By Their Fruit

So the story
is that
The Creator
planted a
beautiful garden
for his two
adult children,
Adam and Eve,

with gorgeous
flowers and
fruitbearing trees,
including one
with especially
luscious
fruit
the two
were forbidden
to eat.

“If you disobey,”
he said,
“you’ll learn the
difference
between
good and evil,
because
I’ll throw
you out of
the garden
and you will
die.”

“Why?
Because I said so.”

Entire
world religions
have been built
around this
tale,
bulging with
the muscle of
“because I said so.”

It’s mid-morning
on a coffee and
cinnamon roll
Saturday.

I hear a knock
on my door.
I open it to
find a pair
of bright-eyed
young men in
business attire.

They hand me
a tract
on which
is printed
“God Loves You.”

“Also,” one of them
says, smiling,
“we have some
luscious fruit
for you.”

“No,
thank you,”
I say,
“I’ve had
my fill
of
that fruit.”

(Photo by Katherine Hood)

 

I Am

When I have
gone about
in decades past,

it has been
most often
incognito,

“identity
concealed,
to avoid
notice or
formal
attentions.”

Seeking
invisibility.

These days
I have begun
to bear inner
witness that

It Is Written:
When asked
to produce
identification,
The Creator
replied,

“I Am that
I Am.”

I no longer
imagine that
I have any
less
authority than
the Creator,

to go about
full cognito,
to reply,
when asked,

I Am that
I Am.

(Photo by Sue Gillard)

 

Clown Car of Camaraderie

If I was in a
confessional,
I would say

forgive me,
Creator of
All That Is,
for I have
sinned.

I have made you
into a stern
and frightful
parent,
carrying a rod,
lest you spoil
this errant
child.

I have feared
you,
which I
twisted into
fear of the
Unknown,
the great
Killer of
Curiosity,
and the Builder
of Stone Walls
to contain
my fear of
other people.

Please forgive me.

All you have
desired is
to be a Celestial
Ringmaster,

introducing me
to the
fear-smothering
Flying Circus
of Amazement
and Amusement,

with special
appearances
by my
friends and neighbors,
who want
nothing more
than to
invite me
to come out
from behind
my walls
and
join them in
their Clown Car
of Camaraderie,
as we speed
into
The Mystery.

(Photo by Ashly Araya; UnSplash)

 

The Bouncer

You keep
showing up
at the Doorway
To the Mystery
wearing
the wrong
clothes.

You heard
that’s where
The Good Stuff
is, but the
Bouncer won’t
move aside.

The Music and
the Poetry and
the Stories and
the Dancing
beckon you,

but you’re
wearing
the wrong
clothes.

Yesterday
you showed up
dressed as
The Man
Who Wasted
His Life.

One time
you showed up
wearing your
“I’ll Never
Get It Done”
costume.

This morning
you were
turned away
because you
insisted on
wearing
that ridiculous
“I’m Too Old”
getup,
moving along
like you were
made of slowly
drying
cement.

Listen to me:

Try appearing
at the Doorway
To the Mystery
as Your Self,
in that
black hoody
and those cat hair
covered sweatpants.

No costumes.

And tell the
Bouncer
you were born
in The Mystery.

Watch him
step aside
and wave
you
in.

(Photo by Abhay Singh; UnSplash)

 

Guidance

Sometimes I throw out
a casting call
for a
Celestial Being

to play the part of
Guidance Counsellor
in the
One Act Play
I’m calling
“Should I
Keep Trying
To Write
This Novel
That Doesn’t Seem
To Be Going
Anywhere?”

If any Angels
have shown up
to audition,
they’ve been invisible
and apparently
reluctant to
read for the part
out loud.

But, a day
or so ago
I thought I heard
a whisper:

“Just don’t quit
on it.”

I tried to
follow up,
but they
didn’t leave a
cellphone number.

C’mon,
I could have gotten
that advice
from a matchbook cover
or a fortune cookie.

