Icons

I have a Quibble
with the Caretakers of
Icons,

Mostly Men
Who have Sworn
Allegiance

to a Paradigm of
The Creator of
All That Is

That Is Dead
Serious and
Snow Bearded.

Dark Robed,
Carrying an
Armload of Law Books and
Karmic Records, with
Sentencing Recommendations
Based on Stone Tablets
Hewed from
Mountaintop Granite.

Ask Your Self
What Brings You
Light and Laughter,
Heart Melting
Open Mouth
Jaw Stretching
Joy,

Love Lines Etched
Into Your Cheeks
by Grins
Greedy with Desire
to Wrap Your Self
Around
Your Child or
Your Bodacious Beloved or
Your Furry Four Pawed
Forever Friend.

Perhaps the Icon
for the Creator of
All That

Is
More Like
Lucille Ball than a
Bearded Buddha.

 

The Tea of Fear

It Began as Another
Black Hole Monday.

My Beloved Handed Me
Her Motion To Reconsider
My Auto-Reply to
Her Request
To Plan a Roadtrip
To Adventureville.

My Reply had been Steeped In
the Tea of Fear of
Being Required To
Do Something
Besides Worship Calendars
Empty of Anything
But The Promise of
Nothing To Do.

This Fear of
Something To Do,
the Deadening Sin of Sloth,
Has Been On My Back
Like a Pariah’s Pack,
a Bedroll of the Banal.

I’ve Begged The
Beyond The Veil,
The Love and Light and Laughter
Coming from
The Creator’s Café,
for a Menu of
the Medicinal Miraculous.
I Want to Order
Some Sort of
Divine Deliverance.

This Monday Morning
I was Taken to
a Secret Entrance to
The Mystery,
The Source of
The Breath of
The Beauty of
Benevolence.

My Light Being Guide
Handed Me a Key,
then Said,

“The Next Time
You’re Asked To
Reconsider Your Refusal
To Breathe Even a Breath
of Rigor,

Put This Key
To the Door of
The Mystery,
and Whisper:

‘I Think I’ll
Just Do It and
See What Happens.’

Then Walk
Through the Door.”

(Photo by Tarik Haiga; UnSplash)

 

The Adventurer

You came Here
to Have an Adventure.

It’s Working
Isn’t It?

My Adventure Is
So Damn Weird.

It Includes
Laziness
(I’m Workin’ On It)
Writing these Goofy
Random Broken Up
Sentences
(I Like that Part)
and Choosing
Beds and Breakfasts over
Backpacks and Campfires and
Reading and Movies over
Dayhikes and Pushups.

I’m Loving the Part
with a Lifetime Soulmate and
Two Kids on Adventures
I Love even More Than
My Books and Movies.

How About You?

Maybe We Should
Meetup and Swap
Adventure Yarns.

But Here’s The Thing:

Don’t Be Misled
Into Believing
You Should Be
a Different You.

Have Some New Adventures
If You Wish.
Hike Somewhere and
Heat Your Coffee
over a Campfire.

But You Be You.

 

Daydreaming

I have a Daydream.

I am Free
of this Aging Body. . .

Just for an Hour or Two.

A Mini-Vacation,
a Round Trip 
Through The Veil to
The Light of The Other Side,
Where the Waft of Every Breeze
Is Euphoric With
A Love That Dazzles.

I’ll Be Returning to
The Weight of Incarnation,
But for Now
I’ve Been Invited to
A Homecoming. . .

Just for an Hour or Two.

I Find Myself
Seated In the Front Row
of a Heavenly Hangout
Called the Ascended Masters
Comedy Club.

Onstage
a Single Microphone
In a Spotlight,

an Earthly Homage to
The Guests of Honor,

Gilda Radner and
Robin Williams.

And Now. . .
Drumroll and
Guitar Riff. . .

The Man
Who Turned Water Into Wine,

Our Master of Ceremonies,

Jesus of Nazareth.

I can Daydream
can’t I?

(Photo by Luis Quintero; UnSplash)

 

Summa Cum Laude

Perhaps You’ll Allow Me to
Flash My Poetic License –
You Have One Too –
and Ask You to Imagine
You’re the Offspring of
Michelangelo,

Recently Birthed,
at Your Request, on
the Campus of
Earth University.

You’ve Arrived Here from
The Home of the Source of
Creation of All That Is,

To Learn To Paint
Your Version of
The Sistine Chapel Ceiling,
with a Palette of
a Million Shades of
Light and Love,
Joy and Laughter.

But there’s a Challenge.

By Design –
You Asked for It –

The Canvas of
Your Sistine Ceiling
Is Made from
Weavings of Fear
In All Its Dark Threads,

A Challenge You
Embrace,

for the Thrill of
Transcendent
Transformation.

