Thanksgiving

As The Holiday
Loomed,
with Its requisite
Burdens of
plucked and roasted
Birds and
candied yams,

a Friend
Inquired:

What are You
Thankful for?

I struggled to
assemble some
Smartass Quippery
but, Failing,
shrugged out
some
nod to
the Blessedness of
Family.

Which is True.
I Am
So Blessed,
as Likely are
You.

But, this
pre-dawn Morning,
I Know What
I Am
Truly and Incorrigibly
Thankful for,

on Behalf of
My Self,
My Family,
Your Blessed Self, and
Your Family, and
All That Is:

We Are
Forever
Sparks of The Divine,

Fractals of
The Light That Is
Nothing but Love
Without Condition or
Whisper of Judgment.

Holy Beings
Who need only
Awaken to
Our Sacred Selves.

For All
of That
I Am
Forever Thankful.

 

Before You Call for the Shovel

Do You Know
The Feeling?

The One
Where You
Imagine
The Best Use
for You
would Be to
Scrape You Up
and Toss You in a
Compost Pile
to Be Spread
on Someone’s
Vegetable Garden?

Wait!

Before You Call for
The Shovel …

Imagine Instead …

You Are
a Master of
Creative Imagery.

It’s a Thing
You Just Decide
To Be.

When You See
That Hairy Dude
With Tattoos
on Every Square Inch,
You Say:

“Sir, You Remind Me
of That Afternoon
I spent in Paris,
In The Louvre.”

When You See
That Sweet Mama
with a Couple of
Little Holy Ones
Pretending To Be
Noisy Brats,
You Say:

“Ma’am, You Remind Me
of Mother Teresa and
a Guardian Angel,
Rolled Into One.”

Now, Get Your
Ass off that
Compost Pile and
Take It From Here,

Beautiful One.

(Photo By Jordan Gonzalez; UnSplash)

 

Sunday School

It’s Sunday
and You’re
Driving,
but not to
Church,

Where a
Child-Like You
was once
Instructed
to Turn Off
The Radio,

Lest the Beatles,
or the Stones,
or, God Forbid,
the Doors,

Should
Lead You into
Dancehalls or
Theaters or
Worse.

It’s Sunday,
and You’re
Driving,
but not to
Church,

Your Ears
plugged in to
Slow Dances by
Winnetka Bowling League.

Feeling
a bit Guilty.

Perhaps, instead,
You Should Be
Praying or Meditating,
Contemplating
The Divine,

Not the Likes of
Walk the Moon doing
Anna Sun.

Then Your Angel,
Your Guide,
The One You call
Elizabeth,

Appears in the
Dancehall of
Your Mind,
Grinning and Swaying,
and Flinging Love,

Reminding You,

Thus Sayeth
The Lord:

Let There Be
Dance.

 

Show Time

Were You Taught,
as was I,
that our Maker,
aka God,
started a
Fan Club,
membership mandatory
for You and Me,
in Order to
have a
Mailing Address
to Receive
all those
Fan Letters
Proclaiming
Worship and Obedience?

Some of the Fan Clubs
Insist that
The Penalties for
Failure to Be
a Fan
include Death.

What if
We have It
Backwards?

I’m not Sure
Why –
You’ll have to
Ask the Ones
Who Started
the Fan Clubs.

What If
The Maker
Built a Theater,
with a Cosmos
Filled with
Characters,
Including
You.

What If
The Maker Is
in the Front Row,
Giving You and
The Rest of Us
a Standing Ovation?

Our Biggest Fan.

Perhaps It’s Time
to Put On
a Better Show.

(Photo by Getty Images; UnSplash+)

 

Commission

You Arrive Here
with a
Commission.

A Light Being
with an
Artist’s Smock
of a Body,
Loaded with
a Heartful of
Brushes and Canvas,
Pens and Paper,
Dancing Shoes, and
an Orchestra’s Worth of
Instruments.

You Came
to Create
Your Soul,

with Which
to Entertain
Your Fellow Artists
in This
Theater
Built of
an Elements Chart of
a Rainbow’s Worth of
Love.

But,
My Dears,
We’ve Let
Our Fears
Sneak In
Through
a Backstage Door,

Where They
Insist
They Be Given
a Part.

But Fear
has No Place
Near
The Heart of
Your Art.

Just Smile and
Embrace It,
Let It Stay for
The Show,
but Insist on
Its Silence
or
You’ll Show It
The Door.

