Creation

When I speak of
The Creator
It’s You
I’m thinking of,
and my own
Self,

since There Is
Nothing but
The Creator,

Whom some call
All That Is and
some call
Love.

Which is why
when You
set forth to
Create
that poem
or that canvas
overlayed
with shimmering
images or
that dance
playing
holy havoc
with Your hips or
that song
breathing heat
drawn from
Your beating
heart,

You can be
certain
it is already
there, waiting
for You to
reach in,
pull it out, and
embrace it,

since There Is
Nothing but
The Creator,
All That Is,
Love,

You have nothing
to fear.

(Photo by Ahmad Odeh; UnSplash)

 

The Rock Star and The Rabbi

A Beatle
once said,
“All You need
is Love.”

A renegade Rabbi
said,
“Love One Another
as You
Love Your Self.”

Friend,
how much clearer
do You need it?

You’ve been
instructed by
John and Jesus –
who cares who’s
more popular? –
to Love
Your Self.

Your habitual
gambits –
shame and
comparing Your Self
to that List
of nominees
for the
Hard Workers Hall of Fame –
are useless here.

The Rabbi and the Beatle
are adamant:

You must
Love You.

The Real You.

And that’s just
The Beginning.

Now you can be
a Rock Star Rabbi.

Now You can teach Us
how to Love
Our Selves.

Let’s get this
party
started.

 

Wise Guys

Some spiritual
Wise Guys,
the same religious
Mafiosi who
insisted on
calling the
Burning Love
that blew Itself
into All That Is

“God”

as if such
Incandescence
is of the same
rank and order as
Thor and Zeus and
Aphrodite and
Hades,

those same
Wise Guys
insist
that to be
afraid of
“God”
is the birthplace
of what they call
Wisdom.

If they were within
a heavenly mile of
Wisdom
they would know that

It begins with
Love
that wants to
pull You close and
kiss Your
face

until You breathe
enough of It
that You know

the very idea
there is a
“God”
who wants to
keep You frightened

is the only
Hell
that ever
existed.

(Photo by Ariful Rahman; UnSplash)

 

Asking for a Friend

Who is braver,
that squirrel
tightroping
across Your
clothesline,
or
that spider
dangling by
a filament
the size of
a baby’s hair?

What is more beautiful,
a rosebud
sprinkled by pollen
the color of moondust
or
a string of bubbles
filled with a
breath
blown by Your
first grandchild?

What sounds more heavenly,
the cry of
the Great Grey Owl
or
the melody
floating through
Your neighborhood
from the bell
of a tenor sax
being blown
by the white-haired
sole survivor
of a trio
that used to play
in Paris,
who now lives
next door?

Speaking of heaven,
is is said that
St. Peter guards
the gate.

Who gets in,
You
or
St. Francis of Assisi?

Photo by Maryna Nikolaieva; UnSplash

 

Pebbles and Dust

Hats off to the
Poets and Painters
Who help us see
the Beauty

in even the
small,
ordinary
pebble
lodged
between the
soles of
Your foot and
Your sandal.

It’s a gift
to know how
to find
beauty
even there.

But what of
the dust
beneath
Your sandal?

From which,
an ancient penman
wrote,
The Creator
formed
Your frame
and blew
Life
into it.

The Truth
in this bit
of fancy
is this:

Even dust
beneath
Your feet
bears more
than Beauty.

All That Is
touched by
the Breath of
The Divine

must also be
called
Beloved.

(Photo by Andre Alexander; UnSplash)

 

Be The Moon

You Love
The Light.

It’s the Sun,
it’s the blue waters
of Oahu,
or Jamaica,

the delight of
bare skin
on sand, or
on a beach towel,
with a book.

You Fear
The Dark.

It’s a pair of
orange eyes,
staring at You
from the end
of the beam of
Your flashlight,
when You’re
walking with
Your dog.

But don’t You Love
The Mystery of
The Moon?

When Light
spills over
The Dark
in Ways and
Hues that
Poets and Musicians
can’t get
enough of?

Be The Moon.

(Photo by Aron Visuals; UnSplash)

 

A Gnat’s Shadow

Sometimes
You behave as if
You’re serving
a life sentence
for the crime of
being You.

No possibility of
parole, and
You’ve made
the rest of us
Your probation officers,

especially
the ones who
imagine
they are
assigned, or
deserve to be,
the assayers
of Your guilt
or innocence,

beginning with
Your parents,
then Your
teachers and
preachers and
bosses and
spouses,

as if they were
appointed by
some celestial
court of
last resort,

when, in fact,

Your Being
is made of
Light,

a Flame
that scorns
the Shame
that wrote Your
sentence

like a
butterfly
scorns
a gnat’s
shadow.

(Photo by Calvin Mano; UnSplash)

 

Smite My Forehead

Smite my
forehead,
I’ve had it all
wrong.

I’ve imagined
a Maker
Whom I
was meant to
search for,

in meditations, or
sacred libraries, or
kneel-in
prayer closets.

As if He, She –
okay, THEY –
intended our
lives to be
one
long
game
of Hide-and-Seek.

I may have
found
something:

Perhaps
the Maker
longs to
look for
Us,

in our
goofy romances,
our
sweaty games,
our
brush-stroked paintings,
our
dervish dances,
our
Marvel movies,
our
beautiful, beautiful
Books.

Perhaps
our Maker
adores Us
so much
They want
nothing more
than to see
What
We can
Make.

(Photo by Ari He; UnSplash)

 

Standing Ovation

Imagine You’re
the Playwright of
Your Life,

You scripted it
before You ever
came onstage.

Of course
You planned
to play Your
way through
risky
Improvisations,

after all,
who doesn’t love
a Mystery?

Other Players
share Your stage,
there’d be
no Show
without Them,

Some play
Heroes,
Some play
Crooks,

next time –
there’ll be a
next time,
You all love
Theater –

next time
maybe You’ll
play the Crook,
or maybe
You’ll die
in the second act
and bring Your
audience to
tears.

You’ve been told
Your Play
will be reviewed
by a Critic
who thinks
He’s God,

but that’s a Lie
and here’s the Truth:

It’s The One
who leapt up
when You took
your bow,

who set off
a standing ovation,

The One who
can’t wait to
see Your next
Show,
who’s loved
Everything You’ve done.

That’s The One
some call
God.

(Photo by Anthony Delanoix; UnSplash)

 

It’s Just a Train Whistle

Every morning,
around 4 a.m.,
a train whistles
into my head
and stops
somewhere behind
my closed eyes.

Without hesitation
I board and
off we go.

The landscape
we roll through
is as familiar as
my damp pillow.

Billboards
spelling out
every adventure
I missed
because I feared
the effort or
thought I smelled
danger.

Neon signs
vivid with the
panoramas
of every misadventure
I didn’t avoid
because I
closed my eyes
and laid my head
back on the
couch cushion.

Fields of
dreams I
planted,
but wandered off
and someone else
picked the fruit and
plucked the flowers.

I ride this train
nearly every day,
but I’m thinking
I do too much thinking.

Today could be
the day
I see the train
coming and
wave it through
without stopping.

Why do I imagine
I must
get onboard?

Awhile ago
I received
a message

that I’m
adored
by the Maker of
All That Is,

inviting me to
remember
I have lifetimes
of Adventures
awaiting,
acres of
landscapes
where dreams
can be planted.

I don’t need
to keep
taking that train.

(Photo by Brian Suman; UnSplash)