Hound of Heaven

If you knew
your Soul
was the fruit
of an immaculate
conception,
a romance
in a hideaway
in The Mystery,
where The Creator
seduces Love
on a regular basis,

would you
still open
your door
every time
Fear shows up,
uninvited and
unannounced?

If you knew the
Hounds of Heaven
have been loosed,
and are looking
for you, to
lick your face
with so much
joy and adoration
they can’t stop
wagging
their tails,

would you
sit,
stonefaced and
silent,
submerged to
your neck in
self-pity?

If you knew
your Soul
will fly
forever,

would you
act as if
your wings
are broken?

I confess
I do, and
I must beg
forgiveness.

I Am
finally prepared
to surrender
the need to
name the Voice
I hear,
every time,
saying,
“I thought
you would never
ask.”

(Photo by Celine Sayuri Tagami; UnSplash)

 

Mystery Mail

Do you receive
messages from
The Mystery?

You know,
the ones
bearing a
different kind of
Forever stamp,
delivered by a
hummingbird or
a saxophone solo
floating
your way from
an open window
three houses
down or a
bit of language
braided into a
keychain with
a dangling
participle that
opens a
secret doorway?

I’ll show you
the last one
I received,
from a poet,
Jalal ad-Din
Mohammed
Rumi:

“You are not
a drop in
the ocean,
you are the
entire ocean in
a drop.”

Which I take
to mean
there is an
ocean of you
beyond the
drop in
the bucket
you make
your Self
out to be.

(Photo by Trollinho; UnSplash)

 

Church

It’s Sunday.
Lean back in
your pew,
after you
rearrange those
couch cushions
for maximum comfort.
Give yourself
plenty of
neck support.

Our prayer
this morning
goes like this:

Creator of
All That Is
and Purveyor of
Incandescent
Adoration
for your Creation,
especially us –
God! How you
love us –

please help us,
for even a few
minutes,
to bask in
Beingness,

without the
intrusive
belligerence of
Beliefs and
Opinions and
Judgments.

Instead, we would
worship pure and
unadulterated
Awareness of
What Is,
just in This
Moment.

Now I will ask
the Musicians for
a couple of hymns.
This morning it’s
the Allman Brothers Band,
with Ramblin’ Man and
Statesboro Blues.
It’s all about
the Joy,
Brothers and Sisters.

For our homily
I’ll keep it brief,
a simple exhortation:

You think,
beloved,
that it’s too late
for you to
be all you
intended
this Go-Round.
But it’s not.

You’ve been
All of It
from The Beginning.

Everything.

(Photo by Frank McKenna; UnSplash)

 

Fingerprints

Imagine
you have been
commissioned
to create
a work of
Art,

to be displayed
in a gallery
called
Fingerprints
Left At the Scene
of An Act of
Love.

You will choose
the media and
the method and
the means.

You will have
a lifetime to
create it,
so begin as
soon as you
are aware of
your assignment,

which was,
in truth,
appended to
your birth
certificate.

A word of
caution:

There will be
Schools of Art Thought and
Religions of Replication and
Adamant Artocracies.

Consider
ignoring them.

You’re the Artist.

Imagine
you have been
commissioned
to create
a work of
Art.

I confess
I believe
that Everything Real
begins in
The Imagination.

(Photo by Raychan; UnSplash)

 

Travelogues

We love to
post videos and
travelogues of
our adventures,
sending them out
on the WorldWideWeb.

We imagine
that our
fellow travelers
will be entertained,
or edified,
and mostly
I believe
they are.

I’d like to
tell you
what else
I believe,
if I may.

I believe,
or perhaps
I imagine,
a day or
an eon
will come when
we’ll be sharing
the Documentary
of Our Life

in a Cosmic Theater,
a Celestial Cinema,

to an audience
of boisterous Beings
who didn’t need to
show proof of
being vaccinated
and who have
long forgotten
whether they
voted
Republican
or Democrat.

(Photo by Krists Luhaers; UnSplash)

 

Waiting for a Rabbit

This morning
I went on
a rabbit hunt.

It’s not what
you think.
No weapons
were involved.

I had a yen
to find
a Rabbit Hole,
to drop into
Wonderland.

As I waited
for a rabbit
to appear,
I got
curiouser and
curiouser.

The dictionary
insisted that
a rabbit hole
is “strange,
confusing,
illogical,
difficult to
escape from.”

That’s what
you get when
you are trapped
in a dictionary
looking for
definitions,

when you
should just
keep looking
for a rabbit.

Go ask Alice.

(Photo by Victor Larracuente; UnSplash)

 

Central Casting

Walking
The Dog,
having my
usual one-sided
conversation
with whoever
is producing
this piece of
cosmological
theater.

I’m desperate
for notes
from the
Director.

How am I doing?
I feel like
a fraud,
a failure,
like I’ve forgotten
all my lines.

As is often
the case . . .
nothing.

Until later,
when there’s
a whisper
and
a comforting.

“If you’re
looking for
a review,
that will come
when the show
is over.

“For now,
you should
know that
we all
agree:

“For playing
the part
of You,

“You have
been perfectly
cast.”

(Photo from Austrian National Library; UnSplash)

 

Be On the Lookout

There’s something
you do
that’s easy as
eating an
ice cream cone.

Like putting down
one word after
another as they’re
being handed
to you by an
itinerant magician
who just happens
to be in your
neighborhood
bearing words
wrapped in
iridescent
bubbles
waiting to burst
on your page.

Maybe for you
the Muse
arrives with
a scrim
to be strung
across your
imagination
and lit up
with images
projected by
a projectionist
of unknown origin
you don’t remember
summoning.

I’ve been
instructed to
remind you
to be on
the lookout
for your
Imaginary Friend
bearing
ice cream cones.

(Photo by Khashayar Kouchpeydeh; UnSplash)

 

Directions

All your life
you’ve been
oriented.

West
a half-mile to
that school
where you’ll be
taught to
get in line,
boys here,
girls over there.

South
four blocks to
the church
where you’ll
learn to sit
still
and learn that
you’re a sinner
and that leads to
Someone’s
death.

East
to work
for the least
they’ll have to
pay you
to give them
your best
waking hours.

Then North
into the
Old Country,
and by Old
they mean
you’re history.

I have an idea:

Let’s stop
taking directions
and get
disoriented.

(Photo by Jon Tyson; UnSplash)

 

Fish Out of Water

The Mystery
is what you
dip your
pen in,
or your
dancing shoes,
or your
guitar pick.

Or you drink
from it
before getting
on stage or
behind the
microphone.

Or maybe
it’s like
walking into
the ocean.

At first you
just get in
up to your knees,
then your waist,
then you
plunge.

Lately I’m
wondering
if it’s
possible to
grow gills
and fins
and a tail
and
live in it.

(Photo by Pyvovarova Yevheniia; UnSplash)