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)

 

Operator’s Manual

When The Maker
Carved You
out of
Its Own Light,
with Instruments
of Love,
Unadulterated by
Condition or
Whisper of Judgment,

You were Given
a Book
called
Operator’s Manual for Light Beings.

When You were
Old enough to
Read,
and Cared
a Whit
about Reading,

You Opened It
to Find
Blank Pages.

For Years Now
You’ve Waited,

Sometimes with
Quiet Patience,
Often with
Noisy Busy Impatience,

for The Maker
to Make
Magic Words Appear
on the Pages.

When will It
Dawn on You

that The Maker Shines
with Bright Eagerness
to See

What You
Will Write
On Those Pages?

(Photo by Clay Banks; UnSplash)

 

Baby’s Breath

You Rise,
hours before
the Sun,

Desperate to spend Them
Imploring
The Being that
Lit your Being,

to Rescue You
from The Black Hole
of Self-Accusing Blame
for The Shame

of Your Deficient Performance,
Playing Your Part
in this Dramacomedy
You Begged
to be Cast In.

Hours later,
still Gut-Wrenched
with the
Nausea of Narcissus,

Still Begging
The Light
for Relief,

You are Self
Medicating with
Molasses Cookie and
Coffee Shop Caffeine,

When,
two Tables away,
a Smiling Mother
Holds Her Recently
Arrived Infant
on Dada’s Shoulders,

while The Babe
weaves Fingers
through His Hair,
and leans forward
to Blow Smooches
between Her Fingers.

Your Eyes Swim,
and Every Passerby
has Divine Shine.

Your Shame Is
No Match for
The Flame of
Adoration.

 

Anger Management

I Find My Self
Infuriated
by the Old
Familiar Preachment,

That I Must
Fear
God

Who can not only
Kill My Body
but Cast It and
My Soul
into Hell.

That’s The Gospel.

According to Matthew.

My Infuriation
Arises from
A Knowing

That My Beneficent
Maker
Is The Light of
a Trillion Suns

Made of
The Love of
a Mother
Cuddling and Coddling
a Toddler

Pulled In Close and
Smothered With
Bubbly Kisses,

The Adoration of
a Father
Forgiving
a Wayward Son

With a Lavish Feast and
a Replacement Check
for the Inheritance
He Wasted.

I Am Infuriated
By The Lie
That My Maker’s
Cherishing

Is Rotted by
Condition or Judgment.

But I Have Signed Up for
a Divine
Anger Management Course.

The Maker Smiles
and Reminds Me
that I Can
Love That Preacher
Anyway.