Party Time

If you knew
that You
transcend
Time and Space –

and by You
I mean that
Awareness
that has travelled
the Cosmos of
All That Is,
perhaps even last night,
while that snoring
kept your body
occupied –

when you
wake it up,
consider
throwing
a party,

with your favorite
music and
lots of cake.

Here’s who
I think
you should
invite:

Every
Fear
you can
think of.

I know You have
your Secret List,

but turn on
the Light
and start to
write

invitations,
to be
hand-delivered
to each one.

When they
arrive,
embrace them,
pull them close,
kiss them
on each cheek,
your hand in the
small of their
back.

(Photo by Nicole Herrero; UnSplash)

 

Daydreams of Art School

Perhaps,
as a Young One,
you daydreamed of
Art School,

but your Elders
insisted the Way
to The Top
ran through
laboratories or
law school or
calculus or the
supply and demand
of Economics 101.

But daydreams
can be relentless,
grinning at you
from between the pages
of your beach read, or
beckoning to you
from whatever screen
you use to watch
“Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind,”

until they persuade you
to wake up
in The Mystery,

to see you’ve
only ever been
in Art School,

and there isn’t
a birth or
a death,

a love lost
or beauty found
in hopeless heroics,

transcendence
discovered in some
bungled business
of one kind or another,

that isn’t Being
transformed by
your eyes,
seeing through Love’s Lens,

into a Wondering
how it is
that you
found your Way
into Art School
after All.

(Photo by Barara Froes; UnSplash)

 

Painted Prayers

I imagined Prayer
to be asking for gifts,

of rescue, or
relief,
a check in the mail,
a cure,
an answer to a
perilous puzzle,
a locked door
opened by
Magic.

But what if
that hole in
my bank account,
that crack that
hitches my git-along,
that coruscating
conundrum,
that bang-proof
iron gate,

are precious paint?

What if
I should pray for
a dream,

while I’m still
awake,

where my days
are a canvas,
my Imagination
a brush,

and I see how
to spend my days
making Art
with painted
prayers?

(Photo by Alfred Leung; UnSplash)

 

Keeping Score

You may be an
addict.
I know I am.

Addicted to
keeping score,
even when
I don’t want to.

I’m not just
talking about
counting
chocolate chip
cookies.

Everything.

Have I been
sitting here
too many
minutes?

Is an hour
to wait for
an image
to appear
too long?

I wonder if
a real poet
could get there
in thirty-seven
minutes,

so as not to
steal minutes
a productive
person
could count on
for vacuuming.

Could I up
the output to
three poems
a week?

You may have been
sentenced to
life imprisonment
for your addiction,
by the scorekeeping
judges.

But what if
I told you
I believe
I found
a doorway to
freedom?

It opens
for you
right there
where you sit
on the couch.

Follow the sound
of souls laughing

when they
follow the Light
at the end of
a dark tunnel,

to a place
where
Awareness
stretches forever,
in all directions –
you can’t
count it –

and is handing out
love potions,
custom made
to suit what
you fancy,

and no one
is keeping score.

(Photo by Nathan Shively; UnSplash)

 

Question In a Question

A favorite
teacher asks:

“Is the writing
you’re offering
what you most
want to offer?”

To which I reply:

Aha!

I see the question
in the question:

“Am I being
Who
I most
want to
be?”

But the answers
seem to me
to be quite
different.

In writing,
I choose this,
not that,
(though
the choice
always feels
predestined.)

As for me,
Being Who
I most
want to Be
was Answered
Infinities ago,

when the
Ocean
contained
in each drop
that we are
said
I Am.

* * * * *

Thank you to
a favorite teacher,
Bill Kenower.
(https://www.authormagazine.org/
editorsblog/2022/10/20/great-expectations)

* * * * *

“Ocean in a drop” by Persian Poet
Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi

* * * * *

(Photo by Terry Vlisidis; UnSplash)

 

It Doesn’t Matter

You were taught
that there’s a
Judgment Day,

now every day’s
a judgment day,
and you’re
guilty.

