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)

 

Ego

Some have Imagined
Themselves
In the Hands of
An Angry God,

With an Ego
the Size of
an Armored Tank,
Demanding
Worship and Obedience,

or Be Blown
To Hell.

But What If
The Only Deity
Is
No Deity at All,
and
Has No Ego,

Only an Avalanche
of Mother’s Adoration
and Sloppy Kiss
Affection

and Father’s
Fierce Desire to Give
Every Gift
He Can Fit
Under the Holiday Tree,

for His
Giggly Toddler.

And What If
You,
a Gleaming Chip
off That Block of
The Divine,

Spent Your Days
Handing Out Kindness
Like Popsicles
on a Summer’s Day,

Explaining to
Your Ego
That You
No Longer Have
Any Need
To Be
Worshipped or Obeyed.

(Photo by Toa Heftiba; UnSplash)

 

Sacrilege

If Man or Woman
Makes the Brazen
Claim that
They Are,

“I Am”
an Expressed
Manifestation of
All That Is,
The Source
of Love and Light and Laughter,

of a Piece with
God
Is Me,

They may be
Indicted by
The Church of
True Religion
for
Idolatrous
Blasphemous
Sacrilege
In the First Degree,

Perhaps Sentenced
to Death
on a Cross
or a Burning Stake.

But What If

the Real Sacrilege

Is to Imagine,
to Preach, or
Teach,
or Judge,
or Love
within Conditions,

That Anything
or Anyone
Is Other
than Divine,
a Beam of
The Light
That Is Forever
Lit.

(Photo by Polina Kuzokova; UnSplash)

 

You Keep Asking

You Keep Asking
The Creator
If You Should

Keep Trying
To Write
That Goofy
Novel

About a Loser
Who’s Spent
a Lifetime
Schlepping
Big Macs and Fries,

After Trashing His
Lawyer License
with Carelessness
and Duplicity
and
His Marriage
with The Same,

Who Tries to
End It All
with an
Overdose of
Balloon Gas,

Who is Met
on The Other Side by
His Boisterous Guides,
Who Send Him Back
to Start
The First Church of
Jeebus,

to Minister to
Other Seeming
Wastrels,

About
How Much
The Creator
Adores Them and
Celebrates Their
Being.

You Keep Asking
The Creator
If You Should

Keep trying
To Write
That Goofy
Novel.

The Creator
Keeps Giving You
The Same Answer,

The Same Answer
Given To All Offspring of
The Creator:

Do You Want To?

(Photo by Nusaseom; UnSplash)