The Library of Love

I was reared to Believe
in a Deity
Who Loved Me,

But Spoke to Me in a
Courtroom Voice:

How do I Judge Thee?
Let Me Count
The Ways.

If You’ve even
Thought
to Transgress,
it’s as if
You Have.

One Day You’ll Die,
and After That
More Judgment.

What If
That’s a Lie?

What If
I’ve been Duped
by Fear,
Fomented by
Another Lie,

That I Am Separate
from The Source
of The Light
That Lit Me?
The Love
That Knit Me?
That Burns In Me,
As Me.

What If
Judgment is a Myth
as Foolhardy as That
Lie of Separation?

What If
I Choose to Smile
at The Fear,
Hug It To Me,
Wipe Its Tears.
Laugh Away That
Lie of Separation.

Send My Transgressions
Invitations to a Life
Beyond Fear,

Where Judgment Blooms
Into Bouquets
of Affection

for The Practice of
Transmuting Transgressions
into Storybooks
for the
Library of Love.

(Photo by Andrej Lisakov; UnSplash)

 

May I Call You Mick?

Michelangelo
said of his
David,

“It’s Simple.
I just removed
Everything
that is Not
David.”

May I call You Mick?

Listen, Mick:

When The Love
That Is
The Creator
Beamed You …
a Fractal of
The Light of
That Love …

to This
Light formed
Place,

You Came
with a Task,

so Full of
Holiness
Refracted into
a Flame
We call
The Soul,

so Full of
Desire
to Express,
but Trammeled,
by Design,
with a
Brain and Body
that can barely
contain You.

Which often Breeds
Distress and Fear.

But Focus, Mick.

It’s just an
Arful Game,

Wherein
You can Find
Delight

in simply
Removing Everything
that is Not
The Soul
that is
You.

(Photo by Gabriel Natussi; UnSplash)

 

CC and Me

I believed
I had an Enemy
Inside.
I called It
The Comfort Complex.

Complex Indeed,
made of
Narcissism,
Laziness,
Resistance to
Work, Effort, Labor,

Always
The Easy Way Out,
On the Path of
Least Resistance,

Comfort at Any Cost.

Rarely Do I
Fight
This Enemy.
Mostly I Surrender.

But then
I Heard
A Wise Man.

He Told Me
I Should
Love My Enemy,

Give Him
a Pet Name,
Pull Him Close
in Warm Embrace,

Ask for His Help.

Now I Call Him
CC, and
Intend to Make Him
My Friend.

I Will Ask Him to
Help Me,
See The Good
in Him,
Become Fond
of Him,
Be Glad He’s a
Part of Me.

Already He’s Begun
To Release His
Resistance.

He Tells Me
He Wants to
Help Me.

Good.

Because I Need
His Help.

(Photo by Mohamed Nohassi; UnSplash)

   The Wise Man referred to in the Poem is Peter Bedard, whose wisdom I heard as part of his Near Death Experience interview at https://youtu.be/QE7U_1mj8VM?si=5gPAoZ4ERWLBtarW. Peter is a Wellness Practitioner, with an extensive education and practice in Consciousness Studies and Hypnotherapy. Peter’s website is at https://www.convergencehealing.com.

 

Thanksgiving

As The Holiday
Loomed,
with Its requisite
Burdens of
plucked and roasted
Birds and
candied yams,

a Friend
Inquired:

What are You
Thankful for?

I struggled to
assemble some
Smartass Quippery
but, Failing,
shrugged out
some
nod to
the Blessedness of
Family.

Which is True.
I Am
So Blessed,
as Likely are
You.

But, this
pre-dawn Morning,
I Know What
I Am
Truly and Incorrigibly
Thankful for,

on Behalf of
My Self,
My Family,
Your Blessed Self, and
Your Family, and
All That Is:

We Are
Forever
Sparks of The Divine,

Fractals of
The Light That Is
Nothing but Love
Without Condition or
Whisper of Judgment.

Holy Beings
Who need only
Awaken to
Our Sacred Selves.

For All
of That
I Am
Forever Thankful.

 

Before You Call for the Shovel

Do You Know
The Feeling?

The One
Where You
Imagine
The Best Use
for You
would Be to
Scrape You Up
and Toss You in a
Compost Pile
to Be Spread
on Someone’s
Vegetable Garden?

Wait!

Before You Call for
The Shovel …

Imagine Instead …

You Are
a Master of
Creative Imagery.

It’s a Thing
You Just Decide
To Be.