You’ve written
the indictment
a thousand
times:

Too many
Counts
to count,

and you’re
guilty,
at least
you feel
that way.

Every day.

It’s why
you keep a
certain
distance

between
you and
Them,

because a
conversation
seems more
like a
cross-examination,

a close encounter
likely to
become a
jury verdict.

I have
a gift
for you.

I’ve learned
there is no
prosecutor,

no Judge,
no Jury.

Only an
ocean of
adoration.

Dive deep,
let it take
your breath
away.

A single
drop
has enough
creativity
for you to
invent
a thousand
ways

to show us
how to
turn our
guilty pleas

into a
Hallelujah
Chorus

that sings
out,
count-by-count,

“You’re beloved,
it doesn’t
matter.”

(Photo by Andre Hunter; UnSplash)

 

Self-Examination

It’s only been
ten minutes
since your last
self-examination,

but I guess
you can squeeze
You into your
schedule at
5:30 a.m.
in your
exam room
there on the
left side of
the bed.

Starting at
the top of
your chart:

Your habit of
moving everything
on your “To Do” List
from “Today” to
“Tomorrow”
remains
chronic
and
untreated.

Your diet of
pop tarts and
Dr. Pepper
is in need of
urgent review.

Your productivity
numbers
are still in
single digits.
(See “To Do” List.)

Walking to
the kitchen
to refill your
coffee cup
between chapters
isn’t considered
“Exercise”
until you’re
a few years
older.

We know
you’ll want to
be back in the
exam room
at 5:45,
for another
self-examination,

but perhaps
we can save you
a trip:

The Committee
of Angels
assigned to
attend you

reports that
you are
exactly
who You
meant to be.

You’re going
to live
forever.

(Photo by Tatiana Rodriguez; UnSplash)

 

In Character

It’s good to
stay in character,
for the sake of
the Tragicomedramedy
we all begged
The Director to
let us play in.

It’s even fun to
“lose your Self
in the part.”

We love the
authenticity of
your tears,
your fears,
your leers,
your cheers
when you
make us feel
what you feel.

But help me
remember,
and I’ll help
you:

We’re drama kids,
from a family
that loves
each other
more than
anything,

even more than
we love
being characters,

so don’t let me
forget that
being a lazy,
sometimes
offputting,
putter-offer
is just a part
I’m playing,

and I won’t let you
forget you’re
even more
beautiful
than that
temptress
getting better
with every
performance,

and, above all,
we’ll remember
that we’re
so much more than
the sum of
our parts.

(Photo by Ahmad Odeh; UnSplash)

 

Confession

If confession is,
in fact,
good for
the Soul,
I’m going to
do my Soul
a solid
and confess

to a sordid
practice of
treating Gifts
from The Mystery,

those dazzling
discoveries
that arrive
gift-wrapped in
flamboyant
joy,

as if they are
luminescent
butterflies,
to be captured
and pinned to
some prideful
collection,

to be trotted out
for display
to unsuspecting
guests,

instead of
exclaiming
over them
as they flitter
around fanning
delight,

then grinning
into the breeze
that trails them

as they are
swept away
by sunlight.

(Photo by Sagar Kulkarni; UnSplash)

 

DIY

I have not been,
generally speaking,
a Do-It-Yourself-er.

When walls
require paint,
I look for
a Painter,
with a Capital P,
that stands for
Professional.

So, I suppose
it stands
to reason that,
in the past,
when I required
that rush of
Revelation

that comes
when you
connect with
the You

who has a
Room in
The Mystery,

I went looking
for a Guide,
with a Capital P,
that stands for
Preacher or
Prophet or
Professor.

While I don’t wish
to deny them
their credentials,

these days I
find myself
enchanted
by the notion
that I don’t need
a Professional
to connect with
my Self.

I’ve always had
the Key to
my Room in
The Mystery.

And, when I
meet my Self
in there,

if it feels
like fun
to paint the walls
another color,

I know I can
Do-It-My-Self,
thank you
very much.

(Photo by Flow Clark; UnSplash)