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)

 

The Big Bang

Some Imagine
The Explosion of
Light and Love
and Laughter
that Birthed
All That Is

As a Construction Project
to Build a
Temple of
Law and Justice
To Teach Us –

Little Explosions of
Light and Love
and Laughter
That We Are –

The Laws of Life,
then Judge Us,
Using Commandments
Cast In Stone Tablets,
and Bibles Filled with
Measurements and
Account Balances.

But What If
The Big Bang
Is a Name for
a Colossal
Art Gallery,

To Be Filled
with Our Work
Measured Only in
Units of
Love and Beauty,

and Years of
Lively Learning of
Brush Strokes and
Dance Steps and
Method Acting and
Cosmic Chord Progressions and
The Artful Ways to
Leave Participles
Dangling.

What If
There is No
White Throne Judgment,
Only
A Triumphant
Art Show
After Party.

 

Freedom of Religion

Feel Free
to Create
Your Own
Religion.

I’m a Fan of
Creativity.

Name It for
Your Favorite
Deity,
Your Respect Is
Admirable.

Write Scriptures
for It,
Call Them Holy
if It Pleases You.

Put Quotation Marks
around
The Best Parts,
as if They
Were Spoken by
Your Divinity.

Build Temples,
Write Sacred Anthems,
Imagine Them Sung by
Choirs of Angels.

Ordain Priests,
Train Teachers,
Send Missionaries.

I Will Not Bow,
But I Respect
All of It,
So Long As
Your Heart Is Pure and
Pumping Love.

Freedom of Religion
Is Your Sacred
Rite.

Practice Yours With
Ease.

Just Don’t Tell Me
God
Invented It.

(Photo by Getty Images; UnSplash)

 

Dissent

I must Dissent,
take Gentle Issue
with a Purposeful
Platitude

Meant to Stir
Awareness of
The Irreplaceable
Gemstone
That Is

A Moment.

“Live That Moment
as if It’s
Your Last,”

Is What
We’re Told.

But I Dissent.

The Vibe
that Birthed
that Maxim Is
Fear

of Missing Out,
of Spending
some Parsimonious
Dole
from a
Stingy Creator.
Who Is Only Giving You
One Life,

and Offering Only a
“Tut, Tut,”
If You Seem To
Waste It,

then Slip Into
Some Abyss of
Forever Forgottenness.

What If
Your Soul
was Fashioned from
The Maker’s Own
Light and Love
and
There Is No End
To You,

Only an Endless
Victory
of Love
over Fear,

from
Lifetime to Lifetime.

(Photo by Dynamic Wang: UnSplash)