Inexplicable

There are some
wild theories
about the Creator,

like the one where
there is only
an inexplicable
Bang,
with a billion
permutations
until You
latched on
to Your Mother’s
breast.

But I’ll tell You Mine,

where the Creator
is like Your Mother

when You
wrote that poem
or
rescued that spider
or
told that joke
that made the principal
smile
when You were
sent to her office
for something
You didn’t do,
but You couldn’t
rat on
the lonely boy
who did.

The Creator
smiled too, and
loved You
as much as
Your Mother,

and has since
that inexplicable
Bang.

(Photo by Gabe Pierce; UnSplash)

 

Gallery Walk

Canyon Road,
Santa Fe,
Galleries of

Love
stroked on canvas
with brush kisses,

Soul
sculpted into
metal and rock
with hands
dipped in
Ambrosia of
Heart.

Took me back
to the day before,
sitting in an
airport cafe,

worshipping
the Maker’s Art
in the shape of
every One-of-a-Kind
Face.

A Gallery
walking past
my table,

every bit as
heaven-sent as
The Bliss of
Canyon Road.

(Photo by Rostyslav Savchyn; UnSplash)

 

Brown Paper Wrapping

I was beyond despair,
descending into
a cesspool of
self-doubt
approaching
the snakery of
self-loathing.

I cried out for
divine deliverance,
and my prayer was
as clear as my breath
that breathed it:

“God,
or whatever Name
You’re using,
I need help
of the Heavenly sort,
wrapped in Power
and tied with
Ribbons of Wisdom
drawn from
The Wells of Eternity,
where there is
no Beginning and
no End.”

Next day
The Man In the Brown Truck
delivered a package.

Inside was
another package,
wrapped in the
plainest brown paper.

Nevertheless,
my Heart was Lit.
I knew I had
my Answer.

I tore with
trembling fingers.

A Gift from
The Creator of
All That Is!

Love, Light, Laughter!

I held it
in my hands
and stared at
my Face
in a mirror.

(Photo by Jess Bailey; UnSplash)

 

Bear Hug

Did you imagine
that Good and Evil
are Enemies?

That in Your
flagrant peccadillos
and frequent follies,
your glaring perfidies
and feckless failures,

You have taken
up the flag
of Love’s Nemesis,

and, wittingly or not,
signed on with
The Devil’s Legions?

Does this haunt You
into the long, dark
hell halls of Fear?

I’m learning to
let Love’s Laughter
chase the Legions
from My Imagination,
like shadows
from scarecrows.

There is nothing but Love!

And the Names
We Deify It with.

And Love loves
to play
Hide and Seek
with Us
when We fear
We have lost It.

It’s an Adventure
that draws
The Map of Love
into every
Corner of the Cosmos,

where Fear
has been hiding,

imagining It was
The Enemy,
when all along
all You needed to do
was embrace It
out of It’s corner,

until Love
sneaks up behind It
and wraps It
in a Bear Hug.

(Photo by Liz Fitch; UnSplash)

 

Saxophone Meditation

Imagine You have
entered a
concert hall,
and the Musicians
are tuning Their
instruments.

It’s a cacophony
of hums and pitches,
bows buzzing strings,
tremolos trailing
across cascades of
brassy belltones.

You sit quietly
in a corner and
begin to settle
into the Sounds,

silently stepping
Your Way
through them,
until You are
enticed by a single
tenor saxophone.

You spot
The Player,
leaning forward,
swaying a little,
hugging the
slow dance of
Leonard Cohen’s
“Hallelujah.

You close Your eyes
into darkness and
wrap Your Self around
every note,
until it’s
All You Hear.

Are You
finally, finally
learning to
Meditate?

(Photo by Gracious Adebeyo; UnSplash)

 

The Gift

I coveted
the Gifts
I saw in
Other Souls.

Some can dance
until roses
burst forth
at Their feet.

Some can paint
with brush strokes
that come alive
and wrap themselves
around Our eyes
with naked skin
that awakens
the Holiest of
Desires.

Some can play
Their instruments
with fingers
so full of Divine
Fire
Our ears
become stars
that light
Our Hearts
into a Cosmos
of Love that
leaves Us
breathless.

