Give It a Rest

So God sits down
on the Seventh Day
to rest,
(though Time is of no Essence.)
Cup of coffee and
cinnamon roll in hand,
surveying the
Extravaganza.

Over yonder
a tower of giraffes
loping the savanna,
beyond that
the North Rim of the Canyon,
just before you get to
soon-to-be
Waikiki,
on the way to Mount Fuji.

Circle back to
Jimi at Monterrey Pop,
hop over to the Globe where
Will is doing a dress rehearsal
of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Down there Socrates is
handing out programs,
over here Dr. J
is slammin’
from the free-throw line.

Speaking of which
God slams down her
cup so hard it cracks.

Who in Hell
are these fools
going around with
a spray can painting
“Sacred” or “Profane,”
“Holy” or “Worldly”
all over
everything?

 

We Must Insist

Why on earth
would you settle
for “reality?”

At the very least,
upon arising,
insist that your reality
clothe itself in
garments of Mystery,

so the atmosphere
around you is thick
with
spirits and sprites,
angels and the
soulfulness of creatures,
the furry ones and
the green leafy ones.

And, while we’re on it,
Beloved Ones,

why on earth
would you settle
for only nature and “natural,”
when “artifice”
doesn’t only beget “artificial,”
but gives birth to
artisans and artists

who weave
those garments
of Mystery
we must insist upon.

(Photo Credit: Christina Spiliotopoulou)

 

Measuring Up

Let’s say
you are walking
a trail called Mystery,
new to you,

toward the sound
of rushing water.

You come upon
a stream,
carelessly diving
a hundred feet
into a pool.

Would you pick
a wildflower,
perhaps a calypso bulbosa,
a fairy slipper,
and try to measure
the velocity of a waterfall,
one plucked petal
at a time?

And yet you measure
your morning,
spent trifling
with words
on a page,

falling far short
of the number of
industrious retorts
from the nailgun
across the street.

(Photo credit, Michael Massi, via Flickr)

 

Listmaking

I’m making an
incomplete list of
The Intoxicating and
Mysterious Luminosity of
What Is.

Maybe I’ll start with
The Spotted Cat Club,
Frenchmen Street,
New Orleans.
I think I’ll end with
Jailhouse Rock, Elvis,
before white leather and sequins.

Somewhere, in between,
weddings and wedding nights,
births and deaths,
big white dogs and
calico cats,
the Salish Sea,
the astonishment of bodies.

Someone singing at the foot of
the Eiffel Tower
at midnight on the Seine.

(Go ahead, make your own list.)

Now I will divide the list,
religiously,
like God, it is said, will divide
the sheep from the goats,
the sacred from the profane,
the saved from the lost.

Or, maybe,
I’ll see what happens
if I don’t.