100-Proof

I searched
in vain
for the origin
of this pernicious
phraseology:

“Prepare to Meet
your Maker.”

This hanging
threat of
judgment
that has been
distilled to a
toxic brew and
served to every
Soul,
in one flavor or
another,
sometimes by
fathers and mothers,
sometimes teachers,
often paycheck writers,
and gangs of
preachers.

100-Proof Fear.

The closest
I came to
the roots
of this poison

were planted in a
Garden of Eden,
tended by a
Maker
imagined to be
angered by a
couple
of humans
audacious enough
to smack
their lips
on forbidden
fruit.

I know
a better story,

of a renegade
son,
probably drunk
on Fear,
who fled home
with full pockets,
only to come
shambling
back,
empty pockets
now filled with
pig pen filth,

Prepared to
Meet his Maker,

who came
bearing gifts
of Welcome Robe
and Honor Ring,
and dance
music and
gorgeous
pocket fillers
of every kind.

I wonder if I’m
Prepared To
Meet My Maker
and drink

100-Proof Love.

(Photo by Nathan Dumlao; UnSplash)

 

Humoresque

Do you understand
how free you are?

How determined
your Maker is
to help you
defend your freedom?

How your Maker
exults in the Way
you do This and
not That?

Adores your quirky
little preferences and
odd choosings and
Weirdo ways?

Before you answer
the doorbell and
invite that one in,
with his reversed
white collar,
clutching his
black leatherbound
goldleaf-lettered
Rule Book,
like it was actually
hand-scribed by
your Maker,

determine in
your heart-of-hearts
that you’ll have some
divinely demented
fun
showing your new pal
how delighted
you are to have
an audience for

your Sermon
on the Saintliness of
Surrendering to
the Holiness of the
Heavenly Humoresque.

(Photo from Universal Life Church)

 

Open Book

You say
your Life is
an open book,

but,
the question is,
who’s writing it?

Did you imagine
you were meant to
send out invitations,

asking for
submissions to
an anthology,

every chapter
someone else’s version
of your story,
as if their version
must be better than
your own?

Their adventures
more interesting
than your
misadventures?

Their successes
more captivating
than your
did-the-best-you-coulds?

Their hard work
more impressive
than your
slacker escapades?

Did you imagine
you’ll need
an agent
to persuade
a major publisher
to consider your book
worthy of publication?

Sort of like
Jesus making a pitch to
a judgmental God?

I’m thinking of
taking my own
advice:

Write your own book.
Publish it your Self.

(Photo by Yusuf Evli; UnSplash)

 

Out of Context

I change from my
“Lebowski 2024” t-shirt
into a white shirt and tie,

find my King James Bible
between
“Another Roadside Attraction”
and
“Jitterbug Perfume,”
and
ride my bicycle to
First Church of the Open Bible.

My attempt to be
surreptitious is
betrayed by being
the only one
wearing a tie to
Bible Study.

A friendly voice
calls out:
“We play a little game.
Latecomers must give us
their favorite verse,
from memory.”

I’m ready.

“God is Love,
I John 4:8,”
I yell,
lifting my hands.

From somewhere
near the front
a hand and voice
are raised:

“Fear only God,
who can destroy
both soul and body
in hell,
Matthew 10:28.”

My life has been spent
preparing for this.

I rip my tie
from my neck
and wave it
in triumph.

“There is no fear
in Love,
but perfect Love
casteth out fear,
I John 4:18,”
I shout.

All eyes are on me,
a finger points.

“That’s out of context.”

Without words I turn
and walk.

It’s time to take
my Self out of
this context.

(Photo by Aaron Burden; UnSplash)

 

Take Back the Pen

I urge you
to consider
who has been
writing
your bio.

Beginning with
whoever wrote,
or even told you
in person,
from that pulpit,

that you
were born a
sinner.

Or the ones who
reported
that you could
be graded
A through F.

Are you still
reading
that faded
sheet,
hand-typed
on a Smith-Corona,
that your boss
handed you
on his way
to lunch,
that concluded
you lacked
an adequate
work ethic?

How about
that bio
that won’t let you
sleep,
that last hour
before sunlight,
as it weaves
nightmares of your
unworthiness?

Dream your Self
a new Bio,
my friend.

Take back the pen

and write that
you have sprung
from the same
Imagination
that only knows
how to

let there be
Beauty
from Light.

(Photo by Grisha Tadevosyan; UnSplash)

 

Ovation

You don’t need
anything.

Nothing.

You are Everything
You need
to Be.

You have been
since before
there was a
Before,

and You will Be
long after
The Hereafter.

Yet,
every single day,
new Lists of
What You Need
show up,
uninvited,

along with
warnings
about failure to

Do Be Do Be Do.

Your Question
should really be –
since You
asked to Play
this Game
exactly as You –

did You arrive here
in need of
repair,
damaged in delivery,

or is this the
Role of a
Lifetime,
from curtain
to curtain?

Every act a
character study
in the alchemy
of compassion,

an invitation to
transform
scene and prop
and dialogue

into grace
that belies
the need
for anything

but amazement
at the
standing ovation
of Love.

(Photo by Guillermo Latorre; UnSplash)

 

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)