Kids

It’s been Written
that Jesus Said

“Let Those Kids Loose
so They can Come Here and
Be With Me.
After All,
They’re What Heaven
Is All About.”

It’s more Formal
when the King James Posse
Translated It,
But Kids are Kids.

His Apostolic Sidekicks
had been Keeping
The Little Ones
at a Distance,
Imagining They
Would Bother Him.

Instead He Said,
“Pay Attention, Guys,
These are Your
Role Models.”

Consider That.
Contemplate It.
Meditate On It.

We’ve Imagined
Temples and
Priesthoods and
Nunneries and
Leatherbound Libraries,

When The Man,
Himself,
Asks Us to
Turn Loose
The Child
In Us.

To Play,
To Laugh and
Expect To See Magic and
Believe We’ll Be
Cared For.

Was It Just a Metaphor
that I’ve Stretched?

When He Said
To Become
As a Child

Is a Must?

(Photo by Robert Collins; UnSplash)

 

Done

I Am so Done
with Paying Attention
to The High Priests
of Preaching
The Gospel of
the Practice of
Practice,

Until You
Get It Right
and Your Record Book
Reflects Your Rigor,
But doesn’t
Reveal Your Dismay
When You Inevitably
Fall Short

In Your Righteous
Quest To Be
Better than
You Are.

To Be
Like Jesus?

If The Maker
had That in Mind,
Why Not Roll Out
Eight Billion
Perfect Models
from a Mold?

Or Maybe
The Maker
Wanted to Start
a Colony of Artists,

Who Don’t Keep Records,
Whose Joy Is In
Making More Art,
Where the
Only Measure
Is How Much
Fear
Can Be Overwhelmed
By Original Works
of Love.

(Photo by Lin Renais; UnSplash)

 

The Traveler’s Warranty

So Many of Us
were Taught that
Life is like a
University –
Hope You got into
a Good One.

Classes and
Homework and
Exams and
Grading on a Curve.

To Hear Them
Tell It, or
Read Their
Catalogues,

Some of These
Institutions
are Quite
Unforgiving
Toward Those
Who Fail
Their Final Exam.

There could Be
Fire and Brimstone.

Hell to Pay.

But What If

Life Is
More like a
Cruise Ship.

You can even
Choose Your Cruise,
Perhaps Take
More than One!

If You’re
The Adventurous Type
You Can Challenge
Your Self
to the Extreme:

Sidetrips that will
Curl Your Hair,
if not Your Toes.

Be Sure to
Mix It Up a Little,
Some Trips to
Tropical Treasure Islands or
Mountaintops with
Voluptuous Views.

Just Know This:

There’s a Divine
Traveler’s Warranty
That You’ll
Be Brought Home,
Safe and Sound.

You’re One of
The Beloved.

(Photo by Jono Hirst; UnSplash)

 

Works of Heart

All due Respect to
Michelangelo,
but if He’s Reincarnated
as a Ceiling Painter,

I Pray His Next
Paint Job
Will Be on
The Wall of
a Dancehall,

Showing our Maker
with a Big Grin
on Her Face,
Bumping Fists
with My Main Man,
Tom Robbins,
when
The Jitterbug Perfumer
went Home
a few months back.

Enough with the
Deep Solemn Face
Fingerpoint Touching.

I Mean, Seriously . . .
No, Not Seriously . . .

This Is
The Same Maker
Who Showed Up
in This Lifetime

As Fractals of
Her Love and Light and
Laughter Self,

Lighting Up As
The Likes of
Robin Williams and
Gilda Radner and

George Carlin.

Do Your Self
a Divine Favor and
Stop
Seeing Our Maker

as Separate from
Her Divine
Works of Heart.

(Photo from IFC Center)

 

Here Comes the Sun

Imagine
You’ve Been Given
a Home,
The Giver
a Mystery
for Now.

Imagine The Home
with Dozens of
Rooms Filled With
Every Imaginable
Delight:

Dancehalls and
Theaters and
Cafès and
Galleries
Filled With
Beauty and Joy
of Every Possible
Permutation.

But the Palace Is
Dark.

You’ve Been Told,
or You Just
Know,

There’s a Room
With a Piece of
The Sun,
Waiting To
Light All
That Inconceivable
Delight,

But a Switch
Must Be
Turned On, and
You Can’t Seem To
Find It.

Meanwhile, Outside,
Is a Lineup of
Lightbearers,

Offering an Array
of Flashlights,
Each Claiming To
Be The Only Sun
You’ll Ever Need
Inside.

But What If
Their Only Usefulness

Is To Help
You Find
That Lightswitch
to The Sun.

