A One-Person Show

Remember
how Jesus
said the thing
to do is
to love
others just
like you love
your Self?

Or, make sure
you remember
to love
your Self
as much
as you love
others?

Here’s an idea:

Imagine you
in a one-person
show.

It’s called
The Prodigal.

In Act One,
you play this
person who has
betrayed
their Father,
or Mother,
for starters,
with a long
list of
failures.

If you’re like
me, that list
goes on for
pages.
I was re-reading
my list
just this morning.

In Act Two,
you play
the Father
or the Mother
who sees
your Self
approaching
from afar.

You run to
embrace
your Self
and laugh
when the
list comes out
in all its gory
detail.

You use it
as a fireworks
starter,
in act Three,
when you
throw your Self
a party
the neighbors
will never
forget.

You’ve come
home.
All is
forgiven.

(Photo by Spenser Sembrat; UnSplash)

 

You’ve Been Warned

I have
a challenge
for you.

Not one of
those TikTok
things
where you dance
till your
clothes
fall off.

This is
much more
demanding.

Find a place
to sit
comfortably.
You may
be here
for awhile.

Start thinking.
Think.
Think.
Think.

If the urge
to do
something
“more productive”
assails you,

swat it away
like a pesky
mosquito.

(If an actual
mosquito
assails you,
no need to
kill it.
Just swat it
away
firmly.
Mosquitos
have souls
too.)

Think.
Think.
Think.

Perhaps
for hours.
Keep swatting.

Warning:

The Mystery
likes to
shoot bolts
of electric
inspiration
to do wild
artful things.

You are a
sitting target.

Don’t say
I didn’t
warn you.

(Photo by Bruce Mars; UnSplash)

 

Cardiology

I need a
consult
with my
cardiologist.

I’m thinking
we should
do a CT Scan
of my brain,
then an
echocardiogram
of my heart.

I’d ask him
to look for
whatever
is raising my
should pressure
and constricting
the free flow of
The Mystery
to my vital
organs,
especially my
imagination.

High should pressure
will damage
your Soul.

It’s malignant
and may need
to be treated
by a team of
indolent
circus clowns,

skilled at
diagnosing and
surgically removing
superfluous
shoulds.

Be forewarned:
In extreme
cases
a colonoscopy
may be
required,
just to
loosen you up
a bit.

 

Cheekbones

With your
fingertips
touch your
cheekbones
and your
breastbone
and your
kneecaps.

This is you.

You are not
the writer
of that
novel you
just finished
with your
eyes
swimming.

You are not
that guy
across the street
who never lets
his gutters
get stuffed
with leaves
the way
yours are.

You are not
twenty pounds
lighter or
twenty years
younger.

Until you are
astonished
with your
good fortune
to be
The One
with those
cheekbones
and that
breastbone
and those
kneecaps,

it’s going
to be more
difficult
than it needs
to be
for you

to give us
the gifts
you came
all the way
here to
give us.

Take as long
as you need.
We’ll wait.

(Photo by Houcine Ncib; UnSplash)

 

By Their Fruit

So the story
is that
The Creator
planted a
beautiful garden
for his two
adult children,
Adam and Eve,

with gorgeous
flowers and
fruitbearing trees,
including one
with especially
luscious
fruit
the two
were forbidden
to eat.

“If you disobey,”
he said,
“you’ll learn the
difference
between
good and evil,
because
I’ll throw
you out of
the garden
and you will
die.”

“Why?
Because I said so.”

Entire
world religions
have been built
around this
tale,
bulging with
the muscle of
“because I said so.”

It’s mid-morning
on a coffee and
cinnamon roll
Saturday.

I hear a knock
on my door.
I open it to
find a pair
of bright-eyed
young men in
business attire.

They hand me
a tract
on which
is printed
“God Loves You.”

“Also,” one of them
says, smiling,
“we have some
luscious fruit
for you.”

