Operator’s Manual

When The Maker
Carved You
out of
Its Own Light,
with Instruments
of Love,
Unadulterated by
Condition or
Whisper of Judgment,

You were Given
a Book
called
Operator’s Manual for Light Beings.

When You were
Old enough to
Read,
and Cared
a Whit
about Reading,

You Opened It
to Find
Blank Pages.

For Years Now
You’ve Waited,

Sometimes with
Quiet Patience,
Often with
Noisy Busy Impatience,

for The Maker
to Make
Magic Words Appear
on the Pages.

When will It
Dawn on You

that The Maker Shines
with Bright Eagerness
to See

What You
Will Write
On Those Pages?

(Photo by Clay Banks; UnSplash)

 

Baby’s Breath

You Rise,
hours before
the Sun,

Desperate to spend Them
Imploring
The Being that
Lit your Being,

to Rescue You
from The Black Hole
of Self-Accusing Blame
for The Shame

of Your Deficient Performance,
Playing Your Part
in this Dramacomedy
You Begged
to be Cast In.

Hours later,
still Gut-Wrenched
with the
Nausea of Narcissus,

Still Begging
The Light
for Relief,

You are Self
Medicating with
Molasses Cookie and
Coffee Shop Caffeine,

When,
two Tables away,
a Smiling Mother
Holds Her Recently
Arrived Infant
on Dada’s Shoulders,

while The Babe
weaves Fingers
through His Hair,
and leans forward
to Blow Smooches
between Her Fingers.

Your Eyes Swim,
and Every Passerby
has Divine Shine.

Your Shame Is
No Match for
The Flame of
Adoration.

 

Anger Management

I Find My Self
Infuriated
by the Old
Familiar Preachment,

That I Must
Fear
God

Who can not only
Kill My Body
but Cast It and
My Soul
into Hell.

That’s The Gospel.

According to Matthew.

My Infuriation
Arises from
A Knowing

That My Beneficent
Maker
Is The Light of
a Trillion Suns

Made of
The Love of
a Mother
Cuddling and Coddling
a Toddler

Pulled In Close and
Smothered With
Bubbly Kisses,

The Adoration of
a Father
Forgiving
a Wayward Son

With a Lavish Feast and
a Replacement Check
for the Inheritance
He Wasted.

I Am Infuriated
By The Lie
That My Maker’s
Cherishing

Is Rotted by
Condition or Judgment.

But I Have Signed Up for
a Divine
Anger Management Course.

The Maker Smiles
and Reminds Me
that I Can
Love That Preacher
Anyway.

 

Near Idolatry

Conjure
in Your Mindful Eye
a Mother,

Lifting Her Infant,
Face-to-Face,
to Brush Her Lips
across His Cheek,
Inhale His Aura,
Exhale Her Adoration,
a Near Idolatry
of Every Breath.

Conjure a Father,
Grasping Tiny Fingers,
as His Joy Brims
at the Corners of
His Eyelids,
When His Astonishing
Gift of a Daughter
Tries to Put
One Foot
In Front of Another,
but Collapses
in Giggles.

Now Conjure
Your Creator,

Who Idolizes

You,

Waiting for You
To Awaken

To That Brush
across Your Cheek,
That Hand
That Grasps
Your Fingers.

(Photo by Nathan Dumlao; UnSplash)

 

Art and Soul

You may have been Told
You Were Born a Sinner,
Your Soul
Besmirched and Broken,

Only Redeemable
by the Death
of Another.

Or perhaps Your Soul is
a Blank Slate –
Take Care
What’s Written There,
Lest You,
or Another –
If You Permit It –
Write a Tragedy,
or a Farce,
or Some Bore of a Story.

But What If
What You Are Is
a Beam of Light,

Aimed from a Flame
Made of Undiluted Love,
Forever Pure and Deathless,
Twined,
even at a Cosmic Distance,
With Every Other Light,
as if There Is
No Distance at All.

And, What If
Your Soul Is
The One-of-a-Kind
Shine
that Radiates from
The Beam That Is You,

and You –
and Only You –
Are Meant To Be
a Sculptor of Your Shine.

That’s Why You Are.

To Make Art
of Your Soul,
as Your Part of
The Glimmer.

Take as Many Orbits
as You Need.
The Cosmos Is
Your Gallery.

 

Religion

There is Reason
to Believe
The Wordsmiths
Who Built the Word

Religion

Hammered It Together
Using Nails
Made of

Ligare,

the Latin Word for

Binding.

The Question came:
Bind with What?

