydream.

I am Free
of this Aging Body. . .

Just for an Hour or Two.

A Mini-Vacation,
a Round Trip 
Through The Veil to
The Light of The Other Side,
Where the Waft of Every Breeze
Is Euphoric With
A Love That Dazzles.

I’ll Be Returning to
The Weight of Incarnation,
But for Now
I’ve Been Invited to
A Homecoming. . .

Just for an Hour or Two.

I Find Myself
Seated In the Front Row
of a Heavenly Hangout
Called the Ascended Masters
Comedy Club.

Onstage
a Single Microphone
In a Spotlight,

an Earthly Homage to
The Guests of Honor,

Gilda Radner and
Robin Williams.

And Now. . .
Drumroll and
Guitar Riff. . .

The Man
Who Turned Water Into Wine,

Our Master of Ceremonies,

Jesus of Nazareth.

I can Daydream
can’t I?

(Photo by Luis Quintero; UnSplash)

 

Summa Cum Laude

Perhaps You’ll Allow Me to
Flash My Poetic License –
You Have One Too –
and Ask You to Imagine
You’re the Offspring of
Michelangelo,

Recently Birthed,
at Your Request, on
the Campus of
Earth University.

You’ve Arrived Here from
The Home of the Source of
Creation of All That Is,

To Learn To Paint
Your Version of
The Sistine Chapel Ceiling,
with a Palette of
a Million Shades of
Light and Love,
Joy and Laughter.

But there’s a Challenge.

By Design –
You Asked for It –

The Canvas of
Your Sistine Ceiling
Is Made from
Weavings of Fear
In All Its Dark Threads,

A Challenge You
Embrace,

for the Thrill of
Transcendent
Transformation.

But How Would You Feel
If the Registrar
Informed You That
Failure To Pass
The Final Exam
Will Cast You Into
Dante’s Inferno?

What If
The Truth Is

You Can Enroll
for as Many Semesters
As You Please.

No Hurry.

Everyone Has
Their Own Curriculum.

And Everyone Has
As Long as They Wish
To Graduate
Summa Cum Laude.

(Photo by Lorenzo Turroni; UnSplash)

 

It’s a Sign

Here’s a Daydream
for You . . .

You’ve been Awakened
by a Messenger
from The Mystery,
an Archangel from
The Love and Light
that Can Not Be Named,
though I Am
Will Do.

You are Told
You are Being
Offered
a Once-Per-Lifetime
Gambit:

You May Choose
Another You,

to Inhabit
the Fleshpot
You’re Presently
Simmering In.

You May Even
ReForm that Fleshpot
to Resemble an
Other You
Admire.

What Will You Do?

You Ask for,
and Are Given,
Hours to
Thumb Through
the Catalogs of
Possible You’s to
Replace You.

Suddenly
a Crack Appears
In the Chamber of
Your Being,

and You Are
Immersed In
A Love
That Is Too Much
To Be Named.

And You Know,
Beyond Knowing,
It’s a Sign

To Wrap
Your Self
Around
Exactly You.

 

What If . . .

What If
You Were Born
into a Tribe of Players
In The Theater of
Love?

Love of
The Other Players,
Love of
Your Surroundings.

Gardens and
Furry Creatures and
Jungles and
Waterworks of
Waves and Tidepools and
River Runs with
Finned and Water-Breathing
Leaping Diving Wonders?

And That’s Just
Act 1, Scene 1,

Before The Clowns
Come On and
The Laughing
Leads Into

The Act Where
Adam Meets Eve and
Little Ones
Appear Onstage.

But Somewhere
A Player Named Fear
Is Writing
A Book of Rules

To Tame The Clowns and
Order The Little Ones
Into Clans and Clubs and
Commandments and Covenants and
Cathedrals and
Congressional Committees.

What If
It’s Time
To Take The Play Book
from Fear

and Let
The Lovers and
Little Ones and
Clowns and
Caretakers of Creativity

Write The Plays
for a Change?

(Photo by Yiran Ding; UnSplash)