(Photo by Huyền My; UnSplash)

 

Cosmic Con

You May Be
The Victim of
a Cosmic Con.

Were You
InDoctrineTainted
With the Instruction
That Your Adoring
Maker,
Creator of
All That Is
Love
and
Light
and
Laughter,

Made You
Because
He Needed to Be
Worshipped and
Obeyed?

Or Else

You’d Be Roasted
Over Fire and Brimstone,

a Barbecue
Hosted by
a Renegade Angel and
His Demons?

Come Away
from that Non
Sense

Into the Arms of
The One

of Which Your
Soul Is
a Gleaming Fractal,
an Inseperable Ray.

Just Be
There
and Shine,

Showing
The Way
to Escape
The Con.

(Photo by Ricky Turner; UnSplash)

 

Let’s Get Mystical

We Live
On an Earth
Where Our
Theocratic Forebears
Imagined a Garden,
a Paradise,
Where Creatures
Lived Forever.

Man and Beast,
Plant and Animal,
Dancing Together
To the Rhythm
of Dawn and Dusk.

In this Fable,
a Seducer,
a Snake,
Persuades
Man and Woman,
Male and Female,
To Abandon Simply
Being,
Unending Life,
In Favor of
Judging.

Good and Evil,
Separating
The Sheep from The Goats.

But Separation
and Judgment
Birth Fear
and Death.

Where Once Was
Only Love
and Life.

Let Me Dream,
Only for a Moment,
That We Are All
Creatures of the
Love and Light
That Planted
That Garden,

Souls That Have
Lifetimes
To Love Our Ways
Out of the
Nightmare of
Judgment and Separation.

Freed from Fear
By the Knowing
There is Only, Really,
Love.

Let’s Get
Mystical.

(Photo by Global Animal Partnership)

 

Drink Up

The Next Time
You Spend Hours
Sleuthing for
The Perfect
Objet d’Amour,

to Offer to
The One
Who Wrapped
Their Affection
Around Your Soul,
then Wrapped
Your Soul
Around Their Own,

The Next Time
You Search
The Thesaurus of
Adoration

for The Transcendent Tropes to
Trace the Tears Dripping
Onto the Tracks of
Your Pen,

Pause for a Moment to
Catch the Precious
Overflow
In a Cup,

To Be Saved for
a Later Moment,
After the Celebration of
Your Affection.

When that Moment
Appears,
Pick Up the Cup and
Before You
Drink from It

Read the Inscription
Just Beneath the Lip:

“The Creator Who
Wove Your Soul from
Love and Light,
Joy and Laughter,

Is Madly In Love With You.”

 

Birthright Bliss

Do You Have Any Inkling
How Entitled You Are?

Just Because You Are
The Offspring of
The Love and Light and Joy and Laughter
Some Call
The Divine?

Next Time You Are
In the Throes of
Dubious Deprecation,
Convinced You Are
Unworthy,
Ashamed of
The Darkness
You Have Wrapped
Your Self In,
The Fear That
Has Drawn
Your Imaginary Companions of
Sloth and Selfishness and
Other Offspring of
The Necromancy of
Narcissus,

Let Me Remind You
of Your Bill of Birthrights:

You Are Entitled To
Cry Out for
Deliverance,

To Ask to Feel Better,
To Order a
Room Service Delivery
of Undiluted Joy.

Remember,
You Asked for
An Incarnation of
Adventure,
Including Face-offs
With Fear,
To Practice Your
Love Moves,
To Pin Fear
to The Mat
In Righteous
Rassling.

But, Between Matches,
You Are Entitled
to Rest
In a Respite of
Birthright Bliss.

(Photo by Kyle Loftus; UnSplash)

 

Icons

I have a Quibble
with the Caretakers of
Icons,

Mostly Men
Who have Sworn
Allegiance

to a Paradigm of
The Creator of
All That Is

That Is Dead
Serious and
Snow Bearded.

Dark Robed,
Carrying an
Armload of Law Books and
Karmic Records, with
Sentencing Recommendations
Based on Stone Tablets
Hewed from
Mountaintop Granite.

Ask Your Self
What Brings You
Light and Laughter,
Heart Melting
Open Mouth
Jaw Stretching
Joy,

Love Lines Etched
Into Your Cheeks
by Grins
Greedy with Desire
to Wrap Your Self
Around
Your Child or
Your Bodacious Beloved or
Your Furry Four Pawed
Forever Friend.

Perhaps the Icon
for the Creator of
All That

Is
More Like
Lucille Ball than a
Bearded Buddha.