Then The Giver of
such Gifts
asked Me this:

Why do You covet
What You already have?

I’ve made Words
just for You.

Use these Words
to Ask Your
fellow Beings:

Have You opened
The Gift made
just for You?

(Photo by Kira Aufderheide; Unsplash)

 

Jesus Likes His Coffee Strong

I imagined Jesus
showing up
at my front door,
expecting to join me
for a cup of coffee.

He claims I
invited him over,
but I don’t recall it.

So, I close the novel
I’m reading –
he notes the title and
says, “Yeah,
that’s a good one,” –

and I fill my 
second-favorite cup
and set it
in front of him,

the one that says
“Live like it’s all
made out of heaven.”

Perfect.

He grins and says,
“It is, you know,”
and holds up a palm.
We high five.

I apologize for
how strong I’ve
made the coffee,
but he flashes
another grin and says,
“It’s made out of heaven.”

He seems to have
a bit of something
caught in his teeth,
but I can’t bear
to tell him.

We talk politics –
he insists even that
is covered by the
Coffee Cup Rule –
and I am
speechless.

We cover sports
and the weather
and movies and sex.

If I get agitated he
points to The Cup.

After an hour or so
he takes his leave.

He gives me
a shoulder hug and
calls me “Bro” and
off he goes.

I have a new
favorite Coffee Cup.

(Photo by Jon Tyson; UnSplash)

 

Persona Non Grata

There are parts
of Your Persona
that You
abhor.

You say that’s
much too strong
an epithet,
that You simply
hide Them in
the closet
because
They misbehave
when guests
come over.

Especially the
One that is too
lazy to fix
the toilet that
hasn’t flushed properly
in years.

Too sedentary
to walk more
than the length of
two couches,

too intent on
contemplation
to consider
pulling a few weeds
from a patch of
pale nasturtiums
that haven’t been
properly tended
in years.

Admit it:

A time or two
You even contemplated
Your non-existence
as a merciful
alternative to
feeding and clothing
those indolent
sub-parts.

May I ask You
to consider
a Path to
Joy?

Even for a moment?
Even if You must
hike this Path
again and again?
(You will.)

Send a personal
invitation
to those malingerers.
Style it like a
Valentine.

Invite Them to
a shindig of
Love and Mercy.

Where You will
celebrate Them
with so much
affection

They will embrace You
and ask if
there’s anything
They can Do
for You.

You can smile
and pull out
Your List.

(Photo by Nik Shuliahin; UnSplash)

 

Secret Society

When you daydreamed
that Spark of
desire to Create
that Beauty of a
Thing You’d offer
Us, as a
Gift wrapped in
Your flesh and bone,

when that Spark
burst into Light,
You carefully
hid it from
curious eyes,
imagining that
You alone
would labor with
Love,

to handcraft it
into Something
We would receive
with as much
fervor as You
breathed into it.

That You imagined
You were hiding
Love’s Labor
is a fountain
of mirth,

where Love has
a million
marvelling Minions,
call them
Angels or
Beings of Light,
hiding in
plain sight
as Your neighbors,

a Secret Society of
Your Fellow Creators,
with lifetimes
spent
admiring
Your Work.

(Photo by Zaur Giyasov; UnSplash)

 

The Soul of a Rose

Imagine You plucked
The Perfect Rose,
the color of
a rare
petit syrah,

to preside over
the table
presenting The Dinner
marking a Decade of
The Perfect Love.

Moments before
Your Lover arrives,
You notice
The Rose
bears the marks of
a hungry insect
on several of its
perfect leaves,
and on its
perfect petals
the scuffings of
a buzzing bee, or
a hovering hummingbird.

Aghast,
you spy the sticky
trail of a snail,
where no snail
ought to be.

Too late!
Your Lover is here,
and buries the
tip of her nose
amid the
marks and scuffings,

declaring
She loves The Rose
nearly as much as
She loves You.

Imagine
You and I
agree to see
our everlasting Souls
to be as
Perfect as that
Perfect Rose.

(Photo by Engin Akyurt; UnSplash)