But I began
to recall
some times
I didn’t quit,
like

trying to write
a poem,

or looking for
a place
surrounded by
the sea,
with a haunted
castle and
its own
film festival,

or how about this:

looking for
The One
on the couch
across from me,
before I knew
she existed.

 

Sunday Morning

So the Creator
broadcasts
Them/Her/Him
Self
into the yearning,
welcoming
Abyss,
as an Infinite
Playlist of
Creatures
in a cosmic
theater
with sets and
props that
stun the
Imagination
of the Creatures
into becoming
Creators
Themselves.

On a Sunday morning,
pen to paper.
on my favorite end
of the couch,

I remember
when my
Sunday mornings
were spent
on a wooden
bench
in a steepled
building,

reading from
a script
that divided
The Divine
into what was
in that building
and everything else.

Forgive me.

(Photo by Alexander Andrews; UnSplash)

 

Let Me Show You To Your Room

When you
were born
you were given
a Key
to a Room.

But you were
Small, and
maybe you lost it,
or Somebody Big
may have taken it
from you.

“For safekeeping”
they said, or
maybe they
feared
what you might do
in that Room.

Sometimes,
for reasons
that were
a Mystery
to you,
you found the
door ajar.

If curiosity,
or desire,
overcame
fear,
or shame,

you slipped
inside
and were
bedazzled.

There were
bristled art brushes
and fine tip ink pens
and thick paper
and electric guitars
and dancing shoes.

If you were
bold you
may have
stayed and
played awhile,

then demanded
the Big Ones
give you back
your Key, or
you may have
found
where you
lost it.

Or you may have
decided you
weren’t meant to
have a Key,

the Room
belongs to
someone else.

No.
That Room
belongs to
you.

If you can’t
find your Key,
find a
locksmith.

Or just
break down
the door.

Then come and go
as you please.
And stay
as long as
you want.

(Photo by Amol Tyagi; UnSplash)

 

Epiphany On Aisle 6

Let’s say
you pray
to your favorite
Deity.

Even if that
Deity
is Consciousness
ItSelf.

You want
to know
The Truth
about
What Is.

Minutes later
you’ve parked
your car
and you’re
pushing
a cart
down the aisles
of your
customary
grocery store.

But you feel
as if
The Mystery
has descended
and you’re moving
through It.

Every Being
you encounter
is radiant
with the
promise
of a feature length
movie,
just about
Them.

You hate
small talk,
but you know
that Anything
they would say
to you,
and you
to them,
would be
teeming with
Meaning.

You sense
the presence of
angels,
hovering nearby,
egging you on.

Your prayer
has been
Answered.

(Photo by Joshua Rawson Harris; UnSplash)

 

Duct Tape Litmus Test

I open the
refrigerator door
and someone
standing nearby
laughs.

Months ago a
shelf broke and
was repaired with
duct tape.

Now I must
decide:

Will I feel
shame that
I have
allowed a
major appliance
to be held
together by
duct tape?

What sort of
handy
man
would do that?

Do I swiftly
close the door
and act as if
the bystander
didn’t see
What Sort of
Man
I Really
Am?

Or do I
smile
beatifically,
aglow with
divine
nonchalance,

open
the freezer
door,
and point to
another
duct-taped
shelf?

Because the
Duct Tape
Litmus Test
will reveal
my proximity
to
Satori.

 

You Got the Part!

If Will S.
was right, and
the world’s a stage –
I believe he was –

let’s put on
a show,
You and I!

Is there a
character
you’ve always
wanted to play,

but all the
casting directors
have passed you
over,
including the
Most Critical One:
You?

Arise.
Step up
or sit down
and write
your own
damn play.

This time
cast your
Self –
you don’t
have to
audition –
as exactly
the character
you want
to play.

(By the way,
there’s a reason
they call it a
PLAY.)

Now
practice,
practice,
practice.

BE
that character.
Walk the part,
talk the part,
dress the part.

I predict
it won’t be long
before
the reviews
come in:

“You know,
That One is
a Real
Character.”

(Photo by Angel Origgi; UnSplash)