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.

 

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.