It turned out
there was
a Reliable Surplus of

Fear,

Renowned for Its
Captivating Powers,
Especially the Fear
that came,
still Molten,
from the Furnaces of
an Imagined

Hell.

Some have Tried
to Overlay
The Fire with

Love,

but Love
Will Not Bind
with Fear.

(Photo by Mathieu Odin; UnSplash)

 

The Play

Act 1

You Decide The Task
You Swore an Oath
to Finish
Will Be Set Aside
in Favor of Coffee
and Buttered Toast
while Contemplating
The Next Scene
In That Novel
You’re Not Writing,

Because It’s Easier to
Contemplate and
Make More Toast,
This Time with Jam.

Act 2

Your Beloved Asks of You
The Smallest of Departures
from The Script You’ve Written
for Your Comfort,
and You Weasel an Escape.

Act 3

You Spend the Afternoon
Writing Your Indictment,
to Which You Plead Guilty,
Prepared for The Judgment
You Know Awaits You
When The Curtain Drops.

The Cast Party

But It’s Just a Play.

You’re a Light Being,
Formed of Love,
Adored by The Playwright,
Cherished by The Director.

Your Fellow Players
Applaud Your Decision
To Attend Drama School.

You’re a Theater Kid.

Sure, You Have Much
To Learn,
The Director has
Notes for You.

You’ll Love
The Next Show.

(Photo by Andrej Lisakov; UnSplash)

 

The Library of Love

I was reared to Believe
in a Deity
Who Loved Me,

But Spoke to Me in a
Courtroom Voice:

How do I Judge Thee?
Let Me Count
The Ways.

If You’ve even
Thought
to Transgress,
it’s as if
You Have.

One Day You’ll Die,
and After That
More Judgment.

What If
That’s a Lie?

What If
I’ve been Duped
by Fear,
Fomented by
Another Lie,

That I Am Separate
from The Source
of The Light
That Lit Me?
The Love
That Knit Me?
That Burns In Me,
As Me.

What If
Judgment is a Myth
as Foolhardy as That
Lie of Separation?

What If
I Choose to Smile
at The Fear,
Hug It To Me,
Wipe Its Tears.
Laugh Away That
Lie of Separation.

Send My Transgressions
Invitations to a Life
Beyond Fear,

Where Judgment Blooms
Into Bouquets
of Affection

for The Practice of
Transmuting Transgressions
into Storybooks
for the
Library of Love.

(Photo by Andrej Lisakov; UnSplash)

 

May I Call You Mick?

Michelangelo
said of his
David,

“It’s Simple.
I just removed
Everything
that is Not
David.”

May I call You Mick?

Listen, Mick:

When The Love
That Is
The Creator
Beamed You …
a Fractal of
The Light of
That Love …

to This
Light formed
Place,

You Came
with a Task,

so Full of
Holiness
Refracted into
a Flame
We call
The Soul,

so Full of
Desire
to Express,
but Trammeled,
by Design,
with a
Brain and Body
that can barely
contain You.

Which often Breeds
Distress and Fear.

But Focus, Mick.

It’s just an
Arful Game,

Wherein
You can Find
Delight

in simply
Removing Everything
that is Not
The Soul
that is
You.

(Photo by Gabriel Natussi; UnSplash)

 

CC and Me

I believed
I had an Enemy
Inside.
I called It
The Comfort Complex.

Complex Indeed,
made of
Narcissism,
Laziness,
Resistance to
Work, Effort, Labor,

Always
The Easy Way Out,
On the Path of
Least Resistance,

Comfort at Any Cost.

Rarely Do I
Fight
This Enemy.
Mostly I Surrender.

But then
I Heard
A Wise Man.

He Told Me
I Should
Love My Enemy,

Give Him
a Pet Name,
Pull Him Close
in Warm Embrace,

Ask for His Help.

Now I Call Him
CC, and
Intend to Make Him
My Friend.

I Will Ask Him to
Help Me,
See The Good
in Him,
Become Fond
of Him,
Be Glad He’s a
Part of Me.

Already He’s Begun
To Release His
Resistance.

He Tells Me
He Wants to
Help Me.

Good.

Because I Need
His Help.

(Photo by Mohamed Nohassi; UnSplash)

   The Wise Man referred to in the Poem is Peter Bedard, whose wisdom I heard as part of his Near Death Experience interview at https://youtu.be/QE7U_1mj8VM?si=5gPAoZ4ERWLBtarW. Peter is a Wellness Practitioner, with an extensive education and practice in Consciousness Studies and Hypnotherapy. Peter’s website is at https://www.convergencehealing.com.