But How Would You Feel
If the Registrar
Informed You That
Failure To Pass
The Final Exam
Will Cast You Into
Dante’s Inferno?

What If
The Truth Is

You Can Enroll
for as Many Semesters
As You Please.

No Hurry.

Everyone Has
Their Own Curriculum.

And Everyone Has
As Long as They Wish
To Graduate
Summa Cum Laude.

(Photo by Lorenzo Turroni; UnSplash)

 

It’s a Sign

Here’s a Daydream
for You . . .

You’ve been Awakened
by a Messenger
from The Mystery,
an Archangel from
The Love and Light
that Can Not Be Named,
though I Am
Will Do.

You are Told
You are Being
Offered
a Once-Per-Lifetime
Gambit:

You May Choose
Another You,

to Inhabit
the Fleshpot
You’re Presently
Simmering In.

You May Even
ReForm that Fleshpot
to Resemble an
Other You
Admire.

What Will You Do?

You Ask for,
and Are Given,
Hours to
Thumb Through
the Catalogs of
Possible You’s to
Replace You.

Suddenly
a Crack Appears
In the Chamber of
Your Being,

and You Are
Immersed In
A Love
That Is Too Much
To Be Named.

And You Know,
Beyond Knowing,
It’s a Sign

To Wrap
Your Self
Around
Exactly You.

 

What If . . .

What If
You Were Born
into a Tribe of Players
In The Theater of
Love?

Love of
The Other Players,
Love of
Your Surroundings.

Gardens and
Furry Creatures and
Jungles and
Waterworks of
Waves and Tidepools and
River Runs with
Finned and Water-Breathing
Leaping Diving Wonders?

And That’s Just
Act 1, Scene 1,

Before The Clowns
Come On and
The Laughing
Leads Into

The Act Where
Adam Meets Eve and
Little Ones
Appear Onstage.

But Somewhere
A Player Named Fear
Is Writing
A Book of Rules

To Tame The Clowns and
Order The Little Ones
Into Clans and Clubs and
Commandments and Covenants and
Cathedrals and
Congressional Committees.

What If
It’s Time
To Take The Play Book
from Fear

and Let
The Lovers and
Little Ones and
Clowns and
Caretakers of Creativity

Write The Plays
for a Change?

(Photo by Yiran Ding; UnSplash)

 

Take Back Your Brushes

Before You Arrived
You Chose
The Chrysalis

Into Which
You Wished
to Squeeze

The Light That
Is You,

With a Plan
to Emerge and
Spread Your Wings

Beneath an
Artist’s Smock,
Pockets Stuffed with
Paints and Brushes,

Ready to Fill
a Gallery,
Bearing Your Name,
with Your
Flights of Fancy.

But It May Be That

Your Brushes
Were Seized by
Prison Guard Parents or
Indoctrinating Instructors or
Preachers with Holy Handcuffs
on Their Bible Belts,

Who Persuaded You
to Surrender
Your Easel and Palette,

Put a Padlock on
The Gallery of
Your Daydreams.

It’s Not
Too Late.

The Key Is Still
In Your Pocket.

(Photo by Ekaterina Novitska; UnSplash)

 

What Heaven Is Like

Jesus
is reported
to have Loved
His Metaphors,

often comparing
Heaven
to a Kingdom of
Love.

Once Saying,
“It’s Like When
a Rebellious and
Renegade Son is
Greeted by His
Adoring Father
with a Robe and
a Ring and
a Sumptuous Banquet.”

Or a Woman,
caught in a
Hooker’s Transgression,
is Told by Him,
after Chasing Away
Her Prosecutors,
that He Rejects
their Judgment and
Condemnation.

She’s Free
to Go and
Find a Better Way.

But, Above All,
I Favor
His Metaphor

for Receiving an
Open Invitation
to Enter
The Heaven of
That Kingdom of Love:

Practice until
You can Live
The Life of
a Child,

Filled with
Laughter and
Play and
Believing in
Magic.

 

Who Am I?

Who Do I Think
I Am?

Am I
that little Photo
on that Card
with My
Particulars?
Height and Weight
and Unrelenting
Rolling Count of Years?

That Card that
Marks the Confines of
My Bodied
Faults and Flaws?

No.

I Am
a Bright and Lustrous Beam of
The Light
That Shines As
All That Is.

A Light That
Has Always Shone and
Always Will.

That Won’t Fit
On Any Little Card.

Play This Game:

Sit However
Comforts You.

Breathe This
In and Out:

I Am.
I Am.
I Am.

Be.

In That Place
Where
You Are.

(Photo by Keegan Houser; UnSplash)