Ego

Some have Imagined
Themselves
In the Hands of
An Angry God,

With an Ego
the Size of
an Armored Tank,
Demanding
Worship and Obedience,

or Be Blown
To Hell.

But What If
The Only Deity
Is
No Deity at All,
and
Has No Ego,

Only an Avalanche
of Mother’s Adoration
and Sloppy Kiss
Affection

and Father’s
Fierce Desire to Give
Every Gift
He Can Fit
Under the Holiday Tree,

for His
Giggly Toddler.

And What If
You,
a Gleaming Chip
off That Block of
The Divine,

Spent Your Days
Handing Out Kindness
Like Popsicles
on a Summer’s Day,

Explaining to
Your Ego
That You
No Longer Have
Any Need
To Be
Worshipped or Obeyed.

(Photo by Toa Heftiba; UnSplash)

 

Sacrilege

If Man or Woman
Makes the Brazen
Claim that
They Are,

“I Am”
an Expressed
Manifestation of
All That Is,
The Source
of Love and Light and Laughter,

of a Piece with
God
Is Me,

They may be
Indicted by
The Church of
True Religion
for
Idolatrous
Blasphemous
Sacrilege
In the First Degree,

Perhaps Sentenced
to Death
on a Cross
or a Burning Stake.

But What If

the Real Sacrilege

Is to Imagine,
to Preach, or
Teach,
or Judge,
or Love
within Conditions,

That Anything
or Anyone
Is Other
than Divine,
a Beam of
The Light
That Is Forever
Lit.

(Photo by Polina Kuzokova; UnSplash)

 

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.

 

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)