Unauthorized Biographies

I wonder if
we pay too much attention to
unauthorized biographies of
the billowing clouds of

Love

that blow out of
The Mystery,
luminescent showers of
adoration and
Creation,
bathed in
The Light of
the Eternal Embrace of
All That Is.

Rows of books,
bold to pronounce
names …
“God,” for example …
eager to assign
“He,” occasionally “She,”
with no apparent
authority.

But the chapter
stuck in my craw
this church-going Sunday morning,
like an unexpected
pebble in my
chocolate eclair,

is a Missing Chapter:

The one where
God created
Laughter and
standup comics.

(Photo by Christian Buehner; UnSplash)

 

The Science of It

Put on Your
lab coat and
run this experiment:

Choose an object,
perhaps the cluster of
tulips Your
neighbor brought,
or
Your Persian
kitty pal
draped across
the back of
Your couch,
or
the watercolor
rendering of
a hummingbird
poised in flight,
or
The One
sitting
across from You,
immersed in Her
book about
gardening . . .

Now,
turn on an imaginary
hose made of
hollow dandelion stems and
connected to Your
beating heart,

but filled with
sweet Syrup de
Amor.

Start showering
the Object of
Your Attention.

Make it mushy and
maudlin and
mawkish and
even a little
melancholy.

Let it be
in your imagination
for the moment,
but pile it on,

shimmery and
sun-drenched and
startling in its
ferocity.

Now for
The Science
of it:

Where did it
come from,
this Gusher?

It’s a Mystery,
isn’t it?

 

I Miss My Dog

Yesterday Luna
went Home.

I miss Her,
the way I had to
step over Her
to get to the couch,
the way She used to
greet me at the door
with a slipper,
then had to be
reminded to
bring me the other one.
The way She
scratched up the
front door from
rearing up to peer
out the window,
frantic with Joy
that we were
coming up the
front steps.

I miss my dog.

(Photo by Sue Christenson Gillard)

 

Road Maps and Love Letters

You don’t need
a road map to
find Your way into
The Mystery.

The Mystery being
that Being of
Love and Light
that Poets and Priests
stumble and dance and
whirl and argue
around and about
until, exhausted,
they settle on calling
“God” or some feeble
variation thereof,
when they
stamp out their
Holy Books and
print their
road maps.

The road maps
you don’t need
because You are
native to
The Mystery,
already there,
and have been
since The Mystery
burst into
a billion fractals
of the Light,
including You.

That is not to say
there isn’t
unfathomable Beauty
in those paintings and
photographs and
music and dance and
storyteller’s
luminous arts
that flow from
The Mystery
like an avalanche of
Love Letters
toppled from piles
penned by
The Mystery,
Who has nothing
better to do.

(Photo by Ranurte; UnSplash)

 

Prodigal Therapy

This didn’t make it
into the Bible, but
the Prodigal Son
became a Family
Therapist.

Remember him?
The delinquent
who demanded his
inheritance and
used it
to finance the
careers of a
motley crew of
hookers and drug dealers?

Then he crawled home
and begged Daddy
to let him sleep
in a corner of
the servants’ quarters,
probably on a pile
of his filthy work clothes,
from his last job
shoveling pig shit.

But Daddy said
NO!

And made him
take a bath
so he could wear
a brand new
party robe,
then put a ring
on his finger
and wrote him
a big check,
restoring his
squandered inheritance.

Then the kid was
the Guest of Honor
at a party to
show off his
new robe and
practice being
happy again.

Okay,
I’m not sure
the boy hung out
a shingle to practice
Family Therapy,

but I like to
imagine his
first session
with a despairing
father,
wondering what
consequences
should be paid
by his rebellious,
but equally despairing
son.

(Photo by Nik Shuliahin; UnSplash)

 

To Die Laughing

Do You believe
You’ll meet your Maker?
I do.

I make
no apologies
for it.

Why would I?

As I grow
more wizened –
or is it
wisened? –

I’m beginning
to think
My Maker
will have
a small bone
to pick
with Me,

hidden
somewhere in
the huge pile
of gifts
He/She/They
will have piled up

to welcome Me
Home
in an avalanche of
adoration and joy,

as is
His/Her/Their
Way with Us.

One small bone …

“Why didn’t You
laugh more
at My jokes?

Especially the ones
I told
just for You?”

Message received.

I intend
to die laughing.

(Photo by Denis Agati; UnSplash)

 

Pilot Light

There’s a Light
that burns and glows
in You,

like a pilot Light,
fueled by
The Love that
lit up the Cosmos
with a Bang of
pure Joy.

That pilot Light
can never be
extinguished,

but it waits for You
to reach through
whatever
darkness
you may be
hiding in,

imagining
you must hide
Your face,

lest You be seen
before you can
cover it

with some
mask
You bought

when it was
hawked by
one of those
innumerable
masked
religions.

Reach through
the darkness and
flip that switch –

I know
You know
The One –

let that pilot Light
ignite
the Love

that will
show us
Your own

gorgeous
Face.

It’s a Beauty
we’ve been
waiting to
See.

(Photo by Danie Franco; UnSplash)

 

Enough!

How long have You
believed
that Shame
and Guilt and
woeful comparisons to
Your personal
Superheroes

are being used by
The Love
that formed You
from The Light
that blazes from
That Love?

Used to keep You
caught in a
venomous web
of Fear and
Self-betrayal and
toxic Humility
that darkens
Your days and
dims The Light
of The Love that
madly
adores You?

Seriously?

Enough!

Find
What brings You
Joy,
especially the
Joy of Creativity,

clasp it to
Your Self
in an Embrace

that is so tight
it leaves no place
for entry of Anything
but Love’s
unadulterated
Light.

(Photo by Grant Ritchie; UnSplash)

 

Lifetimes

How many Lifetimes
will it take Me
to learn that

I have allowed
that Trickster
that goes
by the name
“Imaginary”
to usurp
the power
of its quieter
sibling,

Imagination.

All That Is
Real
owes its existence to
Imagination,
yet,

Imaginary
cavorts around
pretending to
the throne by
pretending to
the imaginary power of
what’s Unreal.

What has this
dismissive
nonchalance
of the upstart
bully, Imaginary,
cost You
My Friend?

What Reality
have You missed
because
Imaginary dismissed it
as a figment?

I really don’t care
how many Lifetimes
it takes.

I intend
to learn
to Create Reality
with My
Imagination.

(Photo by Tetiana Shyshkina; UnSplash)

 

Who Do I Think I Am?

I was told
I can Be
Whoever
I Think
I Am.

I thought,
“I Am
seven-feet tall and
I can dunk
a basketball
over LeBron James,
with my back
to the basket.”

But I Am
delusional.

I thought,
“I Am
more handsome
than
George Clooney.”

But I Am
confused, and
have mistaken
my computer screen
for a mirror.

I thought,
“I can accumulate
more cash than
Elon Musk.
I Am
a trillionaire.”

But I Am
bored by
Twitter.

Then,

a Thought
became
a Certainty.

I know
I can
write
a poem,

because

I Am a Poet.

(Photo by Brecht Deboosere; UnSplash)