(Photo by Getty Images; UnSplash)

 

Soul

There Is
the You
that Is
a Fractal of
The Light
that Flashed into
All That Is.

Forever and Ever
a Perfect Beam

that Chose,
for a Time,
to Inhabit
the Flesh and Bone
Made from
Your Mother’s
Flesh and Bone.

Alive with
a Brain and
a Protective Ego
Shield that
too Often Draws
Its Life from
Fear,
rather than
Love.

But
You can Choose to
Be
The Light
that Is
You,

and Play
The Beautiful Game
of Dowsing
All You See
with
The Love and Laughter of
The Light
that Is
You,

and from this
Love Bath
will Emerge
The Glistening Spirit
that Is
Your One-of-a
Kind Soul.

(Photo by Omar Elsharawy: UnSplash)

 

Unbecoming

I’m Guessing –
No, I’m Willing to
Wager –

You’ve Spent Much
of Your Life
Becoming,

at the Urging of
Imagined Betters,

Some Thing
You Imagine
You are Not
Yet.

The Priests may be
The Worst,
with Their
Holy Books of
What You Must
Become –
Or Else.

But They’re
hardly Alone
in The
You Must
Become Better
Department.

What If
The Whole
Becoming
Enterprise Is
a Control Device, or
a Moneymaker?

A Dangling Carrot?
A Calculated
Behavior Modifier?

What If
You Already
Are?

What If
Unbecoming Is
What You Need
To Be?

(Photo By Quan Nguyen; UnSplash)

 

Q&A

I had Occasion
to Review
the Report of
a Traveller Who,
by nearly Dying,
Travelled to
The Other Side of
the Gossamer Veil
that hangs between Us,
the Earthbound Ones,
and the Home
to which
We Will Return

when We Cease
Breathing
Our Planet’s
thick Atmosphere
and Rise to Be
Greeted by
The Maker’s
Adoring, Cherishing, Grinning
Embrace.

The Traveller
was Allowed to
Return –
Her Choice –
to The Body
which She’d
become quite
Attached to.

But not before
She was Gifted
a Heavenly
Q&A.

She Questioned This and
was Answered That,
until She was at
Her Last Query:

“Oh, Maker,
Why did You
Make Us?
We’re rather an
Obstreperous Lot.”

The Maker Laughed.

“Indeed You Are,
But All of You,
My Precious,

Are Works of Art.

I call You
My
Eternal
Celestial
Collection.”

(Photo by Zalfa Imani; UnSplash)

 

Prodigals

You’ve heard
The Story,
even if You’re not
a Righteous Reader of
Holy Writ.


The Errant
Disrespectful,
Selfish Son
Who Strong-arms
His Father to
Purloin a Share
of The Family Jewels
by Abusing His
Birthright.

Then creeps Home
to Beg a corner
in the Barn,
to Sleep and Cower,
after Losing
the Jewels
in Faraway Flings.

To which
His Father grins
as wide as His Arms
stretch to Welcome
His Boy

to a Celebration
in which the Neighborhood
will Feast in Joy
at His Return.

I imagined my own Version
of this Parable of
Unconditional Adoration,

wherein Grandma offers
Her Cherubic Grandson
a Bowl of Chocolate Ice Cream,
served in a Bowl
given to Granny by
Her own Grandma.

But Little One
grabs the Bowl and
drops It,
Shattering The Heirloom
in His Eagerness to
Add More Scoops.

Grandma Smiles and
Scoops Him Up,
pulls Him Cheek-to-Cheek.

“No Tears
My Cherished Chickadee,

there are Plenty More
Where That Came From.”

(Photo by Jordan Whitt; UnSplash)

 

Monster In the Closet

Wise Ones
Teach
that the
Deepest Wrestle
is not between
Good and Evil,
but rather
a Face-Off
between
Glowering Fear and
Grinning Love.

If Love is
The Light
that The Maker
used to Form
the Face of
The You
that Will
Forever Be,

How did
Fear
Sneak into
The Garden
of Delights,
sowing Weeds of
Fight and Flight?

I believe
It crept into
The Light
bearing
The Noxious Notion

That We Will
One Day
Cease to Be.

The Unholy
Dagger of Doubt
that The Maker
Holds us in
The Arms of Forever.

The Dread that
We have Waited
Too Long for
This or That,
Fear Masquerading
as Regret.

I Want
to Learn
to Live
in the Knowing
that

To Be
Is the Laughter
that can Vanquish
the Imaginary Monster
in the Closet of
Not to Be.

(Photo by David Brooke; UnSplash)