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)

 

Champagne

A moment
will come
when you will
taste the
champagne
that celebrates
the Cosmos of
adoration and delight
that is What Is.

It may be when,
after a period of
bewilderment,
you see that
what you must do
is spend a day
with the one who
has bewildered you,

dazzling them
with unadulterated
moonshine kindness
and affection
cleverly disguised as
one favor after another.

You will
be tempted
to turn it into
a Hallmark Moment,

and write yourself
a congratulatory
card,

as if you have
discovered
a cure
for bewilderment.

Resist.

Remind yourself
that bewilderment
is nothing but
thirst.

And there is plenty
of champagne
to go around.

(Photo by Alevision Co.; UnSplash)

 

Treatment

We don’t even
attempt to hide
our addiction to
Judgment,

our stashes of
assessments and
evaluations and
measurement-by-measurement
comparisons,

our secret
compartments of
critiques and
castigations and
condemnations,

especially the ones
we’ve hoarded
for our Selves,

to be consumed
in secret,
along with a
cocktail
or two of
self-pity, or
renunciation.

If you
grow tired
of captivity
you might
consider
treatment.

It’s offered by
the Love Maker
whose idea
of a good time is

dousing your
judgments
in 100-proof
affection,

setting them
ablaze with
flames of
approval
that consume
your condemnations
with enough
warmth and
light

to keep you
creating
adventures
for your Soul
that will
entertain us
in places
Judgment never
heard of.

(Photo by Klara Kulikova; UnSplash)