Questions

Think of a Being,
Human or
All-But-Human,
like Your
Furry Couch Pal,
Whiskers Tickling
Your Elbow.

Think How Much
You Love Them,
Except to Say
Love
Is Not Enough
to Contain the
Cherishes and Adores and
Idolizes and
All But Smothering
Embraces
You Want to Stuff
Into That
Love.

I Have Questions:

Does the Mud
Your Furry One
Tracked Into
Your Kitchen
Dim the Light
of Their
Beating Heart?

Does the Habit –
Maybe More than One –
That Stirs
the Beehive of
Your Annoyances
Mean
Your Life Mate or
Your Little One
Loses
Your Longing
for Their Habitual
Touch?

How Could You
Imagine
Your Maker
Longs for You
any Less,

With All Your
Muddy Tracks and
Annoying Habits?

(Photo by Kateryna-Hliznitsova; UnSplash)

 

Diaries

Why Do We
Imagine
Our Maker
as a
Judge?

And the Diaries of
Our Adventures
to Be
Some Sort of
Karmic Police
Report?

Or, at Best,
a Log of
Our Attempts,
Mostly Self-Perceived
as Failures,
to Find
Our Way,
Lost Souls,
Looking for
The Right Path
Back
to The Maker,

as if
We Were Born,
then Abandoned
in The Wilderness?

What if
Our Diaries
are Travelogues,

Asked of Us When
The Light
That Is
The Maker

Diffracted
Into Our
Innumerable Eternal Rays,

Asking Nothing
of Us

But to
Write Stories –
Write and Re-Write,
When
The Art of Love
Requires It –

That Will Be Told with
Breathless Wonder
Forever.

(Photo by Joshua Hoehne; UnSplash)

 

Why?

Why Do You Think
You Signed Up
for This
Go-Round-the-Sun
a few Dozen Times
on This Spinning
Watery Globe?

Was It Because
Your Celestial Soul
Needed a few Semesters
in some School
of Hard Knocks?

Your Perfect
Eternal
Beingness
Needed a Ph.D in
Fearing
The Love and Light
and Laughter
that Made You
a Fractal of
Its Adoring Self?

You Must Be
Joking.

Perhaps You Need To
Lose Your Mind
in Order to
Remember

Why.

You Wanted to
Make Art.

To Paint
Landscapes of Love
and Make Movies
of Kindness
Wrestling Fear
to the Ground
of All Being.

You Signed Up for
Art School,
Silly.

Take as Many
Classes as
You Wish.

(Photo by Arthur Tseng; UnSplash)

 

Let’s Party!

I was Told
that The God
of My Sunday School Class
Loved Me
In Spite of My Self,

a Self Despoiled
by Eve’s Curiosity and
Adam’s Disobedience
In Tasting Forbidden Fruit
Called Knowing
The Difference Between
Good and Evil.

That God
then Fashioned a Whip

to Drive The Two Sinners
from Paradise,

to Distant Places
Teetering on the
Edge of Hell,

Into Which Death
would Throw Them
Unless

Lambs were Slain
in Their Stead,
including
The Lamb
of The Gospels.

I Am
Waking Up
from That Nightmare

to Find My Self
In the Inseparable
Cherishing Embrace of
The I Am That
I Am,
That You Are,
The All That Is
All That Is.

The Love
and Light
and Laughter
Who Knows
Nothing Else But
to Throw a Party of
Adoration,
Free of
Condition or Judgment,

for the Beloved
Prodigal You
Fear Your Self
To Be.

 

Rock Concert

My Aging Limbs
Long to Sink
Into the Comforting
Grip of the
Seat Beneath Me,

But All Around Me
The Others Are
On Their Feet,
Energy from the Stage
Insinuating into Their
Twisting Torsos and
Flailing Young
Limber Limbs.

Onstage the Magician
Musicians’
Fingers Fly and
Arms Dance,
Seducing Sound into
Admissions of Pleasure
Beyond Guilt.

I Enter
The Mystery,
Where I Am
Told by The Maker of
Limbs and Torsos and
Music and Magic and
Pleasure,

That This Is
Every Bit
The Worship of
All That Is

That Every
Holy Hymn
Aspires To.

(Photo by ActionVance; UnSplash)

 

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.”

 

Soul School

Some Wise Ones Say
Your Soul
Inhabits
Your Body
As a Student,
In a Classroom.

Other Sages Smile,
and Remind Us
that Our Soul
Is a Fractal of
The Divine,
as Bright
as It has Ever Been,
as Immersed
In Love
As It will Ever Be.

It has Nothing to Learn
About Soulfulness.

But there Is
No End
to The Soul’s
Imagination,

as It Waits
To Wrap Your
Fingers Around
a Brush,
or Slide Them Across
a Fret,
or Slip Your Toes
into a Ballerina’s Slippers,
or Dance Your Hands
Across a Keyboard.

And That’s Just
The Beginning.

The Soul Has
Nothing to Learn,
Only an Eternity
to Explore
a Trillion Ways
for You to
Express
The Maker’s
Art.

(Photo by Mika Ruusunen; UnSplash)