When You See
That Hairy Dude
With Tattoos
on Every Square Inch,
You Say:

“Sir, You Remind Me
of That Afternoon
I spent in Paris,
In The Louvre.”

When You See
That Sweet Mama
with a Couple of
Little Holy Ones
Pretending To Be
Noisy Brats,
You Say:

“Ma’am, You Remind Me
of Mother Teresa and
a Guardian Angel,
Rolled Into One.”

Now, Get Your
Ass off that
Compost Pile and
Take It From Here,

Beautiful One.

(Photo By Jordan Gonzalez; UnSplash)

 

Sunday School

It’s Sunday
and You’re
Driving,
but not to
Church,

Where a
Child-Like You
was once
Instructed
to Turn Off
The Radio,

Lest the Beatles,
or the Stones,
or, God Forbid,
the Doors,

Should
Lead You into
Dancehalls or
Theaters or
Worse.

It’s Sunday,
and You’re
Driving,
but not to
Church,

Your Ears
plugged in to
Slow Dances by
Winnetka Bowling League.

Feeling
a bit Guilty.

Perhaps, instead,
You Should Be
Praying or Meditating,
Contemplating
The Divine,

Not the Likes of
Walk the Moon doing
Anna Sun.

Then Your Angel,
Your Guide,
The One You call
Elizabeth,

Appears in the
Dancehall of
Your Mind,
Grinning and Swaying,
and Flinging Love,

Reminding You,

Thus Sayeth
The Lord:

Let There Be
Dance.

 

Show Time

Were You Taught,
as was I,
that our Maker,
aka God,
started a
Fan Club,
membership mandatory
for You and Me,
in Order to
have a
Mailing Address
to Receive
all those
Fan Letters
Proclaiming
Worship and Obedience?

Some of the Fan Clubs
Insist that
The Penalties for
Failure to Be
a Fan
include Death.

What if
We have It
Backwards?

I’m not Sure
Why –
You’ll have to
Ask the Ones
Who Started
the Fan Clubs.

What If
The Maker
Built a Theater,
with a Cosmos
Filled with
Characters,
Including
You.

What If
The Maker Is
in the Front Row,
Giving You and
The Rest of Us
a Standing Ovation?

Our Biggest Fan.

Perhaps It’s Time
to Put On
a Better Show.

(Photo by Getty Images; UnSplash+)

 

Commission

You Arrive Here
with a
Commission.

A Light Being
with an
Artist’s Smock
of a Body,
Loaded with
a Heartful of
Brushes and Canvas,
Pens and Paper,
Dancing Shoes, and
an Orchestra’s Worth of
Instruments.

You Came
to Create
Your Soul,

with Which
to Entertain
Your Fellow Artists
in This
Theater
Built of
an Elements Chart of
a Rainbow’s Worth of
Love.

But,
My Dears,
We’ve Let
Our Fears
Sneak In
Through
a Backstage Door,

Where They
Insist
They Be Given
a Part.

But Fear
has No Place
Near
The Heart of
Your Art.

Just Smile and
Embrace It,
Let It Stay for
The Show,
but Insist on
Its Silence
or
You’ll Show It
The Door.

(Photo by Getty Images; UnSplash)

 

Soul

There Is
the You
that Is
a Fractal of
The Light
that Flashed into
All That Is.

Forever and Ever
a Perfect Beam

that Chose,
for a Time,
to Inhabit
the Flesh and Bone
Made from
Your Mother’s
Flesh and Bone.

Alive with
a Brain and
a Protective Ego
Shield that
too Often Draws
Its Life from
Fear,
rather than
Love.

But
You can Choose to
Be
The Light
that Is
You,

and Play
The Beautiful Game
of Dowsing
All You See
with
The Love and Laughter of
The Light
that Is
You,

and from this
Love Bath
will Emerge
The Glistening Spirit
that Is
Your One-of-a
Kind Soul.

(Photo by Omar Elsharawy: UnSplash)

 

Unbecoming

I’m Guessing –
No, I’m Willing to
Wager –

You’ve Spent Much
of Your Life
Becoming,

at the Urging of
Imagined Betters,

Some Thing
You Imagine
You are Not
Yet.

The Priests may be
The Worst,
with Their
Holy Books of
What You Must
Become –
Or Else.

But They’re
hardly Alone
in The
You Must
Become Better
Department.

What If
The Whole
Becoming
Enterprise Is
a Control Device, or
a Moneymaker?

A Dangling Carrot?
A Calculated
Behavior Modifier?

What If
You Already
Are?

What If
Unbecoming Is
What You Need
To Be?

(Photo By Quan Nguyen; UnSplash)