“No,
thank you,”
I say,
“I’ve had
my fill
of
that fruit.”

(Photo by Katherine Hood)

 

I Am

When I have
gone about
in decades past,

it has been
most often
incognito,

“identity
concealed,
to avoid
notice or
formal
attentions.”

Seeking
invisibility.

These days
I have begun
to bear inner
witness that

It Is Written:
When asked
to produce
identification,
The Creator
replied,

“I Am that
I Am.”

I no longer
imagine that
I have any
less
authority than
the Creator,

to go about
full cognito,
to reply,
when asked,

I Am that
I Am.

(Photo by Sue Gillard)

 

Clown Car of Camaraderie

If I was in a
confessional,
I would say

forgive me,
Creator of
All That Is,
for I have
sinned.

I have made you
into a stern
and frightful
parent,
carrying a rod,
lest you spoil
this errant
child.

I have feared
you,
which I
twisted into
fear of the
Unknown,
the great
Killer of
Curiosity,
and the Builder
of Stone Walls
to contain
my fear of
other people.

Please forgive me.

All you have
desired is
to be a Celestial
Ringmaster,

introducing me
to the
fear-smothering
Flying Circus
of Amazement
and Amusement,

with special
appearances
by my
friends and neighbors,
who want
nothing more
than to
invite me
to come out
from behind
my walls
and
join them in
their Clown Car
of Camaraderie,
as we speed
into
The Mystery.

(Photo by Ashly Araya; UnSplash)

 

The Bouncer

You keep
showing up
at the Doorway
To the Mystery
wearing
the wrong
clothes.

You heard
that’s where
The Good Stuff
is, but the
Bouncer won’t
move aside.

The Music and
the Poetry and
the Stories and
the Dancing
beckon you,

but you’re
wearing
the wrong
clothes.

Yesterday
you showed up
dressed as
The Man
Who Wasted
His Life.

One time
you showed up
wearing your
“I’ll Never
Get It Done”
costume.

This morning
you were
turned away
because you
insisted on
wearing
that ridiculous
“I’m Too Old”
getup,
moving along
like you were
made of slowly
drying
cement.

Listen to me:

Try appearing
at the Doorway
To the Mystery
as Your Self,
in that
black hoody
and those cat hair
covered sweatpants.

No costumes.

And tell the
Bouncer
you were born
in The Mystery.

Watch him
step aside
and wave
you
in.

(Photo by Abhay Singh; UnSplash)

 

Guidance

Sometimes I throw out
a casting call
for a
Celestial Being

to play the part of
Guidance Counsellor
in the
One Act Play
I’m calling
“Should I
Keep Trying
To Write
This Novel
That Doesn’t Seem
To Be Going
Anywhere?”

If any Angels
have shown up
to audition,
they’ve been invisible
and apparently
reluctant to
read for the part
out loud.

But, a day
or so ago
I thought I heard
a whisper:

“Just don’t quit
on it.”

I tried to
follow up,
but they
didn’t leave a
cellphone number.

C’mon,
I could have gotten
that advice
from a matchbook cover
or a fortune cookie.

But I began
to recall
some times
I didn’t quit,
like

trying to write
a poem,

or looking for
a place
surrounded by
the sea,
with a haunted
castle and
its own
film festival,

or how about this:

looking for
The One
on the couch
across from me,
before I knew
she existed.

 

Sunday Morning

So the Creator
broadcasts
Them/Her/Him
Self
into the yearning,
welcoming
Abyss,
as an Infinite
Playlist of
Creatures
in a cosmic
theater
with sets and
props that
stun the
Imagination
of the Creatures
into becoming
Creators
Themselves.

On a Sunday morning,
pen to paper.
on my favorite end
of the couch,

I remember
when my
Sunday mornings
were spent
on a wooden
bench
in a steepled
building,

reading from
a script
that divided
The Divine
into what was
in that building
and everything else.

Forgive me.

(Photo by Alexander Andrews; UnSplash)