Pilot Light

There’s a Light
that burns and glows
in You,

like a pilot Light,
fueled by
The Love that
lit up the Cosmos
with a Bang of
pure Joy.

That pilot Light
can never be
extinguished,

but it waits for You
to reach through
whatever
darkness
you may be
hiding in,

imagining
you must hide
Your face,

lest You be seen
before you can
cover it

with some
mask
You bought

when it was
hawked by
one of those
innumerable
masked
religions.

Reach through
the darkness and
flip that switch –

I know
You know
The One –

let that pilot Light
ignite
the Love

that will
show us
Your own

gorgeous
Face.

It’s a Beauty
we’ve been
waiting to
See.

(Photo by Danie Franco; UnSplash)

 

Enough!

How long have You
believed
that Shame
and Guilt and
woeful comparisons to
Your personal
Superheroes

are being used by
The Love
that formed You
from The Light
that blazes from
That Love?

Used to keep You
caught in a
venomous web
of Fear and
Self-betrayal and
toxic Humility
that darkens
Your days and
dims The Light
of The Love that
madly
adores You?

Seriously?

Enough!

Find
What brings You
Joy,
especially the
Joy of Creativity,

clasp it to
Your Self
in an Embrace

that is so tight
it leaves no place
for entry of Anything
but Love’s
unadulterated
Light.

(Photo by Grant Ritchie; UnSplash)

 

Lifetimes

How many Lifetimes
will it take Me
to learn that

I have allowed
that Trickster
that goes
by the name
“Imaginary”
to usurp
the power
of its quieter
sibling,

Imagination.

All That Is
Real
owes its existence to
Imagination,
yet,

Imaginary
cavorts around
pretending to
the throne by
pretending to
the imaginary power of
what’s Unreal.

What has this
dismissive
nonchalance
of the upstart
bully, Imaginary,
cost You
My Friend?

What Reality
have You missed
because
Imaginary dismissed it
as a figment?

I really don’t care
how many Lifetimes
it takes.

I intend
to learn
to Create Reality
with My
Imagination.

(Photo by Tetiana Shyshkina; UnSplash)

 

Who Do I Think I Am?

I was told
I can Be
Whoever
I Think
I Am.

I thought,
“I Am
seven-feet tall and
I can dunk
a basketball
over LeBron James,
with my back
to the basket.”

But I Am
delusional.

I thought,
“I Am
more handsome
than
George Clooney.”

But I Am
confused, and
have mistaken
my computer screen
for a mirror.

I thought,
“I can accumulate
more cash than
Elon Musk.
I Am
a trillionaire.”

But I Am
bored by
Twitter.

Then,

a Thought
became
a Certainty.

I know
I can
write
a poem,

because

I Am a Poet.

(Photo by Brecht Deboosere; UnSplash)

 

Mutiny Meditation

When the Soul
that is You
chose a Body
to inhabit –
maybe next
go-round
you’ll take a
little more time;
just kidding –

perhaps You didn’t
foresee the
Mutiny of the Mind
that may have
bound Your Soul

in chains of
Reason,
shackles of
Scientific Method,
handcuffs of
Objectivity.

Now Your Soul
languishes in
solitary
confinement,

while your Mind
busies Itself
collecting
Fears,

as if it’s some
sort of
Numismatist of
Melancholia.

Try this:

Place that Body
comfortably,
probably seated.

Imagine Your
Heart opens
and Light comes
pouring out,

filling Your
Body until it
escapes out
Your pores,
and soon

You are sitting
in a globe
of Light.

Aha!

It is Your
Soul
that has escaped!

Commune
with It,
bathe in It,
douse your
Fears with
gallons of It.

Let’s see
what happens.

(Photo by Daniel Mingook Kim: UnSplash)

 

I Beg of You Holy Ones

Perhaps, like me,
You’ve been
taught that the
Conscious Creativity
that birthed
what We can’t quite
capture or contain
when We say
Love,

That Lover
who warned us
that dividing
the Mind of
Your Beautiful
Soul

into compartments
of Good and Evil
will feel like
Death,

when Your
Adorable Soul
was woven from
Light,
to find Adventures
in the Art of
creating Life

that will never
stop expanding
into Libraries
and Galleries
and Dancehalls
and Theaters
devoted to
Exhibitions
of Beauty

that deny entry
to the Cadres of
uniformed Priests
who have been hired
to place signs
in the aisles
reading
Good or Evil.

Denied entry
because
Exhibitions of Love
have no use
for such signs.

I beg of You
Holy Ones,
take off
Your uniforms and
put on these
robes sewn
from Light.

And, for goodness sake,
let Beauty
burn away
Your Fear.

(Photo by Mateus Campos Felipe; UnSplash)

 

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